Find God Among Others

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Caring for the Disadvantaged

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Rested Soul Is a Compassionate Soul

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We can never relax.

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

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

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

Become attuned to the soul’s need for rest.

Breathe in the gift Shabbat provides.

And give your soul enough rest to help others.

Borders, Violence and Values

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wandering Is the Destination

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Moon’s Glow

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

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

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

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

Its difference serves as a reminder of our freedom.

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

Look up at the sky.

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

Garner hope from the moon’s glow.

In the Face of Hate, Love Being Jewish

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love being Jewish.

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

Forgetfulness Leads to Suffering

Our story begins with forgetfulness.

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

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

Our story concludes with remembrance.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Blessing Our Children

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Forgiveness Is the Best Medicine

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

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

Her act is unbelievable. It is unimaginable.

The Torah also offers a story of forgiveness.

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

Joseph reveals himself to his brothers. They are in shock. They are unable to speak. Joseph states, “I am your brother Joseph, he whom you sold into Egypt. Do not be distressed or reproach yourselves because you sold me here; it was to save life that God sent me ahead of you.” (Genesis 45) And with that act the brothers who were once enemies are transformed into a whole family.

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

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

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

Indeed, forgiveness is the best medicine we can take.

Be More Jewish!

Recently archaeologists uncovered a 1300-year-old pendant depicting a seven-branch menorah. They found this small piece of jewelry at the foot of Jerusalem’s Temple Mount. According to historical records Jews were forbidden from entering Jerusalem since the days the Romans destroyed it. This discovery suggests Jews entered Jerusalem and at least, quietly proclaimed their Judaism even when it was prohibited.

Throughout the centuries we have defied historical circumstances. Amidst tragedy and persecutions, we have maintained our pride in being Jewish.

On Sunday, we awoke to news of the devastating antisemitic attack in Sydney, Australia.Another Jewish holiday is now darkened by terrorism.

Australia is home to the second largest number of Holocaust survivors, their children and grandchildren. They fled to Australia after the war because this was the farthest destination they could reach, and there they could feel distant from Europe’s travails. In Australia, they believed, they could escape the antisemitism that murdered their relatives.

Since October 7th, there has been increase in antisemitism incidents in Australia and throughout the world. The Australian community voiced concerns to the government, citing instances of harassment, and attacks emanating from hate-filled anti-Israel rallies. The response of politicians was often muted and most certainly lacked urgency. On Sunday, there were only two police officers stationed at Bondi Beach to protect a thousand Jews celebrating Hanukkah’s first night. Fifteen people were murdered. Forty people were injured. Twenty remain in the hospital.

The attackers were inspired by the Islamic State’s ideology that like that of Hamas mingles hatred against Western democracies with antisemitic venom. Watching the videos of the attack as the terrorists aimed and fired at Jewish worshippers is terrifying. It is difficult not to become fearful. It is impossible not to become filled with rage.

How does antisemitism continue to metastasize into murder? Why do so-called enlightened societies continue to tolerate such hatred?

As my teacher, Yehuda Kurtzer, counsels, antisemitism is not a Jewish problem. it is instead a problem for Muslims and Christians. Antisemitism remains our foremost concern. Our synagogues devote countless resources to security. It is estimated that the American Jewish community spends $800 million per year protecting its institutions. This should not be our concern alone. It is in truth a problem for others to address.

Ahmed al Ahmed understands this. This Australian Muslim tackled one of the attackers and disarmed him. His parents who recently emigrated from Syria and joined him in Australia were interviewed outside the hospital where Ahmed is recovering from his injuries. His father said, “My son is a hero. He has the impulse to protect people.” Ahmed understood the need to save his fellow citizens, to rescue fellow human beings.

In our darkest hours, there have always been righteous gentiles. Their numbers were few, but they manage to help brighten our hopes.

