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.

No More Bullies

People often criticize Israel’s strong use of military force.  Others will retort and say, “What choice does it have?  Israel lives in a rough neighborhood.”  Bullies who attack us must be met with strength and might.   That is the only language that Israel’s enemies seem to understand.  That is the only thing that makes Israel safer and more secure.  But I continue to wonder if this rough playground logic lives up to our Jewish ideals.

The Torah calls Noah a righteous man.  The ancient rabbis debate whether or not he is righteous.  Why?  The Torah offers a perplexing description of him when it states, “Noah was a righteous man; he was blameless in his age.” (Genesis 6)  Why does the Torah qualify his righteousness and say, “in his age?”  Is this to suggest Noah was only righteous in comparison to the other people who lived during his time? 

We know everyone in Noah’s age is evil.  That’s why God floods the earth and destroys them.  God said, “I have decided to put an end to all flesh, for the earth is filled with lawlessness because of them.”  Noah stands out as the best of a rotten bunch.  He is not that great but compared to the evil surrounding him, he looks like a righteous man.  His righteousness has an asterisk attached to it.

The medieval commentator Rashi concurs, “In comparison with his own generation he was accounted as righteous, but had he lived in the generation of Abraham he would have been accounted as of no importance.”  Many agree.  Noah does not even come close to Abraham!

But Noah saves the world.  He protects the seeds of the future in the Ark.  Abraham could not even save Sodom and Gomorrah.  The Talmud states, making the rabbinic disagreement plain, “In Noah’s generation he was righteous and wholehearted despite being surrounded by bad influences; all the more so would he have been considered righteous and wholehearted in other generations.” (Sanhedrin 108a)  Noah was not righteous in comparison to others but despite others.

Truly righteous people are those who swim against the tide, who despite bad influences surrounding them stay the course. They follow the dictates of a moral code regardless of what everyone else is doing.  They are righteous because they ignore the costs and remain focused on doing right. 

It is never an excuse to say, “Everyone else is doing it.”  We must always strive to do what is right.  Those who are righteous are those who are able to withstand the pressures of the outside world and stay true to their ideals.

I continue to dream.  Like Noah we can save the neighborhood and perhaps even redeem the playground from its bullies.

This Week’s Joy!

This year’s Simhat Torah offers us unparalleled joy. After two years in captivity, twenty hostages returned home to Israel. And while the bodies of twenty hostages killed by Hamas remain in Gaza and some might never be returned, the tenuous cease fire appears to be holding.

On Monday, as we watched the family members welcome their loved ones home, the words of the Psalmist came to life. “When the Lord restores the captives of Zion we were like dreamers. Our mouths shall be filled with laughter, our tongues with songs of joy.” (Psalm 126)

We can sing again. We can laugh once more.

We can breathe. We can dream!

Since October 7th and the Simhat Torah from two years ago, I doubted these hostages would return home. On Monday I watched Dani Miran, the father of Omri, embrace his son. I took in the pictures when Omri hugged his wife and was reunited with his young daughters. I recall his wife Lishay’s last words to her husband as terrorists dragged him from the safe room, “I love you. I will protect our girls. We’re waiting for you. Don’t be a hero.”

I have been playing our meeting with Dani over and over again in my mind. In December of 2023 I traveled with a group of rabbis to Israel. Sitting in Hostage Square we met with Dani, Omri’s father. He told us in harrowing detail how his son was abducted on October 7th and the knife he felt in his heart when he first heard this news.

When he finished the story, we were crying and so Dani said, “You all look so sad. You should not be sad. We are a strong people. You are here so that we can give each other hugs. Never forget, we are one people.” And with that we jumped out of our seats, placed our arms around each other forming a circle and sang Rebbe Nachman’s words, “The whole world is a narrow bridge. The essence is not to be afraid.”

But to be honest I have been afraid for Omri and the other hostages’ fates for two years. I have drawn faith and strength from the hostage families who refused to give up hope.

