Why We Fast

Yom Kippur begins tomorrow evening.

A story to direct our hearts inward and our hands outward. It is a story about Reb Dov Ber, the Maggid of Mezritch, the successor to the Baal Shem Tov, the founder of the eighteenth-century Hasidic movement.

A wealthy merchant once visited Reb Dov Ber and joined the rebbe and his disciples for a meal.

The Maggid started asking questions of their guest. The rebbe asked, “Given your wealth and piety, what does a man such as yourself usually eat?” The man was humbled and flattered that the great rebbe took note not only of his wealth but his piety. He believed he had worked hard to achieve both.

“My dear Rebbe,” the man said with a mixture of pride and humility. “I can afford the finest foods, but I fear these would tempt me. I therefore make do with the diet of the poor. I eat only a slice of bread and pinch of salt.”

“How dare you desecrate God’s name in this way. How dare you defame the Creator in this manner!” the Maggid screamed. “You have been blessed with wealth and power, and yet you deny the legitimate pleasures that come along with it. This is an insult to the God who gave you these things. From now on you are instructed to eat meat and drink wine every day!”

The visitor was shocked. The Maggid’s disciples were even more surprised and perplexed. As soon as the wealthy merchant left, the students begged their rebbe to explain why he shouted at this pious man. It seemed obvious to them that the man was doing his best to avoid the temptations that come with wealth and yet the Maggid rebuked him.

“Perhaps that is the case,” the Maggid responded. “But I am certain about this. If this wealthy merchant grows accustomed to eating meat and drinking wine at every meal, he will certainly come to realize that the poor need to eat at least bread and salt. But if such a wealthy man can make do with bread and salt, then he will come to think that the poor can survive on water and stones.”

On Yom Kippur we choose to fast. We choose not to eat. For far too many this is not a choice, but instead a matter of circumstance.

Let our choice to look away from the bountiful meals we so often enjoy, turn our hearts inward causing us to think about how we can do better and our hands outward towards those who cannot afford even a morsel of bread.

Based on the telling by Rabbi Rami Shapiro in Hasidic Tales: Annotated & Explained.

I Still Believe…

What follows is my Rosh Hashanah morning sermon about how October 7th changed Israel and Israelis and why choosing power over powerlessness is the necessary choice Zionism offers us.

On the morning of October 7th, Israel and our world changed forever. I need not recount the harrowing details from that day. We are well-acquainted with its horrors. Over 1,200 people, most Israeli citizens but some Americans and others for example from Thailand, lost their lives and some 250 people from thirty countries were taken to Gaza as hostages. 5784 has been a painful and earth-shattering year for the Jewish people.

And so, on these High Holidays I can talk about little else than the events of that day and most especially their aftermath. This will be a sermon in two parts. On Yom Kippur morning I will delve into how that devastating day and the ensuing war has affected American Jewry and us, in particular how antisemitism has grown, and Israel has become increasingly ostracized. This morning, I wish to focus on how October 7th changed Israel and Israelis. And I will tell that story through the impressions I gained on this year’s many visits to the place I consider a second home.

In December, on my first trip Israel, we ventured to Kfar Azza, a kibbutz on the Gaza border that is home to some 900 people. There, on October 7th, 60 people were murdered and an additional eighteen were taken hostage. Eleven of those hostages came home in November in the brief cease fire. Two of those were later mistakenly killed by IDF troops in the Gaza Strip. The battle to retake the kibbutz extended for days. Fifty soldiers lost their lives. We were led through the kibbutz by a young man who not only lost friends but also battled Hamas terrorists. We walked along the paths, now lined by destroyed homes on either side. The largest destruction was found to these homes ringing the edge of the kibbutz. It was here that the kibbutz’s young people lived. The twenty and thirty somethings who tend to stay up late sometimes partying lived at a distance from other homes. Their patios were strewn with beer bottles and ashtrays, as well as turned over chairs. It was hard not to imagine my own children sitting around with friends on a Fall evening like that of October 6th laughing and enjoying each other’s company. Sukkahs remained on the porches two months after the holiday concluded. Fruit trees still bore fruit. I could not bring myself to eat the oranges.

Now the homes showed scars of fires and were pockmarked with bullet holes. They were emblazoned with pictures of those killed or those taken hostage. There were also Hebrew signs scrawled on the walls. Some by the army indicating “Weapons cleared.” And others written on earlier days saying, “Dead here.” And others emblazoned with a sticker from the organization Zaka indicating it had concluded its work there and gathered bodies or body parts to be prepared for burial. Susie called me soon after concluding our visit to Kfar Azza. All I could manage was to say, “I love you. I can’t talk now. It’s too hard for words.” Later that evening, when we connected, she said, “I saw some of the pictures other rabbis posted (I prefer the images created by writing than taking pictures), she asked, “How come some of the other groups touring the kibbutz wore helmets and flak jackets and you were walking around in a T-shirt and baseball cap?” Apparently in the chaos that continued into December, tours were organized by the prime minister’s office, army or Kfar Azza and they all three had different requirements for their visitors. My group was organized by the kibbutz and so no helmets or jackets were required.

That seemingly absurd bureaucratic difference between the government, army and kibbutz illustrates one of the central defeats Israel suffered on October 7th. Israelis woke up that morning saying, “Where is the army?” They lost faith in the Israel Defense Forces. Israelis fought in countless wars believing their generation would be the last to fight, that one day there would be no army. Now all they can do is write poems lamenting the army’s absence during those harrowing days. Itay Lev writes, “[The army] wasn’t there when they suddenly entered./ It wasn’t there when they tore dad off mom./ Mom had said that when I grew up there would be no army./ Mom was right/ Now all I want is to tell her that she is always right./ I cried, I screamed and still she is silent.”

There were of course remarkable stories of heroism from that day. Amir Tibon and his family were rescued by his father, a former general who raced from Tel Aviv to Kibbutz Nahal Oz, battling terrorists along the way, and with his wife also detouring to rescue the injured. It took him eight hours to get to his son Amir, his daughter in law and grandchildren. Amir said without such colossal failures there would be no need for extraordinary acts of heroism. On October 7th Israelis lost faith in their army. This faith has only recently been restored, albeit not completely, with the defense force’s string of military and intelligence successes battling Hezbollah in the North. Israelis also lost faith in Benjamin Netanyahu and his strategy for managing the conflict with Hamas. What happened in past generations was not supposed to happen in sovereign Israel. With the creation of the State of Israel, modern day Cossacks were not supposed to murder, rape and burn as they did to us in my grandparents’ generation. “Maybe it could still happen there,” Israelis always thought, “But never here.”

Although largely united behind the strategy for fighting Hezbollah, an increasing number of Israelis have become dismayed over the continuing war in Gaza. Many Israelis have come to believe that the only way to get the remaining hostages home is by negotiating a cease fire. Hamas’ fighting capabilities have been decimated and the imminent threat against Southern Israel has been reduced. Large portions of Gaza have been rendered uninhabitable. Tens of thousands of Palestinians have been killed, including an estimated 10,000 children. Some 60% of Gaza’s population have lost a family member. Hamas’ reported figure of 40,000 killed is no doubt exaggerated because it does not distinguish between civilians and combatants. For many, including myself, last month’s murder of six hostages only days before soldiers reached them, illustrated that a terrible choice must be made. Negotiate for a cease fire with Israel’s avowed, genocidal enemy, to get what is believed to be the remaining 65 living hostages home or fight on to the debatable end of destroying Hamas completely. A cease fire is all that offers hope of bringing these hostages home. Already the army appears to be diverting its fight to the North. There, some 60,000 Israelis have been displaced from their communities along Lebanon’s border.