Chabad Rabbi Eli Schlanger was buried yesterday during the very holiday whose message he sought to magnify. Recently, he spoke about Hanukkah’s import and its meaning. He believed the festival of lights compels us to “be more Jewish, act more Jewish, and appear more Jewish.” Do we continue to wear our Jewish star necklaces? Do we continue to display our illuminated Hanukkah menorahs in our windows?

On Sunday evening my family traveled to BAM to hear Alex Edelman, a brilliant comedian. The show started late because of added security. There was a single NYC police car stationed outside. Edelman opened the show by lighting the Hanukkah menorah. As he lit the first candle, he led the three thousand attendees in the blessings. It seemed as if everyone was singing the blessings.

I doubt that was the case. I am going to hold on to that notion, nonetheless. Imagine if everyone affirmed the importance of Jewish traditions. Imagine if everyone affirmed the sanctity of Jewish lives.

Hanukkah’s Hostages

What follows is my sermon from Shabbat Vayeshev, delivered at Shabbat evening services on Friday, December 12th.

On this Shabbat we begin reading the story about Joseph and his brothers. In this first episode of this story, the brothers plot to kill Joseph but then decide to throw him into a pit to sell him into slavery. This is of course how our people’s story moves from freedom in the land of Israel to bondage in Egypt. The Torah reports these harrowing details, “The brothers stripped Joseph of his ornamented tunic, and took him and cast him into the pit. The pit was empty; there was no water in it.” (Genesis 37) The pit was empty and darkened.

I am thinking about that pit. And I am thinking again about the empty and darkened tunnels and the hundreds of hostages held there for months and years. At this moment, there remains one hostage whose body has yet to be recovered and returned to his family. We pray that the Gvili family might one day soon bury their beloved Ran.

I am also thinking of Hersh Goldberg-Polin and his fellow captives: Carmel Gat, Eden Yerushalmi, Almog Sarusi, Ori Danino and Alex Lobanov. I am thinking about them because the IDF released a captured video of these six brave souls. It was filmed in December 2023 by their Hamas captors as a propaganda video. It is likewise an empty and darkened pit.

In this video Hersh, Carmel, Eden, Almog, Ori and Alex are seen lighting a makeshift Hanukkah menorah. There are smiles and even hesitant laughs from the beautiful six as they have come to be known. They kibbitz, joke, sing and hug. They sing Maoz Tzur and wish all of Israel a Happy Hanukkah. And in one haunting and jarring moment they can be heard singing the Shehechiyanu blessing, “who has given us life, sustained us and brought us to this moment.” “Even in that empty and darkened pit!,” I shouted. Eight months later in August 2024 these six were executed by their Hamas captors only days before IDF soldiers reached them.

As I watched the video it occurred to me that people will by and large have one of two reactions. Both responses stem from our understandable anger.

Those on the left will watch the video and think to themselves, had the Israeli government agreed to the cease fire then on the table that included these six hostages on the list of those to be exchanged for Palestinian prisoners, this year’s December would have witnessed these beautiful six celebrating Hanukkah with their families and enjoying the sufganiyot they jokingly lamented were absent in their tunnel.

Those on the right will also become enraged and say to themselves, Hamas is evil. Here their cruel inhumanity is on full display. They murder our people, torture these young people and then film their religious devotion for propaganda purposes. Had these terrorists had any respect for life they never would have snuffed out the lives of these beautiful souls. They do not believe in peace treaties or cease fires; Hamas only wants to torture the Jewish people and kill us.

Both sides will watch the same video, but soon it will become two different videos. We will see in it confirmations of our preconceived and strongly held beliefs. The right will use it as proof of their opinions. And the left will see it as evidence of their convictions. When we do this, however, we become the very zealots the rabbis feared we might become. This is exactly why the ancient rabbis refashioned the Maccabees’ military victory into a story about God’s miraculous power. The rabbis eschewed the extremes that so often inhabit our lives. They saw in such zealotry the seeds of our own destruction.

Hanukkah is about miracles and lights, the rabbis counsel. When we only see confirmations of our political opinions, we fail to see this harrowing video for what it truly is: testimony to the humanity and courage of six young people.