And today, I feel like dreamers.

The rejoicing of Simhat Torah can haltingly return.

Hersh Goldberg-Polin, who was murdered in captivity along with five others only days before Israeli soldiers reached him taught fellow hostages the words of Viktor Frankl, a Holocaust survivor. Frankl said, “He who has a why can bear any how.” Hersh counseled others not to give up and to hold fast to hope.

It is our dreams that make life possible. It is purpose that enable us to endure life’s cruelties.

Today, our dreams have become possible once again. I dare to hope.

I dream. Perhaps our beloved Israel will know peace. And perhaps Palestinians will never again know war.

Defending What’s Right, Protesting What’s Wrong

What follows is the sermon I planned on delivering at Yom Kippur morning services. The sermon was written before the current cease fire went into effect.

When working at a Jewish summer camp in the early 1980’s I befriended an Israeli counselor who had spent the previous years fighting in Lebanon. He served in the paratroopers and still carried the scars of his service. Perhaps because of my keen interest in all things Israel or maybe because I offered a sympathetic ear, he spent many evenings unburdening himself of these scars. Two memories remain clear. One was the harrowing dilemma his unit faced when it encountered a child pointing an RPG at their armored personnel carrier. The other was how he would join protests against the very war he continued to fight in. I repeatedly challenged him about these seeming conflicting commitments. How can you continue to fight and kill—and sometimes tragically even children—and then protest? Aren’t you protesting against yourself? But for Yigal living with such contradictions made perfect sense. His duties to Israel meant both defending and protesting.

Lest people think that my friend was a lone protestor standing outside Prime Minister Begin’s residence, on one Saturday evening in September of 1982 (September 25th), some 400,000 protestors gathered in Tel Aviv to protest the first Lebanon war. That number represented ten percent of Israel’s population. They gathered in response to the massacre of hundreds, if not thousands, of Palestinians in Beirut’s Sabra and Shatila refugee camps. Even though these Palestinians were killed by Lebanese Christian militia and not by Israeli troops, the IDF was nearby and allied with this militia. Many Israelis felt their army could have done more to prevent this atrocity. The IDF commanders should have foreseen such a massacre after Lebanon’s prime minister was assassinated. The protestors insisted there should be an official investigation and that Menachem Begin should resign. The Kahan commission found that the Israeli government bore indirect responsibility, in particular noting that Defense Minister Ariel Sharon ignored the threat of bloodshed. The IDF could have done more to prevent these deaths. Sharon was forced to resign. Senior officers were removed from their positions. Their indifference proved damning.

I have been thinking a lot about those protestors and the Israel of my youth. That was the Israel I fell in love with. And that is the Israel I now long for. That Israel seemed to understand that protecting Israeli lives and ensuring Israel’s survival does not have to mean losing our humanity. Our survival and defense do not have to mean discounting other people’s suffering. That government of my youth was the same government that bombed Iraq’s nascent nuclear facilities. Menachem Begin, the Holocaust survivor, refused to tolerate the clear, existential threat of Saddam Hussein possessing nuclear weapons. That balancing act between defense and protest, which I admit looks much rosier in hindsight and which I acknowledge Israel’s leaders did not always share, that balancing act between Israel’s moral responsibility to safeguard Jewish survival and its moral responsibility for the lives of other human beings, most especially Palestinians, is what 2025 Israel seems to have lost. It appears to have lost this balance. And this makes me worry about Israel’s future and afraid for what is happening to the Jewish people’s values.