In January I was again in Israel, and I spent Tu B’Shevat, Judaism’s tree holiday, picking oranges. I was volunteering at farms in central Israel. The agricultural sector is dependent on foreign workers who fled the country soon after October 7th. Some thirty different kinds of citrus are grown on the farm where I volunteered. I discovered fields lined with rotten fruit because the farm lacked the labor to pick the oranges, grapefruits, clementines, pomelos and even pomegranates before they fell from the trees. It was exhausting work finding the oranges nestled in the middle of the trees and then trudging through the mud with bags laden with this fruit.

I worked alongside a man from Kibbutz Dan, a kibbutz on Israel’s northern border. He, his wife and three children were living in a hotel room in Haifa since October. He was without a job because the university where he teaches was now closed and so he decided to do some volunteer work. When I finished the day’s work, I picked fresh clementines from the trees. I have never tasted anything as sweet or as delicious. To mark the day’s holiday, I tried to say the blessing for the fruit of the trees, but the father’s sense of abandonment invaded my thoughts. I kept hearing his words instead of the blessing. “Kibbutz Dan is such a beautiful place. My daughters love it there. We just want to go home.” They long for their country life but are trapped in an unfamiliar city, in a small room built for overnight stays not lengthy months long stays.

And this illustrates why Israelis are united behind the struggle against Hezbollah. Although worried about the cost of a ground invasion, they recognize that this may be a necessary fight. Here the stated goal is more limited. It is to push Hezbollah forces far enough from the border, deplete it of its most threatening missiles, prevent it from firing rockets into Israel and most importantly allow residents from the North to return to their homes. They recognize that these battles are all fights against Iran as indicated by this week’s missile strikes. Still, I worry about the ongoing costs to Israelis’ psyche and Israel’s soul. Israelis feel abandoned by an indifferent world. They feel misunderstood. Most just want to enjoy what a normal home feels like. They want to stop going to so many funerals. In the past year every Israeli I know has attended countless funerals, many for soldiers. Some 350 soldiers have died since the ground war began.

On another day when I packed strawberries at a nearby farm the task was to make sure there was as close as possible to 500 grams of berries in each container. I was not particularly good at this task, especially at arranging the best-looking strawberries on top. My mind kept wandering to who might be purchasing these berries at the market. I imagined them searching for the best-looking strawberries. On my morning drives to the farm, the announcer recited the names of those soldiers killed the day before. “Sergeant Major Matan Lazar, 32 years old, from Haifa. Sergeant First Class Nicholas Berger, 22 years old, from Jerusalem. Sergeant Major Shay Biton Hayun, 40 years old, from Zichron Yaakov.” On that day there were twenty-four names in all. It was the deadliest one-day loss in the war. Maybe those shopping for friends’ or neighbors’ shiva would not choose the berries I packed.

According to the great Jewish philosopher, Moses Maimonides, it is a mitzvah to scream. Screaming, especially in pain, has its place, but this year I feel that’s all I have wanted to do. The world is on fire and all I can do is scream. The psalm assigned to these High Holidays begins with the words, “Out of the depths I call You, O Lord. O Lord, listen to my cry; let Your ears be attentive to my plea for mercy.” (Psalm 130) It is framed by the psalmists’ familiar words. Shir Hamaalot—a song of ascents. And then continues, “Mi-ma-amakim—out of the depths.” How can a song of ascents also be out of the depths? How can a song that is supposed to be uplifting begin from the worst possible place, this place of such profound pain?

Shir Hamaalot. A song. The Nova Music Festival was billed as a celebration of friends, love and infinite freedom. The site is now a makeshift memorial to the over 350 festival goers who were murdered there. Steel flowers now stand in their place. Friends and family have built personal memorials throughout the fields and in the hardened bus shelters were festival goers tried to escape the onslaught. Burned out yahrtzeit candles are everywhere to be found. I had never listened to Psytrance music before, but I have found myself listening to “Man With No Name” more and more. It really does make you want to dance. Sometimes I have to force myself to dance. Maybe that’s all we can do.

Nearly 2,000 years ago the rabbis thought the same thing as they looked to a destroyed Jerusalem and a leveled Temple. In that moment they penned the words of the sheva brachot, “O God, may there always be heard in the cities of Israel and in the streets of Jerusalem: the sounds of joy and of happiness, the voice of the groom and the voice of the bride (kol sasson v’kol simcha, kol chattan v’kol kallah), the shouts of young people celebrating, and the songs of children at play.” I have offered those words for couples hundreds of times but not until this year has this prayer seemed so contemporary. Maybe that’s what we have been doing for thousands of years—and still. Dance despite the pain.

Israelis were so excited that the Nova festival organizers from Brazil had chosen Israel as the year’s location. It felt as if they were affirming, we have arrived on the world stage. We are going to be just like every other nation. That was Zionism’s vision. We can be part of the family of nations.

I have always been enthralled with Zionism’s vision. I remain a proud Zionist. Here is the simple reason why. I choose power over powerlessness. I choose power because I have read Jewish history. We tried powerlessness for 2,000 years—since that destruction of the Temple. We suffered expulsions, massacres, pogroms and the Holocaust. No more! This is Zionism’s central message. Jewish history teaches us that we cannot rely on God alone. Prayer keeps hope alive. That’s what the concluding note of our seders accomplished. “L’shanah habah b’yerushalayim—next year in Jerusalem” sustained the hope that one day we would return to the land. But prayer did not save enough Jewish lives. For that we require the power of our own state. We do not live in a utopian, messianic world. The world may not let us dance like everyone else. And therefore, the Jewish people require power. Power is not perfect. Israel makes mistakes. And when the powerful make mistakes—as happened in this past year, those mistakes have names attached to them. They have families mourning them too.

To my conservative friends I wish to say, “We must not ignore these mistakes or excuse them. Collateral damage means human beings! They have names. They have people who loved them. That Hamas started this war with its murder, mutilation and rape of 1200 people and the taking of hundreds of hostages, that Hamas embeds its fighters in and builds tunnels under hospitals and schools and United Nations facilities does not excuse Israel of moral responsibility. With a powerful army comes great responsibility. And with a government and military comes abuses. Take account of the increase in violence against West Bank Palestinians. The New York Times is not making stuff up even though I might prefer it not always feature it on the front page.”

To my liberal friends, I must say, “Who ever said the Jewish nation is going to be perfect? It wasn’t perfect when Ben Gurion was prime minister, and it isn’t perfect now. I am not going to suggest otherwise or pretend differently. I will take working to fix these mistakes and repair these abuses and advocating for Israel to do better over going back to running for our lives—although that is exactly what made October 7th so spiritually devastating. I will take joining protestors in Tel Aviv over the worry of prior generations. No more should we worry is this czar is going to kill us or that queen force us from our homes. Having a state and an army whose primary purpose is to safeguard and defend its citizens is virtuous even though its soldiers, commanders, and political leaders do not always live up to its stated ideals.”