This video will now stand alongside the countless examples of how we lit the menorah even when facing the darkest of circumstances. We lit menorahs in the camps of Nazi Germany, during the pogroms and the Spanish Inquisition. We lit them in the sixth century, twelfth and the eighteenth. We lit them wherever and whenever we found ourselves. We will add this video testimony to the pantheon of stories of how we celebrated Hanukkah despite the darkness that surrounded us. And we will recall how the menorah’s lights carried us forward.

Hersh, Carmel, Eden, Almog, Ori and Alex’s Hanukkah celebration is evidence and proof of one thing and one thing alone. No matter what is happening around us, no matter what the world is doing to us, lighting the Hanukkah candles has always brought us hope. And these candles will continue to bring us hope.

To quote Alex, “Hanukkah samayach l’kol Yisrael. Happy Hanukkah to all of Israel.”

Hanukkah’s Spiritual Message

Today Hanukkah is far more popular than it once was. It’s proximity to Christmas most likely led to this popularization. The holiday allows us to say, “We have lights and presents too.”

The ancient rabbis sought to minimize our attachment to the holiday. The rabbis’ first major work, the Mishnah, compiled in the second century CE, does not even dedicate a section to Hanukkah like it does the other major holidays. When the holiday is mentioned the Mishnah deals with it in a cursory way. It never addresses Hanukkah’s import or its meaning.

Some scholars suggest this is because people were familiar with the holiday’s story and so they did not need rabbinic reminders. The rabbis instead discuss matters such as Hanukkah’s Torah readings and the prohibition against mourning on its days. I believe the reason is far more fundamental. The rabbis were uncomfortable with the holiday’s original message.

The Maccabees achieved victory through military means. Their rebellion was ruthless, targeting not only the Syrian Greeks but fellow Jews who were not sufficiently zealous. In addition, the Hasmonean dynasty that followed the Maccabean revolt quickly became corrupt and oppressed the early rabbis. No wonder the books they authored sought to minimize the Maccabees’ success and downplay their military might.

Furthermore, living in the shadow of Rome’s destruction of Jerusalem, the rabbis were understandably weary of armed rebellion. By the time we arrive at their second major work, the Talmud, compiled in the fifth century CE, we are confronted with a curious question coming from our learned rabbis. They ask, “Mai Hanukkah—what is Hanukkah?” In their answer to this question, we discover the first written mention of the miracle of oil. The Talmud continues,

When the Greeks entered the Temple, they polluted all the oils in the Temple, and when the Hasmonean dynasty overcame and defeated them, they checked and they found but one cruse of oil with the seal of the High Priest, but there was only enough to light a single day. A miracle was done with it, and they lit from it for eight days. The following year the Sages fix those days, making them holidays for praise and thanksgiving. (Babylonian Talmud, Shabbat 21b)

This miracle is not mentioned in any of the early rabbinic works. It is not even mentioned in the Books of Maccabees, written soon after the events. Did the rabbis invent the miracle of oil? Perhaps. Did they wish to discourage armed rebellion? Absolutely. Were they skeptical that military means can guarantee earthly victories? Yes.

The ancient rabbis believed in spiritual victories. They made this abundantly clear with the Haftarah they selected for the Shabbat of Hanukkah. The prophet Zechariah declares, “Not by might, nor by power, but by My spirit alone—says the Lord.” (Zechariah 4)

As we light the candles, beginning this Sunday evening, we relish the gathering of our families around the Hanukkah menorah. Our children’s excitement brings us joy. The flickering candles give us hope during December’s dark nights.

Let us also call to mind the rabbis’ story and their everlasting message. No matter how mighty our army, our greatest source of strength remains our spirit.

Not by might! Not by power!

Wicked, Esau and Us

Gregory Maguire reimagines the familiar story of The Wizard of Oz from the perspective of the Wicked Witch. Given that I never saw the Broadway show I was surprised last year when I saw the movie Wicked and then overwhelmed last week when the stirring conclusion of Wicked: For Good was revealed. Elphaba, the Wicked Witch, is intent on doing good. The Wizard is a charlatan. Glinda is more interested in gaining popularity and the affections of the masses.