Today, everything and everyone is a threat. We label with the same animus Iran’s missiles and European nations’ recognition of a Palestinian state; we label with equal vitriol Hezbollah rockets and actors’ calls to free Palestine. We spend all our time assigning blame and heaping it on others rather than focusing on taking responsibility and shouldering its burdens ourselves. We call every critic of Israel an antisemite and every Jew questioning Israel’s actions disloyal. We focus on the fact that The New York Times showed an inaccurate and doctored picture of an emaciated child rather than taking responsibility for the fact that children are hungry. We placate our indifference by sharing memes showing that Sudanese Arab militias are causing far worse suffering and death in their country. True, but this says nothing about Israel’s actions. We are constantly playing defense. We no longer know how to protest. We no longer know how to fight for the values that made us who we are and what I believe, and will always loudly proclaim, guaranteed our survival for 2,000 years. We are afraid to raise our voices against our own family. We are afraid to say even in hushed tones when our family is failing. The Talmud declares, “Kol Yisrael aravim zeh b’zeh. All of Israel is bound together.” (Babylonian Talmud, Shevuot 39a) We are bound together for good and for bad.

Yom Kippur offers us a corrective. It is our yearly ritual dedicated to changing course. If this day of Yom Kippur is going to live up to its calling, then we need to speak about our moral responsibilities and yes, our failings. It is long past time we take to heart that protest and critique are measures of love. I understand why this exercise makes us uncomfortable and why my words might even make some people angry. We are attacked. We are besieged. We are unfairly maligned. We feel alone and even abandoned. But feelings are not akin to virtues. They do not guide morals. That is why we have this day of Yom Kippur. We are supposed to look inward. We are supposed to examine where we have failed, where we have not lived up to our duties. How else do we improve ourselves if not by heshbon hanefesh, honest self-examination? A moral reckoning is what we are called to do. And protest is about reminding ourselves about our lofty ideals. It is about saying our dreams must not be confined to memory but can still inform our future.

Let us look at Gaza and how our family is falling short. There are lots of reasons and explanations as to why Palestinians in Gaza are suffering. Of course, I blame Hamas for starting these awful years of violence and death. I blame Hamas, and its genocidal ideology, for the celebration of October 7th’s massacre and the glorification of rape and murder of Jews. I affirm Israel’s right to protect its borders and safeguard its citizens. We must also say this loudly and clearly, Gaza’s destruction is real. Over seventy percent of Gaza’s buildings have been damaged or destroyed—and those numbers do not include the IDF’s latest campaign in Gaza City. 18,000 children have been killed. 18,000 children! Do we have room in our hardened hearts to take this into account? The answer appears to be no. We spend our mornings sharing posts that these numbers cannot be trusted because they are from Hamas, our afternoons repeating, “Israel’s critics are all antisemites” and our evenings affirming Israel’s right to self-defense. I cannot fathom how making Gaza uninhabitable makes Israel any safer or its citizens any more secure. I cannot understand how more war will bring our hostages home.

After two harrowing years we must declare Gaza’s suffering is real. Its children are hungry. And what is our response to this pain? We say, if Hamas would surrender this war would end, if Hamas would stop stealing the food, its children would no longer be hungry. Can we stop assigning blame and start taking responsibility? It does not matter to a hungry child. And it should not matter in this moment. That is a discussion—and a debate—for the history books (or for our arguments in the coming weeks). At this juncture we must work to lessen the suffering. The idea that we have no agency and that we bare no responsibility is false. Israeli forces control the territory. Israel can increase the aid shipments allowed into the Strip just as it decreased the shipments. We—Israel and by extension the Jewish people—are now responsible for Gaza’s residents.

Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel who is famously pictured marching arm in arm with the Reverend Martin Luther King Jr. was active protesting against American atrocities in Vietnam. He said, “Morally speaking, there is no limit to the concern one must feel for the suffering of human beings. Indifference to evil is worse than evil itself, and in a free society, some are guilty, but all are responsible.” (“The Reasons for My Involvement in the Peace Movement,” in Moral Grandeur and Spiritual Audacity) We have the means if only we can find the wherewithal to end this hunger. Jose Andres, a chef whose recipes and activism I greatly admire and who founded World Central Kitchen, and who recently traveled to Gaza to bear witness to its hunger and who on the same trip also mourned at the Nova Festival massacre site, said, “A starving human being needs food today, not tomorrow.” There are ways to ameliorate this suffering. No more excuses. No more casting blame. We are all responsible. Israel’s actions are a reflection on our family. We must start protesting.