I embrace Israel with all its pitfalls and its many imperfections. I celebrate Israel’s many successes and its extraordinary wonders. Zionism is about writing our own story. It’s about not being history’s victims but history’s actors. It is about fighting for our lives rather than running for our lives. That’s why I am Zionist. That’s why I will never abandon Israel or turn my back on the Jewish state. I will never give up on the Jewish people. I love the Jewish people, and I love Israel. That’s also why I have visited there so many times this past year.

I can’t stay away even though this year’s visits brought me more than a few restless nights. To be candid, there are still evenings when I wake up in the middle of night beset by visions of what I witnessed, especially during that first December trip. Picture this. It was at the Shura army base. There, the group of rabbis with whom I was traveling sat in silence in a beautiful but stark room that few people ever see. It is here where families say their last goodbyes to their loved ones in this agonizing war. The process was explained to us in moving detail by one of the young rabbis who staff the base. “The body arrives here and then we work quickly to verify the identity of the soldier. We have a DNA database. We look to fellow soldiers for witness testimony. Once we have one of these two, we pre-position the officers near the fallen soldier’s home.” These are the officers who will personally deliver what Israelis call the “knock on the door.” He continued, “We hurriedly work to ascertain the second identifying mark so we can give those officers the go ahead. We then prepare the body so that the family can journey here to visit their loved one.”

We bowed our heads. None of these seasoned rabbis had any words to offer. We just sat there on the very same benches where families sit nearly every day since October 7th, staring at this marble slab in the middle of the room, imagining the fathers and mothers, spouses and lovers, children and friends sobbing and screaming. All of us have heard these cries before, we have heard the wails of those who lost loved ones, of those who lost someone years before their time, but this young rabbi who naively thought his army duties would only involve kashering kitchens, hears them every day and sometimes several times a day. And if you want to know what keeps me up at night, it is that worn look on that thirty-something year old rabbi’s face and his words, “I tell my wife I am ok. But she says, ‘No you’re not. You’re not the same.’” That room haunts my sleep.

And sometimes in my dreams, although not as much anymore as I would like, I imagine that there is a similar room for Palestinian and Lebanese children, where relatives and friends also come to say their last goodbyes. I remind myself. Imagination is a necessary ingredient for compassion. Imagining the pain of others is what pushes empathy forward. It’s what makes us human. The coarsening of our feelings is yet another victim in this unfolding tragedy. The lessening of my empathy for others is another of October 7th’s victims. As antisemitic hate and violence grow, we turn inward and grow less compassionate about the world. Terror fills our kishkes with so much fear that we can no longer feel our own hearts. I still believe. If we can only see our own pain, we lose our humanity. Then again if we do not prioritize our own pain, we lose our sense of family. To be a Jew is to hold on to both—the suffering of other human beings and the heartache of fellow Jews. This remains our ideal. This remains our dream even if this moment pushes it farther out of reach.

Jonathan Goldberg-Polin, the father of Hersh Goldberg-Polin z”l, who was so brutally murdered a little more than a month ago, said, “In a competition of pain, there are no winners.” There are no winners. And there are not enough rooms to contain all the pain and all the anguish.

It will be October 8th for some time to come. On this Rosh Hashanah let us pledge. Stand with our family. Remain proud be to be a Jew. Be a devoted Zionist. Remain steadfast in your loyalty to Israel and its people. And try to nurture sparks of compassion for all people.

Out of the depths, I proclaim, “I still believe…. I still believe…. I still believe…”

Everyone Can Change

Wednesday evening begins Rosh Hashanah.

The holiday’s central message is this. We can change and start over. We can repair relationships and mend the hurt we have caused. No one is free from wrongdoing. And no one is beyond the possibility for change.

Judaism does not believe our destiny is fated. We can always write a new story for ourselves.

There is a story about Rabbi Israel Salanter who lived in the nineteenth century and founded the Mussar movement whose goal was to return ethics to the center of Jewish life.

Once Rabbi Salanter spent the night at a shoemaker’s home. Late at night, he saw the man working by the light of a flickering candle. “Look how late it is,” the rabbi said. “Your candle is about to go out. Why are you still working? The shoemaker replied, “As long as the candle is burning, it is still possible to mend.”

For weeks afterward, Rabbi Israel Salanter was heard repeating the shoemaker’s words to himself: “As long as the candle is burning, it is still possible to mend.” He continued, “As long as the candle burns—as long as the spark of life still shines—we can mend and heal, seek forgiveness and reconciliation. We can begin again.”

This year let’s be like the shoemaker.

We need not stay up late into the night, but we can always begin again.

We can begin to make changes at any hour.

Hidden Good Deeds

This week we read a strange, and seemingly out of place verse. It reads, “Concealed acts concern the Lord our God; but with overt acts, it is for us and our children forever to apply all the provisions of this Teaching.” (Deuteronomy 30) The Hebrew text makes note of this curious statement. Several of the words have dots above each of the letters, in particular the words “for us and our children forever.”

Biblical scholars explain. Ancient scribes often used such indications to signal corrections or deletions to the original text. But there is nothing in the marked words that appear out of place. The rabbis, however, spin numerous interpretations about these scribal notations. Rabbinic commentators debate their meaning. They ask, “What is the Torah trying to teach?”

Moses Maimonides suggests that concealed acts refer to the reasons for the commandments which remain mysterious to human minds. Overt acts point to the performance of the commandments. This is why there are these extra markings above the words “for us and our children forever.” Others reason that concealed acts imply the future while overt acts refer to the present.

The Hasidic rebbe, Menahem Mendle of Kotzk thinks otherwise. He writes, “The world thinks that a tzaddik nistar—a hidden righteous person—is a person who conceals his (or her) righteousness and his (or her) good deeds from others. The truth, however, is that a tzaddik nistar is one whose righteousness is hidden and concealed from him (or herself), and who has no idea whatsoever that he (or she) is righteous.”

The lesson is not about performing deeds anonymously but instead about remaining unaware of our righteous acts.

As we approach Rosh Hashanah, I am imagining how the world might differ if people went about their day performing righteous acts while never even worrying about the praise they might receive about doing the right thing. Whether or not their deed merited the label of “good deed” shall remain forever hidden.

Rejoice! Be Glad!

The Hasidic master, Rebbe Nachman of Bratslav, teaches, “Always remember: joy is not merely incidental to your spiritual quest. It is vital.”

This week we read a lengthy list of curses, beginning with what the Torah imagines to be the worst kind of people: “Cursed be the person who misdirects a blind person on his way.— And all the people shall say, Amen. Cursed be the person who subverts the rights of the stranger, the fatherless, and the widow.— And all the people shall say, Amen.” (Deuteronomy 27)

The portion continues with a list of what will befall those who disobey God’s command: “Cursed shall be your basket and your kneading bowl.” And finally, offers a brief list of blessings for those who heed God’s commandments: “Blessed shall you be in the city and blessed shall you be in the country.” (Deuteronomy 28)

The theology is crystal clear. Obey God’s commands and blessings will follow. Disobey God’s mitzvot and you will witness a lengthy, detailed list of curses. It is not a very comforting thought. Many people grow uncomfortable with the Torah’s stark theology.