Elphaba’s good intentions become contorted by circumstances and the trickery of the Wizard and Madame Morrible. Until the story’s conclusion her good deeds are thwarted at every turn. She then says to Glinda, “I have to be wicked so you can be good.”

Maybe we have been reading Frank Baum’s The Wonderful Wizard of Oz all wrong.

I wonder. Is Maguire correct? Is wickedness a fabrication and a matter of perspective?

Maybe we have been reading the Torah’s stories about Jacob and Esau all wrong. We are the descendants of Jacob who becomes Israel. We want to see him as good. We see him through the lenses of thousands of years of interpretation which viewed his brother Esau as wicked and Jacob as good. The rabbis imagine that even in their mother Rebekah’s womb Esau pined after houses of idolatry and Jacob clamored for houses of study. Their destiny was set before they were even born.

The rabbis imagined Jacob in their own image. They read Esau as the father of our enemies, in particular the Romans who destroyed Jerusalem and its Temple. If we read the prequel to these rabbinic tales and pore over the Torah’s words, however, we discover that Esau is a man of great character and Jacob is, like Glinda, weak and insecure. He is driven by fear.

Jacob is terrified about meeting his brother Esau. Twenty years ago (and two weeks ago by our reading cycle) Jacob deceived their father and stole Esau’s birthright. Esau was distraught when he learned of Jacob’s trickery and cried out to their father Isaac. He then shouted, “I am going to kill you.” And so, Jacob ran away.

Now they are about to meet. The Torah states, “Jacob was greatly frightened; in his anxiety, he divided the people with him, and the flocks and herds and camels, into two camps, thinking, ‘If Esau comes to the one camp and attacks it, the other camp may yet escape.’” (Genesis 32) When Esau sees his brother, he appears motivated by love for Jacob and not animus. The Torah reports, “Esau ran to greet Jacob. He embraced him and, falling on his neck, he kissed him; and they wept.” (Genesis 33)

Although Jacob presents Esau with gifts, our hero never apologizes. Esau initially refuses these presents. He just wants to hug his brother. He is motivated by forgiveness. Even though Esau was wronged he does not hold a grudge. I find Esau’s example inspiring.

And yet we continue to manufacture wickedness so that Jacob can remain our hero. Esau becomes emblematic of our people’s enemies. His good intentions are manipulated. We, like Jacob, appear to see wickedness where it does not even exist. We are motivated by fear. I can almost hear Esau utter the words, “I have to be wicked so you can be good” as he parts from his brother and marches off to Seir.

Today, we label far too many people as wicked. Is this really about their characters or our own? Are immigrants and asylum seekers wicked? Are those dependent on SNAP benefits and the unemployed? Are Palestinians? Or is their wickedness more about our need to see ourselves as good? They have to be wicked so we can be good.

We are all brothers. Like Jacob and Esau, we are one family.

And Glinda’s magic bubble is a fake!

The only answer is to follow Esau’s example. Run to your brothers—and your sisters too!

Every Land Is Holy

In 1854 President Franklin Pierce offered to purchase two million acres of Pacific Northwest land from the Suwamish and Duwamish tribes. Chief Seattle agreed although conditionally. He offered these words in response:

Every part of this soil is sacred in the estimation of my people. Every hillside, every valley, every plain and grove, has been hallowed by some sad or happy event in days long vanished. Even the rocks, which seem to be dumb and dead as the swelter in the sun along the silent shore, thrill with memories of stirring events connected with the lives of my people.

This week the Torah opens with Jacob running from his brother Esau who has vowed to kill him. As the sun begins to set, he lies down to sleep. He dreams of a ladder reaching to heaven with angels going up and down its steps. God stands beside him and promises to protect him.