To be sure Israelis are protesting once again and have taken to Tel Aviv’s streets and hostage families have camped out in front of the Prime Minister’s residence. Listen to Yotam Polizer, the CEO of IsraAID, the Israeli aid organization that I have long supported and that has worked in some sixty countries bringing emergency assistance and is now working in the Gaza Strip. He said, “This war of accusations doesn’t help anyone, not the people in Gaza, not the people in Israel, not the border communities, and not the hostages.” Progress is being made. World Central Kitchen is building two more kitchens so that it can prepare one million meals per day. But that will still fall short of what Gaza’s people need. It will fall short of what its children require.

At this moment we should be joining with protestors and saying, “Cease fire now.” (By the way, the latest polls indicate 80% of Israelis favor ending the war now.) I acknowledge this might mean the IDF will be forced to fight Hamas another day. But we are not any safer or any closer to bringing the hostages home if Gazans continues to suffer. And perhaps even more importantly, we are not laying claim to our beloved tradition that proclaims every human being is created in God’s image. (Genesis 1:27) We are losing sight of our humanity. 2,000 years ago, Rabbi Hillel said, “In a place where there is no humanity, strive to be human. Hishtadel l’yihot ish.” (Pirke Avot 2:5) We cannot use Hamas’ lack of humanity as an excuse for our lack of humanity; we cannot blame others for our failure to live up to our moral responsibilities. It is inhumane when we say things like there are no innocent Palestinians or all Muslims are jihadists or there are two million terrorists in Gaza. Al cheyt shechatanu l’fanecha. We have sinned. We must be more careful with our words. We ask no less of our detractors.

Am I being disloyal to our Jewish people by saying such things out loud? Or am I being loyal to our Jewish values by leveling such harsh accusations? I will let you decide. I refuse to live in a world where these loyalties must be diametrically opposed, where speaking for Palestinian rights is somehow antagonistic to Israeli and Jewish rights. My concern for the hostages who are imprisoned in underground dungeons starving and hungry, and my sympathy for the families of the one thousand IDF soldiers who gave their lives defending the state are paramount, my worries for my many Israeli friends running to bomb shelters is of the highest order—they are my family—but my compassion does not end there. My heart is large enough to embrace all people. Our Jewish concern must also make room for the suffering of other human beings, especially because in this case we can do more to lessen these people’s suffering.

With sovereignty comes greater responsibility. Israel is about safeguarding Jewish lives. It is also called upon to safeguard Jewish values. It was never supposed to be a choice between the two. It was always supposed to be both living up to our highest moral obligations and ensuring Jewish survival. That is what my teacher and my rabbi, David Hartman z”l, used to say. He made aliya and moved to Jerusalem soon after the Six Day War because he believed Israel would be the place where Jewish values would best be realized. It is where our noblest ideals would meet reality. It is where the difficult, and painful, questions such as how to wage war without losing one’s humanity would be tested.

For thousands of years such questions were only asked in houses of study. They were theoretical debates because we lacked power. Now we have power. Now we have a sovereign Jewish nation. And what does that mean? It means we are no longer the victims of history. And yet we talk and act like Israel does not have a powerful army, and we are still trapped in the ghettos of yesterday. Sovereignty is about taking responsibility. It is about casting aside the crown of victimhood. It is about not heaping blame on others. It is about having the courage to take responsibility for our abuses of power. Strength is about declaring we have failed. Al cheyt shechatanu l’fanecha! For the sin we have committed. We must do more to end the suffering of ordinary Gazans.