The tradition appears to recognize this discomfort. When chanting the portion, the Torah reader chants these lengthy curses in a rushed, soft voice. To recite these curses in a loud, commanding voice would be to suggest a confidence in its theology. It would be to affirm something we experience to be false.

Everyone can cite examples of people who follow all the commandments and yet experience far too many calamities and likewise those who appear to subvert the rights of the stranger and appear to enjoy untold blessings. And so, what do we do? We recite these words in hushed tones.

It is almost as if the tradition is instructing us to dwell on the blessings and rush past the curses.

In a year that has offered a lengthy list of curses, how do we teach ourselves to maximize our blessings? How do we learn to minimize our curses?

Another Hasidic master Simhah Bunim of Peshischa responds. He teaches that these detailed punishments are only attached to one specific command, “Because you would not serve the Lord your God in joy and gladness over the abundance of everything.” (Deuteronomy 28) Simhah Bunim hears the Torah shouting, “Rejoice! Be glad!”

Perhaps the rebbes are correct. We need to hone the ability to take in more joy. Even when our blessings appear meager, we must rejoice. Perhaps all it takes is to assume a posture of joy and gladness.

I am beginning to detect how to reorient this cursed year. Quickly, and softly, detail the curses. Slowly, and loudly, enumerate our blessings.

And then let joy and gladness fill your hearts.

Joy is vital to our spiritual quest.

Do Not Remain Indifferent

Indifference leads to harm.

Too often we say, “It’s not my problem. It’s not my responsibility.” But the world, with all its good and all its bad, is our responsibility. What’s happening down the block and what’s going on thousands of miles away are our duties. Such is Judaism’s contention.

The Torah declares, “If you see your fellow’s ox or sheep gone astray, do not ignore it; you must take it back to your fellow. If your fellow does not live near you or you do not know who he is, you shall bring it home and it shall remain with you until your fellow claims it.” (Deuteronomy 22)

We clearly do not believe in the adage, “Finders keepers, losers weepers.” Not only are we commanded to find the animal’s owner, but we must care for it until the owner is found. Imagine the expense of caring for an ox, of making sure it has enough food for months or even years! And while I am reasonably certain that no one in our congregation, or for that matter, in the neighborhoods in which we live, owns an ox or a sheep, the implication is clear.

We must go out of our way for our neighbors. We must even incur expenses, and take on additional burdens, to help them out. The Torah places no limits on our responsibilities. They are only completed when the neighbor claims the animal. In other words, it is only when our fellow says, “Enough.”

Our neighbors’ problems are our sacred burdens. Our fellows’ difficulties are ours to help alleviate. The tradition makes plain that we must take responsibility for our neighbors’ wellbeing.

The Torah concludes, “So too shall you do with anything that your fellow loses, and you find: you must not remain indifferent.”

The Hebrew for indifferent is “l’hitalem.” It comes from the word meaning hidden. It suggests that their problems must not remain hidden to us. Its root is also related to the word for world. The Hebrew suggests that the world contains hidden mysteries which we must unveil.

Too often we think those mysteries are the world’s hidden beauties and majesties. Here it suggests that it’s the world’s difficulties that frequently remain hidden.

The world, and its troubles, are our sacred burden to help undo. They are also our duty to unveil. Take responsibility for each other.

You must not remain indifferent!

Bring Them Home Now

What follows is my sermon from the Shabbat evening service following the funerals of the six murdered Israeli hostages.

To say that this week has offered particularly painful days is a terrible understatement. It has been wrenching. The news that six hostages—namely Hersh, Carmel, Eden, Alex, Almog and Ori—were murdered only days before Israeli soldiers reached them was beyond comprehension.

Although all lives hold equal value Hersh Goldberg-Polin’s death crushed me more than those of the others. He was one of the few hostages from Jerusalem. His picture was plastered everywhere I turned in the Jerusalem neighborhood I call home for two weeks every summer. His parents Jon and Rachel, and most especially Rachel, showed such remarkable courage and poise during these past eleven months and helped me become acquainted with Hersh’s character, his passions and interests as well as his endearing quirks and loving nature.

When I heard Rachel first speak in Washington DC at the November rally, I doubted her belief that Hersh was still alive. His arm had been blown off when he and his best friend Aner tried to escape the onslaught in a fortified bus shelter. Aner was killed by grenades. Hersh lost his arm. How could he survive without emergency medical care, I wondered. But he did. She was right when she stood only days ago at Gaza’s border shouting his name and pleading with him to stay strong. And he did—for eleven months.

I watched his funeral online along with thousands of others. There were audible wails among the thousands of people in attendance. The cries became distorted on my laptop’s speakers. I marveled at his family’s strength. I admired how Hersh’s friends held each other up as they spoke. How could one not weep as Rachel spoke about her dear, sweet boy? She said,

I am honest. And I say, it is not that Hersh was perfect. But, he was the perfect son for me. And I am so grateful to God, and I want to do hakarat hatov and thank God right now, for giving me this magnificent present of my Hersh…. For 23 years I was privileged to have this most stunning treasure, to be Hersh’s Mama. I’ll take it and say thank you. I just wish it had been for longer.

There are not enough tissues for the grief this year has offered our people. Every day seems to offer enough heartbreak for a lifetime.

Hamas murderous rampage continues to terrorize us. Israel’s heavy-handed response has made us defensive in even the most genteel of settings. Let me be honest. Netanyahu is ill fitted for leadership at this dangerous and pivotal moment. The radicals he has empowered endanger lives and undermine our people’s moral fiber with their desire to resettle Gaza and their efforts to organize Jewish prayer near Jerusalem’s Al-Aqsa Mosque. Let me be clear. Benjamin Netanyahu is not responsible for Hamas’ genocidal ideology or their actions, but he is responsible for Israel’s response to it and Israel’s lack of readiness on October 7th. He is no longer the right leader for Israel and the Jewish people. And Israelis are taking to the streets once again protesting his failures and most especially his abandonment of the hostages. I wish to stand with those Israelis protesting against Netanyahu and his government’s unprecedented failures and standing up for a better, and perhaps brighter, future for the country we so love.

Israel cannot destroy Hamas completely. It can degrade its capabilities. It can work with allies to cut off its funding. But it cannot wipe it out. Even if the IDF were to destroy all of Gaza and kill thousands more Gazans—God forbid—it would not eradicate Hamas. Thousands of additional dead will not make us any safer. A military cannot destroy an ideology. It can better protect its citizens and kill as many terrorists as possible, but it cannot destroy an ideology as much as justice might demand such an outcome. At this juncture Israel’s best alternative is a cease fire. Had that been agreed to a few weeks ago, Hersh would have been home, in the embrace of his mother and father, and sisters, and friends. He was among the first on the list of those who would have been released.

This week’s Torah portion speaks about justice. It states, Tzedek, tzedek tirdof—justice, justice you shall pursue. (Deuteronomy 16) Justice is a pursuit. The Hebrew is even stronger. It suggests that we must run after justice. It implies that justice is an effort. But the tradition has another saying. We read in Pirke Avot, “Be a rodef shalom—a pursuer of peace.”