Jacob awakens and exclaims, “Surely Adonai is present in this place, and I did not know it! How awesome is this place!” (Genesis 28)

The medieval commentator Rashi suggests that Jacob should have known he was resting on holy ground. He was after all journeying through the land of Israel. Our tradition believes this land holds extra holiness. Jacob however appears unaware of the holy land’s sanctity. Rashi imagines him saying, “If I knew God was in this place, I would not have gone to sleep.”

Then Jacob would never rest! And if we are to follow this counsel, we might become victimized by an unhealthy sleeplessness. In fact, in this land the ancient prophets become intoxicated with God. They become consumed by God’s message. They see nothing else but God’s commands.

The land of Israel continues to hold our souls captive. It thrills us with memories of past stirring events. I wonder if these memories blind us and intoxicate us. We ignore other prerogatives. We focus on finding the place where Jacob dreamed and that he then named Bethel. We run around saying “Can you direct me to Bethel?”

But there are plenty of places to explore. Why is every land not holy? Why do we not proclaim every parcel of land holds the potential for finding God?

The beauty of Jacob’s dream is that it happened in a “certain place.” It’s not about finding Bethel again. It is instead about finding a certain place.

Rather than chasing after named places or those that our ancestors declared as sacred, perhaps we might be better off inculcating an openness to finding holiness wherever we stop for the night.

Every part of every soil is sacred!

People Are Starving, We Are Not

How many times do we say, “I’m starving,” even though we don’t truly know hunger? How many times do we say, “I’m so hungry, I am going to die,” even though there is plenty of food in our refrigerators and pantries?

When Esau returns from hunting, he is understandably hungry and so he asks his brother Jacob for some of the stew he prepared. Jacob insists Esau first sell him his birthright. And Esau responds, “I am at the point of death, so what use is my birthright?” (Genesis 25)

The Hebrew is even more dramatic. Esau states, “Anochi holech lamoot—I am walking towards death.” Esau’s emotions are the center of his universe. He sees nothing of the struggles of others. He forgets that there are many people who are hungry and could in fact die from starvation. He thinks only about his own needs.

Today, thirteen percent of Americans face food insecurity. Forty-seven million Americans do not have sufficient or adequate food. This might mean that they are forced to skip a daily meal or they cannot purchase the right kind of food and far too often, healthy food. In this land of plenty fourteen million children face such conditions. On Long Island 300,000 people are food insecure!

These are staggering numbers. They are so large that we often feel like they are too large to conquer. We feel like we cannot do anything to change these facts and we are tempted to do nothing. But we cannot give up. We cannot give in to the inclination to do nothing. This is why our synagogue collects food for the local food pantry, People Loving People. We can help to ensure that the shelves of this pantry are never bare.

Too often we retreat to worries about our own needs and our own feelings. Like Esau, we come to believe that our pangs of hunger are the center of the universe.

The rabbis suggest we redirect these feelings. This is why they insisted we recite a blessing before we eat. Even if it is a morsel of food, we are required to say the motzi. The theory is that if we fill our souls with gratitude and condition are mouths to offer thanks, then we will not make the preposterous claim that we are starving when in fact we are not. If we begin with gratitude, we are more apt to think about the needs of others.

It begins with a blessing. And leads to making room for others.

This offers us the opportunity to make sure less people mean the words we too often say, “I’m starving.”

Feed Your Pets Before Yourself

The Talmud discusses at length the blessings for food. Before eating food, one is required to offer a blessing of thanks. There is the familiar blessing for bread and a different blessing for wine. Rav opines, “People are prohibited from eating before feeding their animals.” (Babylonian Talmud, Berakhot 40a)

One wonders, “I thought we are focusing on our meals and the foods we enjoy. Why the concern for animals?” Because we cannot enjoy our meal while other living beings are in pain. Animals must be fed on time. Their hunger comes before our own. Imagine the suffering caused to a hungry animal while people are sitting at the table enjoying their meals. The rabbis were deeply concerned about animals’ welfare.