And yet we remain indifferent. Antisemitism is on the rise. Jews are attacked. We are rightfully afraid. And if I can quote what I suspect will be the thrust of the emails that will begin arriving before the fast even ends, “Rabbi, you are ignoring the facts.” Let me repeat. When people are hungry, there is no time for debating who is to blame. I am concerned about the hunger. Children are starving. We have the power to alleviate this suffering! Others will say, “Rabbi you are hopelessly naïve and wildly idealistic.” Idealistic, yes and absolutely. (Don’t you want your rabbi to be an idealist?) Naïve, perhaps. Here is what I believe. Throughout our long, and tortured, history we stubbornly held fast to our ideals—even when the world attacked us and in spite of the world’s attacks on us. We found the capacity to look at the suffering of others and not just our own pain.

The Torah commands, “Lo tuchal l’hitalem—you shall not remain indifferent.” (Deuteronomy 22:3) As we feel the antisemitism leveled against us, as we read of ever more examples of antisemitic violence, our world narrows and we shy away from taking to heart the struggles, and pains, of others. We see only our own troubles. You shall not remain indifferent. In Hebrew the verb for indifference is reflexive, meaning it is focused inward. And the root of the word is olam, meaning world. And so, the Hebrew reminds us that indifference is about making ourselves into the world. But we are called to be compassionate to others. We are forbidden from making our pains into our entire world. We are called to respond to the suffering of other people.

Engendering compassion is about expanding our world and enlarging our imagination. We must imagine the pain on the other side of the border. It is not just about the pain of October 7th’s victims—may their memories serve as a blessing. It is not just about Kibbutz Beiri, Nahal Oz and Kfar Aza. It is not just about the suffering of the hostages—may they come home soon (and may President Trump’s peacekeeping efforts bear fruit!). It must also be about imagining the pain of others. When we call Palestinians animals and label them subhuman, we stifle the imagination, we block that wellspring of compassion that is the most important ingredient to being human. There are human beings suffering. Strive to be human. Listen to the Yom Kippur morning Haftarah. The prophet Isaiah thunders, “If you offer your compassion to the hungry and satisfy the suffering—then shall your light shine through the darkness, and your night become bright as noon.” (Isaiah 58:10)

Listen to the words of Menachem Rosensaft who understands how to defend and how to protest. Rosensaft teaches the law of genocide at Columbia and Cornell law schools and argues against the biased charge that Israel is committing genocide. Israel was justified in responding forcefully to the October 7th attacks. Its intention remains to remove the Hamas threat from its borders. That Israel has responded with excessive force, and caused needless suffering and destruction, does not mean it is committing genocide. Rosensaft offers this insight, “The leaders of the anti-Israel demonstrations must be made to recognize that Israel does exist and will continue to exist and has the right to exist, that seven million Jews living in Israel cannot be eliminated from the equation, and that wanting to eliminate them is, in fact, as much a genocidal concept as wanting to remove the Palestinians from Gaza or the West Bank.”

Rosensaft is the son of Holocaust survivors. He takes to heart the need to defend the Jewish people. But he also speaks in another voice. He writes poems filled with protest against God and against accepting the world as it is.

He writes of Gaza’s suffering in a haunting poem. Here are his words,

the dead child
in gaza city
khan younis
rafah
is cried over
with the same tears
by the same God
the same Allah
the same Adonai
as the dead child
in kfar aza
nahal oz
be’eri

the child
israeli child
palestinian child
jewish child
muslim child
is innocent
always was
always will be
innocent

and it is
for the not yet dead child
palestinian child
israeli child
muslim child
jewish child
that the killing must end
the war must end
the terror must end
the hatred must end
(Menachem Rosensaft, Burning Psalms: Confronting Adonai After Auschwitz)

The killing must end. The war must end. Poetry—and prayer for that matter—is about imagination. It is about protest. It is about summoning the strength to say this is not how it ought to be. It is about protesting against our continued indifference.

Tell me why the price of our safety and security must be other people’s hunger and suffering? Why must it always be us or them. I protest. We did not return home to make others homeless. I affirm. Judaism’s greatest teaching is seeing the humanity in every human being. The simple fact is that both Jews and Palestinians can claim the land as their own. We must make room for each other, or Israeli author David Grossman’s prophecy will be realized: “If the Palestinians don’t have a home, the Israelis won’t have a home either.” Either we both have a home or none of us feels at home. Yes, your rabbi remains an idealist.