How can one pursue both justice and peace? They are often in conflict. Justice demands that Israel continues its fight until it captures (actually recaptures) or kills the mastermind of October 7th’s brutality, Yahya Sinwar y”s. But that would mean condemning the remaining hostages to Hersh’s terrible fate. Life demands compromises. Preserving life most especially necessitates compromises. Saving life requires us to let go of the notions of perfect justice and even I must admit, 100% security.

Could the future price of such compromises be too great? I do not know. The tradition debates ransoming captives at length. Can a community sell a Torah scroll to fulfill the mitzvah of pidyon shevuyim?, it asks. Yes, it answers. Could paying too high a price encourage more hostage taking? The Talmud says, yes. The tradition appears as befuddled as we currently are. I know this for certain. All I can be crystal clear about right now and in this moment is those 101 families. Their pain is too much to continue to carry.

This evening Hersh’s father Jon offers the closing words. At his son’s funeral he said,

Hersh, Forgive us. Sorry we failed you. We all failed you. You would not have failed you. You would have pushed harder for justice. You would have worked to understand the other, to bridge differences. You would have challenged more people to challenge their own thinking. And what you will be pushing for now is to ensure that your death and the deaths of all the soldiers and so many innocent civilians are not in vain. Your starting point would be returning all of the hostages. For 330 days mama and I sought the proverbial stone that we could turn over to save you. Maybe just maybe your death is the stone, the fuel that will bring home the remaining 101 hostages.

May it be God’s will. 

Let’s Dance Like Sunflowers

My new favorite flower is the sunflower. It’s not because of its seeds which I enjoy but instead because of a recent scientific discovery.

Apparently, sunflowers dance. Let me explain.

Every flower requires sunlight. When sunflowers grow together, they block the sunlight from each other. And so, scientists discovered they move around so that each is exposed to the sun. They do not do this when a building shades the sun. They do this when grouped together in a large patch of sunflowers. They dance in a coordinated fashion to make room for each other.

As we mark the first day of the Hebrew month of Elul and the approach of the High Holidays the sunflowers provide us with a model for how we might behave towards each other during this contentious and painful year…

This post continues on The Times of Israel.

Hearing Leads to Rewards

Hearing is crucial to understanding.

We live in a world of distractions. We are bombarded by images and notifications throughout our day that distract us from truly understanding those who stand before us. When others are talking, we are often only partially listening.

How many times do I ask Susie to repeat what she just said because I was busy scrolling through my phone? How many other times do I become distracted mid-conversation when I receive a text message that seems to scream, “Pay attention to me—now!”

We listen less attentively. And our understanding suffers.

The Torah proclaims, “See, I set before you today blessing and curse: the blessing when you listen to the command of Adonai your God with which I charge you today; the curse, if you do not listen to the command of Adonai your God.” (Deuteronomy 11) The root of the Hebrew word for listening and hearing is sh’ma. It is the same word as that found in the familiar Sh’ma prayer. We sing, “Hear, O Israel, Adonai is our God, the Lord is One.”

In this week’s portion, this word is usually translated as hearken or obey rather than listen, but it seems to me that the Hebrew is pointing us towards a greater meaning.

Hearing is crucial to receiving God’s blessings.

The Sefas Emes, a nineteenth century Hasidic rabbi, writes, “The reward of an observant life will be the ability to hear God’s voice among the conflicting messages competing for our attention in a noisy world.”

The more one observes, the easier it is to hear. The more one focuses on those sitting before us, the greater the reward.

Food Is Never Just About Food

The familiar phrase “man does not live on bread alone” is often used to suggest that we require more than food (or material wealth) to sustain ourselves. Spiritual fulfillment is fundamental to our existence.

The Torah adds emphasis it proclaims, “God subjected you to the hardship of hunger and then gave you manna to eat, which neither you nor your ancestors had ever known, in order to teach you that a human being does not live on bread alone, but that one may live on anything that the Lord decrees.” (Deuteronomy 8)

Our lives, and our spirits, are in God’s hands! Apparently, God even fashions the menu.

And yet much of our spiritual lives are dependent on a meal. The hallmark of a Shabbat dinner is a hallah. On Rosh Hashanah it is imperative that we have a round hallah, and often with raisins to add to the hoped for sweetness of the coming year. Chicken and brisket are favorite main courses for the holidays—at least in the Ashkenazi home in which I was raised.

In fact, many people think it is not a fitting meal if there is no protein. “What meat are you serving?” is a question I am often asked given that we mostly prepare vegetarian meals. Those of us raised in the last half century when chicken and beef (and even fish) became mass produced and inexpensive expect meat whenever they sit down to eat. Otherwise, it is not a meal.

We were raised with the notion that it is not a Shabbat meal without chicken and most of the time, chicken soup. But the reason we associate chicken with a typical Shabbat dinner is because that was the one day a week our relatives could afford to purchase chicken. What makes a meal a meal is a product of our cultural surroundings. And the so-called traditional meal is different depending on where your family came from. In the Ashkenazi family in which I was raised it was chicken.

Back to bread. It is not a seudah, a festive occasion, without a hallah and the most senior relative offering the motzi. The band leader declares, “And now Uncle Bob is going to come forward for the motzi.” In America we have added the super-size hallah to this moment. Where else but here would we bake one bread that can serve two hundred people

Then again it is not so much about the size of the hallah—although that’s America for you. It is not so much about the food. It is about being together. When we gather, we sustain our spirits. When we sit and eat, sing and drink, we create memories.

And when we cook, we sustain our spirits. We bring people, and family, together. Claudia Roden in her landmark cookbook, The Book of Jewish Food, comments, “Jewish food tells the story of an uprooted, migrating people and their vanished worlds. It lives in people’s minds and has been kept alive because of what it evokes.” When we cook, we sustain memory.

Food is never just about food.

Prayer Is About Mending the Heart

Why does it appear that one person’s prayer is answered, and another’s ignored?

Let’s look at two examples.

In the first, Moses pleads with God to be allowed to see the Promised Land.  He says, “Let me, I pray, cross over and see the good land on the other side of the Jordan.” (Deuteronomy 3) God does not relent.  Moses never touches the land.  

Why does God not answer Moses’ prayer?  We recall that not entering the land is punishment for when Moses lost his temper with the people. (Numbers 20) The people were complaining about the lack of water (again!) and Moses hits the rock. And yet, our hero’s plea is understandable.  Notice, he does not question the punishment and ask to go into the land.  He only wishes to see it up close with his own eyes.  God ignores his prayer.

In the second example, Hannah prays for a child.  We read, “In the bitterness of her soul, she prayed to the Lord, crying intently.” (I Samuel 1) God responds to her plea and she gives birth to a son who later becomes the prophet Samuel.  Hannah’s prayer is answered.  In fact, her words serve as rabbinic literature’s model for prayer and this passage is the Haftarah portion we read on Rosh Hashanah morning when we hope God will likewise answer our prayers.  

Hannah’s words are effective.  Moses’ are not.  Why does God answer Hannah’s request and not that of Moses?  Who could be more deserving than Moses?  He does everything God asks of him even though he did not want the job.  He leads the people for forty years through the wilderness.  Sure, he loses his patience every once in a while, but the people complain a lot and he is probably hot and thirsty too.  

Why of all people is Moses’ plea denied?  We do not know.  The question continues to baffle us.