They believed that every life that breathes is deserving of our compassion and concern. They were attuned to animals’ needs. These are God’s creatures. We must not be unfeeling to any living being. Compassion begins with our pets. And while this does not necessarily mean serving them “human-grade” food as so many TV ads imply, it does mean we must be cognizant of animals’ needs and not cause them any undo suffering. That begins with feeding them before feeding ourselves.

This is what Abraham’s servant first noticed about Rebekah. After arriving at the town well Rebekah not only offered the servant and his entourage water but the camels. Rebekah exclaimed, “I will also draw for your camels, until they finish drinking. Quickly emptying her jar into the trough, she ran back to the well to draw, and she drew for all his camels.” (Genesis 24) Each of the ten camels can drink thirty to forty gallons of water. Our matriarch exhibits enormous strength and determination.

Her compassion for these camels is why she is chosen as a wife for Isaac.

Caring for animals teaches compassion for all living things. Compassion for other human beings begins with caring for our pets.

Some parenting advice. When your young children get impatient for dinner and complain that they are hungry, suggest that they must first feed your dog. And when they ask why, tell them it is because this is the Jewish thing to do.

Teaching compassion begins with showing concern for our pets. Let us follow Rebekah’s example. We most certainly need more compassion in our fractured world.

And this can begin with something as simple as feeding our pets.

Sacrifice Certainty

We read of Abraham’s final test: the command to sacrifice his son Isaac. God instructs Abraham to sacrifice his son. Without hesitation he marches off early in the morning, with Isaac, to do God’s bidding. He carries with him all the tools for this sacrifice. Abraham and Isaac journey for three days to Mount Moriah. One would think that during this journey he might have changed his mind. Perhaps Isaac would inspire uncertainty, and doubt, about what he is about to do.

Abraham was single minded in his devotion. Only at the last moment does God stay Abraham’s hand. “Do not raise your hand against the boy,” (Genesis 22) God calls. In Isaac’s place Abraham sacrifices a ram. On Rosh Hashanah we sound the shofar in remembrance of Abraham’s devotion. We remind God of what our ancestor was willing to do. Later generations built the Temple on Mount Moriah, on the very spot where Abraham nearly sacrificed Isaac.

I continue to ask, “Who would take a knife to their child? Who would sacrifice their son?” It is a harrowing story. We would rightfully dismiss a contemporary who attempted to do what Abraham did as crazy.

Franz Rosenzweig, the great twentieth century Jewish philosopher, responds to our questions. He bravely suggests Abraham misunderstood God.

Many people think they know what God wants. And plenty of people continue to do crazy, horrific and murderous things in their religion’s name. Rosenzweig also remarked that the only thing we can be certain of when it comes to God’s commands is the first word of the Sinai revelation, “Anochi—I.” Everything after that word in the opening phrase of, “I am the Lord your God.” is interpretation.

All we can know for sure is that God exists. Discerning what God wants of us, however, is a lifelong pursuit. We continue to interpret. We continue to struggle.

Too often people allow their certainty to blind them and impel them to make harrowing decisions. People continue to commit atrocities in God’s name. Far too many people shout, “I know what God wants. I know what these words mean. I am certain of God’s truth.”

And we continue to hold on to these certainties as if they are the greatest sources of meaning. We crowd out all other opinions with our overzealousness. We silence differing opinions.

Perhaps this is the only thing we should sacrifice.

Our certainty.

And perhaps this is why God stays Abraham’s hand. God wishes to restrain certainty.

Life Is Random and Unexpected

What follows is my sermon from Shabbat Lecha Lecha about Abraham’s call.

This week we read about the call of Abraham. Seemingly out of the blue God calls to Abraham and says to him, “Lech Lecha—Go forth from your native land and from your father’s house to the land that I will show you.” (Genesis 12) There is no reason given in the Torah why Abraham is called. The rabbis assume that there can only be one reason why God called out to him. It must be because God saw something extraordinary in him. It was because of his character.