Back to my youth and Menachem Begin who in one moment made me into the Zionist I still am today.

When he became Prime Minister of Israel in 1977 and before the failures of the first Lebanon war, sixty-six Vietnamese were adrift at sea after fleeing the Communist takeover of their country. Ships from Panama, Norway and Japan ignored their distress calls. These refugees were starving and dying of thirst. Captain Meir Tadmor of an Israeli cargo ship stopped to give them food and water. He brought them on board. With these Vietnamese on board the ship was not allowed to dock in Hong Kong. Taiwan also refused to allow these stateless people to disembark. Seeing the desperation of fellow human beings, Begin decided to make them citizens of Israel. They were then allowed to disembark in Taiwan. They boarded a plane to Israel.

In all some 300 Vietnamese were welcomed to Israel. It might have been a token number, but its significance still figures so much larger in my dreams. This act continues to inform my ideals. Begin explained his decision with these words: “We have never forgotten the boat with 900 Jews, the St. Louis, having left Germany in the last weeks before the Second World War traveling from harbor to harbor, from country to country, crying out for refuge. They were refused. Therefore, it was natural to give these people a haven in the land of Israel.” This was Menachem Begin’s first act as Prime Minister. For this then thirteen-year-old, only a few months past his bar mitzvah day, that moment served as a powerful testimony to what it means to be a Jewish nation that lives by Jewish values and is informed by the history of our own persecution. That act continues to guide my Zionism.

Where human beings suffer a Jew must take action.

Judaism is about teaching compassion for others. That is the Passover seder’s message. This is why we remind ourselves we were slaves in Egypt. We know the feelings of the stranger! We know how it feels to be enslaved and persecuted.

Today our world seems to have narrowed, and we are trapped in ever shrinking circles of playing defense and assigning blame. Human beings are once again adrift. People are hungry. We must not cower or be afraid. In a world where people lack humanity, strive to be human.

Feed the hungry. If you offer compassion to the hungry, then shall your light shine through the darkness.

Protest and defend. It can no longer be one or the other. It must be both. Our people’s survival rests on it. Children’s lives depend on it.

Walking through the Valley

What follows is the meditation I wrote for our Yom Kippur Yizkor service.

At every funeral and every shiva minyan and every memorial service, we read the words of the twenty third Psalm. “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. Adonai roi lo echsar.” Its words are familiar and comforting. For those in their seventh and eighth decades and who attended New York City schools, they recited this psalm at the start of their school day. And so, the twenty-third psalm offers a familiar and comforting resonance at a difficult time.

The psalmist goes on to say, “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me.” Although biblical scholars struggle with the true meaning of the Hebrew “gay tzel mavet—the valley of the shadow of death” these words are why the psalm is associated with death and why reading it punctuates our mourning rituals.

We walk through the valley of the shadow of death. We walk through. The psalm offers hope that we will make it through what seems like an impossible and insurmountable journey. There is hope that this overwhelming and enveloping shadow of death will not follow us beyond those first days and initial weeks. We wonder will this shadow accompany us for the remainder of our lives. Will we ever emerge through the valley? Is there even another side?

That walk through the valley is of an indeterminant length. It differs for every mourner. It differs for every death that touches us. At first it feels immeasurably long; it appears impossible to traverse. We imagine it will forever trap us. And then, over time, the valley’s length begins to feel manageable. It is not that we see its conclusion.

The shadow continues. The pain, and the heartache, do not go away. We do not really emerge on the other side of the valley. That is a tantalizing myth. It is just that over time the walk seems less lengthy. The shadow appears to no longer to obscure our vision. It no longer feels like the shadow envelopes every step. Our walk becomes less strenuous.