Why does God answer Hannah’s prayer but not that of Moses?  Why is one person’s prayer answered and another’s ignored?  Part of what we learn is that it is not about the person, but the feelings expressed in the prayer.  It does not matter who the person is or what successes they may have achieved.  It does not have to do character. It has nothing to do with merit.  It only has to do with sentiments and feelings.

And that observation makes me uncomfortable.  I have been a rabbi (and a person) long enough to know that there are plenty of people who pray with all their heart and yet their prayers remain unanswered.  Telling these people that they are in good company and that God likewise ignores Moses’ plea is unhelpful and even unfeeling.

Still, I continue to pray with all my heart.  I pray for instance every time we gather as a congregation, and several times in each service, that peace will soon be realized in every land, that hatred and bloodshed will cease even though the news and my head tell me otherwise.

I keep praying.

And I keep relying on the truth, found in our prayerbook. “Prayer invites God’s presence to suffuse our spirits, God’s will to prevail in our lives.  Prayer may not bring water to parched fields, nor mend a broken bridge, nor rebuild a ruined city.  But prayer can water an arid soul, mend a broken heart, rebuild a weakened will.”

Perhaps prayer is not about seeking answers but about striving for healing.  

It is about mending.

We Will Survive—Once Again

The Book of Job offers a mystifying tale.

We are introduced to Job and learn he is a righteous and blameless man. And yet he suffers unimaginable pain. His children are killed. His wealth is plundered. He is afflicted with a debilitating disease.

He wonders aloud about his horrifying plight and cries, “Perish the day on which I was born.” (Job 3) The remainder of the book offers a litany of responses to his cries of pain. All prove inadequate. Job’s friends suggest he is responsible for his own troubles.

Their theology is simplistic. Their words add to their friend’s pain. There are no words that can adequately respond to such suffering.

Perhaps this is why Sephardic congregations read Job this coming Tuesday, on Tisha B’Av. This day marks the destruction of the first and second Temples, as well as countless other Jewish tragedies such as the expulsion from Spain. And if one is to believe news reports Iran is also plotting to attack Israel on this day. Even though we know it was the Babylonians and then the Romans who destroyed the Temples and forced the Jewish people into exile, the reasons how this was allowed to happen remain mysterious.

Historians, and rabbis, debate. They argue about explanations. The rabbis suggest it was internal strife that provided the opening for the Romans to level Jerusalem. Jeremiah, like Job’s friends, suggests the Babylonians were God’s instruments chastising Israel for its sins.

After nearly forty chapters of give and take between Job and his friends, God finally responds and thunders, “Where were you when I laid the earth’s foundations? Speak if you have understanding.” (Job 38) God’s answer does little to quell the mystery.

Suffering persists. Its pain lingers.

Professor Jack Miles in his fascinating book, GOD: A Biography, writes,

Within the Book of Job itself, God's climactic and overwhelming reply seems to silence Job. But reading from the end of the Book of Job onward, we see that it is Job who has somehow silenced God. God never speaks again, and he is decreasingly spoken of. In the Book of Esther—a book in which, as in the Book of Exodus, his chosen people faces a genocidal enemy—he is never so much as mentioned. In effect, the Jews surmount the threat without his help.

And once again, we are left on our own.

The suffering and pain continue to defy explanation.

Tisha B’Av represents God’s withdrawal from history. The story we fashion since that terrible day is how we manage to defy history.

The threat lingers. We will surmount it once again.

The Ocean Lifts Our Spirits

Yesterday I enjoyed a wonderful swim in the Long Island Sound. And it reminded me how much I love the sea’s cool waters. Its salt and waves pull on my soul. I wonder why.

I turn to the ancient rabbis. (That is what Jews do when seeking answers to their questions.)

Rabbi Eliezer responds: “The entire world drinks from the waters of the ocean.” (Taanit 9b) I read on to discover that he and his colleagues debate where rain water comes from. Another rabbi argues with Eliezer. “But the waters of the ocean are salty, whereas rainwater is sweet.” The argument continues. Rabbis!

Perhaps Eliezer means his teaching metaphorically. Our spirit drinks in nourishment from the oceans. Every summer we wait in hours of traffic just to make our way to its beaches. It is calming. The waves are restorative.

The poet, Mary Oliver, offers a teaching. (This is where I also turn when searching for answers.)

I am in love with Ocean
lifting her thousands of white hats
in the chop of the storm,
or lying smooth and blue, the
loveliest bed in the world.
In the personal life, there is
always grief more than enough,
a heart-load for each of us
on the dusty road. I suppose
there is a reason for this, so I will be
patient, acquiescent. But I will live
nowhere except here, by Ocean, trusting
equally in all the blast and welcome
of her sorrowless, salt self.

The ocean is the antidote to grief. It is the answer to what ails us. No amount of tears can ever fill its depths. Its capacity to absorb tears is endless.

Rabbi Judah states: “A person who sees the ocean recites the blessing, ‘Blessed are You, Adonai our God, Ruler of the universe, who has made the great sea.’" (Berachot 54a) We are commanded to say a myriad of blessings. When seeing a rainbow, when eating an apple, when seeing a mountain, when sitting down to a meal, but regarding the ocean the sages offer a clarification.

A month must have passed since last seeing the ocean. Most people read this emendation as a warning. You should not say this blessing everyday as you should, for example, the motzi. I of course read it differently.

Don’t let a month go by without seeing the ocean!

Find its waves. Seek out its shores. Touch its waters. Cast your grief to its depths. Our souls require nourishment. Our spirits need renewal.

And it can be discovered a few short blocks from our homes.

Listen to Women’s Voices

Sometimes change is dramatic. More often it is incremental.

Zelophehad’s daughters bring a complaint against Moses. “Our father died in the wilderness… And he has left no sons. Let not our father’s name be lost to his clan just because he had no son! Give us a holding among our father’s kinsmen!” (Numbers 27)

Moses appears baffled by their request. He inquires of God who then decrees, “The plea of Zelophehad’s daughters is just: you should give them a hereditary holding among their father’s kinsmen; transfer their father’s share to them.”

The law is changed.

God continues, “Further, speak to the Israelite people as follows: ‘If a householder dies without leaving a son, you shall transfer his property to his daughter.”

We move forward with tentative steps. God affirms.

And yet we continue to battle over the role of women.

Listen to the voices of Mahlah, Noah, Hoglah, Milcah and Tirzah.

Listen to the voices of women.

Real People Provide Real Hope

On Sunday, I greeted the Jerusalem morning with news of the assassination attempt against former president Trump. We are grateful that the assassin was unsuccessful, and that President Trump was not seriously injured. We pray for the family of those killed (may Corey Comperatore’s memory serve as a blessing) and for the speedy recovery of those injured. Regardless of our political affiliation we must offer these words of thanksgiving.

Although we do not know the would-be assassin’s motives, this is not the first-time violence has been used in an attempt to settle our differences. We must affirm the conviction that such differences cannot be resolved through violence. Bullets are antithetical to democratic principles. We must cease the glorification of weapons. We must avoid celebrating violence. We must repudiate conspiracy theories.

In November, Americans will vote. And in January we will declare our unity behind the candidate who wins the most electoral votes—at least that is how our system is supposed to work. This occasion is an opportunity to offer thanks that violence has failed and to reaffirm our commitment to democratic principles.