And so, our tradition speaks about the character traits that merited this call. Moses Maimonides imagines that Abraham looked up at the stars and said that there must be a Prime Mover who sets the stars, the sun and the moon in their places. God must be that grand artist. Maimonides saw Abraham in his own image as an Aristotelian philosopher. Likewise, the rabbis saw him after their own image and wrote the famous story about Abraham working in his father Terah’s idol shop. Everyone is familiar with this tale. One day when young Abe was working in the idol shop, he realized the absurdity of praying to idols. He smashed all the idols except one. When his father returned and berated him for all the damage, Abraham pointed to the one idol said, “I did not do anything. He did it.” Terah shouted, “That’s ridiculous. An idol has no power to do something like that.” And Abraham responded, “Exactly.”

In both instances there is the assumption that Abraham merited the call. There was something unique and special about him. This is why God singles him out.

I prefer however to believe the call was random. Abraham was not a hero who merited the call. Instead, he became a hero because of the call. He rose to the occasion. Our greatest moments are not when we are doing what is expected but when we summon the courage to face the unexpected. We spend our time planning, but life is a series of unexpected and random moments that set our course and our shape our destiny.

Let’s examine a few examples. This week I visited all the Religious School classes for Ask the Rabbi questions. They had many questions some about God, but most were their attempts to get to know me better. In addition to our students offering worry and concern about my health, many asked me why I became a rabbi. Their questions reminded me of the story of how I got to where I am today. Here is that story. It begins in college. I went to Franklin & Marshall College for two reasons. 1. Because they had an amazing pre-med program and I planned on becoming a doctor and 2. They had a competitive swim team, and I wanted to compete on a varsity swim team in college. As you know I still swim but obviously I am not a doctor. Here is why.

F&M made me take a Bible class in my first semester. The school had just instituted a distribution requirement, and everyone had to take a religion class and a writing class. I protested vociferously. Being the over-confident and somewhat obnoxious eighteen-year-old that I was then I marched into my advisor’s office and said, “I am going to be a doctor. I don’t need to learn the Bible. I don’t need to learn how to write. I am only going to be signing my name on prescriptions.” Of course, my advisor also happened to be the Bible teacher I would be studying with so she would have nothing to do with my excuses. And once I settled into the class, I found I was fascinated by the Bible. And once my writing professor coaxed a few sentences and then paragraphs out of me I never stopped writing. I soon decided to become a Religious Studies major and then eventually, after struggling through all those pre-med classes, I decided that I what I loved about medicine was helping people and that if I was a rabbi, I could help people and still study the Bible. And that is how your rabbi came to be a rabbi.

My Christian colleagues speak about their call to the ministry. And perhaps I can imagine my convoluted path to the rabbinate as a call, but the most important and beautiful part of the story is its mystery. The call was unplanned and unexpected.

I have collected similar stories about the wedding couples whose ceremonies I officiate at. There is almost always some unexpected and mysterious turn for how they end up together. It is often something like this. She reports, “I said, ‘I can’t go out with him again. He is in between jobs and he is not sure what is going to be doing next.’” And my friend said, “Do you have any other plans tonight? Was the first date a bust? Go out with him for a second date. It can’t hurt.” And now they are getting married this year. These are the stories that unfold in my office as a couple holds hands and laughs together as we plan for their upcoming wedding ceremony.

The call comes out of nowhere. It is unexpected and even random. But it sets a person’s, and a couple’s, destiny for a lifetime.

And one more example. Grief and loss also shape our lives. We do not choose the time. The death of a loved one comes like a blow out of nowhere. Even if the doctors advise us that it is to be expected, it shocks us. We understand that grief is the price of love. They go hand in hand. If we love someone deeply then their death calls to us out of nowhere. And we say, “Why me?” Over time we may begin to see it as Abraham saw his journey. We can begin to see it as a call to go forward to some new place. It may very well be an uncharted and unplanned destination, but we are now called to this new destiny. Like Abraham we can become a hero.