We begin to realize we are not walking alone. The psalmist reminds us that we are accompanied. God guides us as a shepherd. Friends walk with us. The community embraces us. The walk through the valley is shared. And for that reason, and that reason alone, its length no longer appears as consequential as it once did. Its enormity no longer feels as daunting.

We embrace the walk.

We marvel at the glimmering lights of memory. They appear to brighten the shadow.

We take to heart the memories.

And we continue the walk through the valley.

We gained inspiration for this year’s ritual of placing memory stones from Peter Gabriel’s “Playing for Time.”

Praying for the Reality We Seek

What follows is the sermon I planned on delivering at Yom Kippur evening services.

When Jordan’s King Hussein traveled to Israel for the first time soon after the signing the peace accords between Israel and Jordan, many Jews ventured to the airport to recite a blessing. They came to say a blessing that few Jews ever have the opportunity to recite. It is the blessing for a king, prescribed by our tradition millennia ago. It reads: “Baruch Ata Adonai, Eloheinu melech ha-olam, sh-natan m’kvodo l’vasar va-dam. Blessed are You Adonai our God ruler of the universe, who gives some of God’s glory to flesh and blood.”

Although this story is admittedly a legend and I could uncover no proof of its veracity, it does illustrate an important Jewish principle and one about which I would like to ponder this evening. And that is the meaning of our prayers for our country and for Israel. Why does our tradition mandate a blessing for the government and in this case for a king? Perhaps it is to remind us that true glory only comes from God and that everyone needs to say out loud that there is only one true Sovereign. Then again perhaps it is because by saying a blessing we strengthen our souls. Even though the king might not be such a good ruler, or might even oppress us, our souls can resist oppression if we fill them with blessings of gratitude.

This has been the Jewish response to the world for thousands of years. Let’s shout a blessing to the world even though Tevye has been right for so much much of our history. In that famous line from Fiddler, he remarks, (say it with me) “May God bless and keep the Czar… far away from us.” On this Yom Kippur evening I would like to meditate on the meaning of our prayers for our country and the prayer for Israel.

In our own day and age our relationship to the government and its rulers has changed. Here in this country, we enjoy unprecedented freedoms. The Jewish community has flourished in America in large part because of the separation of church and state. Religious creativity has benefited from our constitution’s first amendment and the guarantees it affords. Many people become weary when religion becomes too much a part of the public square. We worry that public religious expressions will become exclusively that of the majority religion. And so, we fight to keep religion and state separate. Religion in here—in the synagogue. The state out there—in the public square. Still most feel little or no conflict offering a prayer for our country. Even though in any given year, half of us did not vote for the president, we persist in offering this prayer. We understand the meaning of the prayer for our country to be about asking God’s blessings for all and that the current government might rule wisely and fairly.

Most synagogues, such as ours, proudly display an American flag on the bima. But this was not always the case. This practice began after World War I when a wave of patriotism swept the nation. Likewise, the Israeli flag became prominent in American synagogues after Israel’s Six Day War victory when the American Jewish community was swept up in the euphoria that followed the overwhelming worry preceding that war. Today, I wonder what the future will hold given that flying the American flag has become increasingly associated with one party over another or that in many circles there is growing ambivalence about our relationship with Israel and its current government. But our prayers have never reflected our politics or our relationship with the state.

For millennia we have offered a prayer for the government. No matter where we have found ourselves, whether we enjoyed the blessings of American democracy or as in Tevye’s case were oppressed by the czar, we prayed for our country.

What is most fascinating is that this prayer’s origins date back to times when Jewish life was not flourishing, when we could not even trust the government and the state even caused us great harm. Take the first example of this prayer in our tradition. After the first Temple was destroyed and the Jewish people were exiled to Babylonia in the sixth century BCE, the prophet Jeremiah advises, “And seek the welfare of the city to which I have exiled you and pray to God in its behalf; for in its prosperity you shall prosper. Dirshu et hashalom ha-ir.” (Jeremiah 29:7) Pray for the peace of the city.