We argue. We vote. We compromise.

On Tuesday, I traveled to Haifa to meet with participants in the Shalom Hartman Institute’s Shared Society initiatives. We met two teachers. One a Jew and another an Arab...

This post continues on The Times of Israel.

Jerusalem Dreams

Several weeks ago, I was riding through the rural roads of Pennsylvania, outside of Penn State, when I confronted a sign planted on a front lawn, “If the Zionists stole your land, you too would be fighting them.” And I thought to myself and screamed under my breath, “You have to be kidding. Even here!”

I am presently in Jerusalem studying at the Shalom Hartman Institute. Before attending the conference’s first lecture, I went for a run along a beautiful walking path that follows an old train route. The path begins in the city’s German Colony and snakes downhill through the Arab village of Beit Safafa toward Teddy Stadium and the zoo. This Arab village holds a special place in my heart. When I lived here in 1987, I taught English to a few of its high school students.

Prior to the 1967 Six Day War the village was divided in half. One half stood within Israel’s territory. The other in Jordan’s. It now sits within a unified Jerusalem. I often see its residents walking along this same path and I secretly hope that I might recognize one of my former students with whom I lost touch decades ago. I want to ask them how their views have changed…

This post continues on The Times of Israel.

Unity Before Ideology

If we celebrate Independence Day by hearkening back to the words of our founders, we often turn to the opening words of their Declaration of Independence: “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.”

In doing so, we reaffirm our shared commitment to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. We reaffirm our dedication to the principle that these rights are available to all and are not dependent on wealth or privilege, education or class.

We tend to focus on the Declaration’s opening lines. We neglect the concluding line. “And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor.” Our founders hoped to instill a keen sense that we are bound to each other.

Our lives and our fortunes are dependent on one another, and that this independent nation is sustained by our ability to see everyone as an American and not draw lines between ourselves. We may very well be independent of Britian and other nations, but we cannot thrive if we are independent of other Americans.

No matter how different we appear from each other, we are one.

Party affiliation and ideological commitment are not mentioned in this founding document. It is all “we” and not “I.” Their great complaint against King George was focused on self-interest. He believed the colonies were to serve him. The founders, however, wished to serve themselves. They believed that every person’s pursuit of happiness was as legitimate as a king’s. And they understood that we are bound together in this pursuit.

This is exactly why Korah is so forcefully punished for his rebellion against Moses. The opening words give away his selfish intentions. “Vayikach Korach—And Korah took himself.” (Numbers 16) The rabbis expand our understanding and fill in what is implied by this week’s portion. The medieval commentator, Rashi, explains, “Korah took himself to one side with the view of separating himself out of the community.”

On this July 4th I am hoping and praying really, really hard, that we can find our way back to this sense of commonality and civility and away from self-interest and political affiliation. I am holding on to the ideal that we are all Americans, regardless of religion or race, birthplace or language.

If we are to take our Torah’s message to heart and once again pledge ourselves to our founders’ principles, then we should see ourselves first and foremost as united. We may very well be varied and different, but we can only succeed if we are one.

If divine providence is to protect us, then we must stand united.

Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness is bound not to ideology but unity.

Faith Is About Perspective

Faith is a matter of perspective. It centers around the questions of am I strong enough, do I have enough.

There are people who have all the wealth in the world but are never content and there are likewise people who have little means but see their lives as blessed. There are people who regularly eat only a morsel of food and still give thanks to God and others who only eat the fanciest of foods and yet curse God.

Judaism wishes to inculcate the feeling that our lives are blessed regardless of how much or little we have. Think about the following commandments. Even the person dependent on tzedakah must give charity. And even before eating the smallest portions of food, we are instructed to say a blessing of thanks.

This contention stands in contrast to the messages of contemporary culture. We are inundated with advertisements urging us buy this or that with the promise that our lives will become more blessed. We are urged to up our game, fine tune our competitive drive and increase our work ethic to achieve more. Such inner drive is good but only to a point.

If the drive stands in the way of contentment, then it is for naught—at least as far as our tradition is concerned. If we are all drive and no thankfulness then, the rabbis suggest, we cannot achieve success. They counsel, only a soul filled with gratitude can stave off the terrors the world continues to throw at us.

The Torah offers the spies as an illustration. Moses commands twelve spies to reconnoiter the land of Israel. Joshua and Caleb offer only positive reports. The other ten come back with negatives. They say, “All the people we saw in the land are of great size… and we looked like grasshoppers to ourselves, and so we must have looked to them.” (Numbers 13) They are so overwhelmed by fear that they no longer see the delicious grapes and beautiful pomegranates they discovered. They quickly forget that they also gleaned that the land of Israel flows with milk and honey.

Fear pushes aways even the most wonderous of blessings. Even though the taste of grapes and pomegranates is still in their mouths they become blinded by fear. They see themselves not as strong—God is on their side as Joshua and Caleb remind them—but small.

This is why Rabbi Meir urges us to recite one hundred blessings every day. His theory is that saying thank you over and over again strengthens the soul. If people repeatedly say I am blessed, then they feel strong—or at least strong enough. Seeing oneself as strong enough is the secret recipe our tradition wishes to teach.

I have known people of great stature and renown who appear small and others of little fame and prominence who stand tall. And I have come to understand it is all matter of choice. Does one see the grapes and the pomegranates and recall the land indeed flows with milk and honey or does one fixate on how overwhelming our opponents seem?

It is all about perspective.

And the most important ingredient to building a life of faith is how one sees oneself.

The path to seeing oneself as tall enough and strong enough, or even wealthy enough, is to say thank you.

Gardens of Hope

My garden is my teacher.

This fall we planted garlic in our backyard garden. And so, a few weeks ago I snipped off the scapes curling from green stalks. (I pickled them. Some people liked these pickled garlic scapes. Most did not.) If one does not trim these tops the plant focuses too much energy producing flowers rather than the bulbs with which we are familiar. In about a month, I will harvest the plants and then dry the bulbs so that I can have homegrown garlic for the upcoming year.

This makes me wonder about this week’s complaint from the Israelites. “The riffraff in their midst felt a gluttonous craving; and then the Israelites wept and said, ‘If only we had meat to eat! We remember the fish that we used to eat free in Egypt, the cucumbers, the melons, the leeks, the onions, and the garlic.’” (Numbers 11)

My teacher instructs. Garlic and for that matter, onions, leeks, melons and cucumbers require cultivation. They demand a landed, agrarian society that has the time to tend to such crops. Perhaps the Israelites’ complaints are not so much about the tasteless, albeit sustaining manna, but instead about their wandering. They are tired of living as nomads.

They just want to have a home. They want to be so settled that they can plant a garden. Of course, they forget that the delicacies for which they pine did not come from their own gardens but instead from those of their Egyptian taskmasters. Or perhaps they looked back at their Egyptian taskmaster’s meals and imagined they were their own. The imagination of yesteryear is not always an accurate portrayal of past experiences.

Collard greens are for example staples of African American cuisine because these were one of the few vegetables slaveholders allowed their enslaved Africans to grow for themselves. Their bitterness is transformed by even this modicum of freedom. Scraps of vegetables dished out by slaveholders do not taste the same as those grown with one’s own hands.