When we examine Abraham’s story, we can also read it as a journey of grief. But we have to look to the concluding chapters of last week’s portion to understand it in this way. In the last verses of that portion, we read that Terah first charted the course to the promised land. The Torah states, “Terah took his son Abraham and his daughter in law Sarah, and they set out together from Ur to the land of Canaan.” (Genesis 11) They stop along the way in Haran where Terah dies. After mourning and grieving for his father, Abraham continues the journey his father charted.

The rabbis want to suggest that Abraham’s call represents a break from Terah and a departure from his mistaken idolatry. This is part of the reason why they divided the portion in this manner. But I prefer to see it as a continuation of his father’s journey. Abraham journeys forward while shaped by his grief. The call gives meaning to Abraham’s journey.

He did nothing to bring this about. That’s not why God called to him. Instead, he chooses to see his new, unplanned journey as blessed by God. And this offers him meaning and rescue. Believing he was called gives him the power to keep marching forward.

There are things in life that are chosen for us. We become heroes when we answer these random and unexpected calls. We each have the strength to heed the call of Lech Lecha.

Faith and Doubt

Abraham is often described as a man of extraordinary faith. God calls to him and commands him to leave his native home and travel to a new land. And he does. God seals a covenant with him and commands him to circumcise himself at the age of ninety years. And he does. God instructs him to sacrifice his son Isaac. And so, he sets out to Mount Moriah to do God’s bidding. Only when the sacrificial knife is raised against his son does God tell him to stop.

In our tradition Abraham appears as a man of unwavering faith and commitment. He is even willing to do the incomprehensible, fulfilling God’s command to sacrifice his son and for this our commentators commend him.

I prefer, however, to see him in a different light. Abraham was indeed a man of deep faith. He was also beset by doubt.

Faith does not preclude questioning.

What is Abraham’s response to the first hardship he faces? He doubts God’s providence. There was a famine in the land and so Abraham and Sarah travel to Egypt where there is plentiful food. Abraham worries that Pharoah will kill him and take Sarah as his wife. So, he instructs Sarah to say that she is not his wife but his sister. Pharaoh then takes Sarah as his wife.

God intercedes and afflicts Pharaoh and his household with a plague. Pharoah admits his mistake and acknowledges God’s power. He returns Sarah to Abraham and sends them on their way along with even more wealth.

We rarely read this part of Abraham’s story. Take to heart its message. As soon as God calls to Abraham, as soon as he sets out on his journey, doubt begins to occupy his thoughts.

When God promises that he and Sarah will have a child at their advanced age, what is Abraham’s response? He laughs and says, “Can a child be born to a man a hundred years old, or can Sarah bear a child at ninety?” (Genesis 17) Abraham doubts God’s power. He laughs at the notion that he will be the beneficiary of God’s miracles.

Doubt and faith are not contradictory. They often go hand in hand.

We tend to tell Abraham’s story by looking at the bookends of his life. We speak about the call of Lech-Lecha and emphasize the binding of Isaac in the Akedah. By doing so we portray a man of unquestioning faith, who does God’s bidding without hesitation and doubt. But when we examine the details of his life, portrayed in the intervening chapters, we discover a person of uncharacteristic faith but also someone who questions and doubts.

This illustrates a far better approximation of the reality of faith. Everyone has doubts. Throughout our lives we are faced with struggles. We are confronted by illness and death. We have to contend with loss of a job or financial hardships. There are any number of difficulties we face throughout our lives. These moments make us question God’s providence. We wonder if God is attentive to our pleas, if God even listens to our heartfelt prayers.

We doubt. We question.

To suggest that such questioning lessens our faith is false. We are human beings. People have doubts!

We must become at ease with the questioning. We must embrace the doubt. It does not weaken our faith but instead strengthens it.

Abraham remains a hero not because of perfect faith, but instead because he was just like everyone of us. He believed. And he doubted. He was not an angel. He was a human being.

Faith and doubt must go hand in hand.

Embrace your questions. Strengthen your faith.