There is a taste of freedom in a garden. Supermarket vegetables are not the same as homegrown! This is why building community gardens is so meaningful. They are liberating. These gardens provide people with space to plant their own vegetables, to be less dependent on the prices of store-bought goods. They offer ownership of one’s own food. They provide glimpses of freedom. Freedom sweetens the taste of even the most bitter of vegetables.

Planting vegetables even in a modest garden such as my own, is in some, small way a statement of faith in the future. It is saying, “We will be here long enough to tend to these crops. We will be here next season to enjoy these garlicky delights.”

This is why the early Zionists invested so much in the kibbutz movement. Tending to crops, planting trees, and most especially fruit trees, are about looking years into the future. “We will be here even several generations from now when we can enjoy this fruit together.”

The wanderer can forage. The Israelites gathered manna and there is a measure of delight and wonder in wandering and exploring. “The forest is the menu,” I was advised by the waiter at a Madrid restaurant that centers mushrooms for every course, including dessert.

The gardener, however, can plan. The wanderer explores.

The garden can restore hope in the future.

We are here to stay.

And soon, if I have done everything right, and continue to do everything right, and of course the weather cooperates, it will also grant me some tasty garlic.

The garden provides hope.

Have faith in the future!

Thank You for the Invitations

What follows is my speech from the celebration marking my twenty-fifth anniversary at our congregation.

For this evening, I asked that we not have a parade of speeches. I want this event to be a celebration filled with enjoying each other’s company and of course dancing and perhaps some tequila. So let me honor my own request and not make this a lengthy High Holiday sermon, although like every sermon it will have the requisite three points.

First, I wish to acknowledge the events of October 7th and the difficult year we as a people are experiencing. Although on this evening our hearts are rightly filled with joy, they are also tempered like the wedding ceremony’s broken glass by this tragic and painful year. We are once again facing the dangers of antisemitic hate. We grieve. We fear for our future. Our hearts are bound to the hostages’ fates. Our compassion is sparked by the suffering of ordinary Gazans. Israel’s ongoing war chips away at our hopes each and every day. And yet I have faith that our people will once again survive these challenges.

Second, thank you to our synagogue’s leadership and especially to our current president Marty and the Gala committee and its co-chairs, Edra and Mike. I am grateful for your devotion to Congregation L’Dor V’Dor and your friendship. I have been fortunate to partner with many lay leaders so allow me to acknowledge those past presidents who are able to be here tonight and who I remain privileged to call friends: Mike, Ben, Jeff, Josh, Debbie, Marie, Lisa and Brian. Thank you for your continued support. I wish I could thank every one of you who served on our Board over the past twenty-five years and every synagogue member by name but then I would be ignoring my own request. Know that I remain grateful for your ongoing support, dedication and friendship.

Our synagogue is blessed to have a devoted staff. Li knows everyone and makes each member feel comfortable and keeps the office humming along. Ozzie, our newest addition, brings a wonderful enthusiasm to our workplace. Anne Marie continues to offer levelheaded advice and counsel. Every Friday Justyna greets me with her enthusiastic smile as she readies our sanctuary for the weekend’s activities. Jen makes teaching even the most challenging seventh grade a wonder and joy. And our cantor’s voice remains unparalleled. Talya never fails to lift our hearts with spirit and song. I am very fortunate to work alongside such a talented staff and devoted lay leaders.

I am also grateful to my parents, and in laws, who drove here from St. Louis and Baltimore to celebrate this occasion with us. I am happy they arrived here safely. My sister-in-law Sandee traveled all the way from New Rochelle and my sister-in-law Leslie from Detroit’s suburbs. And of course, my brother Michael is also here. We are the best of friends. I turn to him for rabbinic advice, but also wardrobe suggestions and cocktail recipes. I am so very grateful that my family can be here tonight.

My daughter Shira is here. Although Brooklyn can seem like a different world, Ari actually lives on a different continent. Shira and Ari did not of course choose to be part of a congregational family, let alone two congregational families, but they embraced it. They learned that for rabbis the line between work and home can often become blurred and that sometimes our congregants’ pains become our own. And Susie is obviously here. She is the voice in my ear simultaneously telling me she loves me and maybe it would have been better if I did this or that differently. I did not know this could be possible, but I am more in love now than I was then.

And now to the third point about the celebration at hand. Let me state an unspoken but obvious truth. You cannot have an anniversary celebration without two parties. Not only did I stay here for twenty-five years but you kept me for twenty-five years. And so, I remain grateful to you for calling me your rabbi and for inviting me into your lives. You ask me to be there at your best moments and your worst. And I never take that for granted. I see my calling as an enormous blessing. It is a gift with which you have provided me. Thank you.

I can experience a lifetime of memories in a week. In a single week I can dance with a wedding couple, grieve with children mourning their parent, kvell with the family of a b’nai mitzvah student, console another couple contemplating divorce, report back from a beleaguered Israel, and celebrate a birth with yet another family. It is an existence that sometimes demands too much heart. But I only know how to give all my heart.

Those of you who hired me back in 1999 saw something in me that I did not yet see in myself. Most young rabbis begin serving a congregation under the guidance of a more experienced rabbi. They begin as assistants. Although I had already been a rabbi for eight years, I spent my days teaching at the 92nd Street Y. I had not spent more than an evening or a morning in a synagogue and then only when giving a guest sermon. I had only officiated at the occasional funeral and the rare wedding. I was a teacher with some very strong ideas about the right ways and wrong ways of leading and serving a congregation but no experience putting such ideas into actual practice.

I imagine they said to themselves, “Well he seems earnest and most certainly energetic. Let’s hope he figures out the rest of the stuff.” Perhaps they also said, “He is really passionate. Let’s hope he does not upset too many people with some of his ardent convictions.” Then again, if everyone agrees with everything I say I would not be fulfilling my duty. I am called not only to comfort and cajole, but challenge. The sermon is not supposed to be about what we want to hear but what we need to hear—or to be honest, what I think we need to hear.

And yet I recognize that I could not have said any of what I said if you had not continued to place your faith in me. Thank you for affirming that friendship and agreement need not go hand in hand, that love and concern can overcome even the most strenuous of disagreements. Together we have tried to make sense of the world’s struggles. Along the way I have sought to offer some grain of wisdom, some fleeting inspiration to which we can take hold and perhaps even a different angle with which to look at a problem anew.

Together we can find meaning. It is to be found among us. Together we have discovered the power of community. We have come to understand that if a group of people stick together long enough we may not be able to overcome all of life’s challenges but the bonds we create can make them feel slightly less weighty. It’s not going to hurt any less, but it can feel slightly less overwhelming if we have each other. This is what community offers.

All we have to do is not let go of one another. And that’s what we have done. This not-so-secret power of community is what I continue to believe in and what I most endeavored to model and teach. To put it more succinctly, you can’t dance the hora by yourself!

But I have not only taught you. You have taught me.

Your tears have been my teachers. Your joys have offered me unexpected lessons. Your love and support have sustained me. We have learned a great deal from each other.

And yet, our story is still an unfinished story. There is more to learn. A lot more to say. And more to do.

Thank you for continuing to call me your rabbi and for the enormous gift of inviting me into your lives. Being your rabbi remains a privilege and a blessing.

May we continue to celebrate many more anniversaries together. Let’s dance!