What is our first impulse after finding ourselves outside of the land of Israel. Let’s pray for where we find ourselves even if it is in the very place that is the very home of the guys who brought all this destruction upon us. Wow. You would think the prophet would advise us to throw curses at the Babylonians not blessings. The Jewish impulse is that no matter what our circumstances we pray. Even if we should not be grateful, we fill our souls with thanks. It is to stave off the oppression of the soul.

The rabbis adopt Jeremiah’s philosophy when they advised that we should pray for the Roman government who destroyed the second temple, although they added an interesting, and perhaps prophetic, caveat. The rabbis advised, “The government appears friendly when it is their own interests but does not stand by you when it is your hour of need.” (Pirke Avot 2:3) Still, the rabbinic impulse is cursing never serves our spiritual interests. Only shouting blessings serves the soul’s hunger. Cursing denigrates the soul. Blessings uplift it.

By the time, we arrive to the medieval period, and most likely in the years preceding our expulsion from Spain—again the list of bad stuff is quite long, we find the form of the prayer that we still recite today. I do not wish to offer a history lesson about the nuances of this prayer for our country, but it is important that we have been praying for the government regardless of whether we liked it or not, loved it or not, or in our own age, voted for it or not. Most importantly, we have prayed for the government whether it was good to us or not and even really, really bad to us.

Shout blessings to the world has been our motto from our earliest days and also from our earliest pains. And so, every Friday night, we say, “May we never be lazy in the work of peace; may we honor those who have died in defense of our ideals. Grant our leaders wisdom and forebearance. May they govern with justice and compassion. Help us all to appreciate one another, and to respect the many ways that we may serve You.” Those are the words of our prayerbook’s prayer for our country. The prayer’s dreams have not been realized, but we offer them nonetheless. Does reciting the prayer help to bring its ideals to fruition? I would like to think so. Does saying it week in and week out remind us about our nation’s highest aspirations? I really, really hope so.

And this brings me to the second prayer about which I would like to dwell. The prayer for the State of Israel, called in Hebrew T’filat L’sh’lom medinat Yisrael. The prayer for the peace of the State of Israel. Obviously, this prayer has not been recited for millennia and entered the prayerbook soon after the establishment of the state. In fact, it was authored by the first chief rabbi of the state, Rabbi Yitzhak HaLevi Herzog, the father of Chaim Herzog who served as Israel’s president beginning in the 1980’s and the grandfather of Isaac Herzog, its current president.

The words to this prayer were first published in Haaretz on September 20th, 1948, during a cease fire in the War of Independence. It is almost as if its concluding line is a prayer that the current cease fire might not prove fleeting as history so often suggests. “V’natata shalom baaretz, v’simchat olam l’yoshveha. Establish peace in the land and fullness of joy for all who dwell there.” Its words remind us that peace is not just for the Jews who make this their home but for all. Let every person who lives there feel joy. May the land know peace.

The prayer is recited in every synagogue in Israel. It is said by secular and religious Israelis. It is recited at public events and private affairs. It is not however universally said at all of the world’s synagogues. Many Reform synagogues only offer this prayer on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. I am proud to say that our congregation is apparently unique among Reform synagogues because we recite the prayer for Israel at every Shabbat service. It remains my most fervent prayer that the land of Israel might know peace. That all its inhabitants will dwell there in safety and security. We pray for peace.

The prayer for the State of Israel begins, “Avinu shebashamayim, tzur Yisrael v’go-alo, bareich et medinat Yisrael, reshit tz’michato g’ulateinu.” Its literal meaning is: “Our Father in Heaven, Rock of Israel and Redeemer, bless the state of Israel, the beginning of the flowering of our redemption.” Our prayerbook renders it differently and reads, “O Heavenly One, Protector and Redeemer of Israel, bless the State of Israel which marks the dawning of hope for all who seek peace.” But the Hebrew echoes our tradition’s prayers. There is the resonance of the Avinu Malkeinu prayer from these High Holidays. We can hear the words we chant before the Mi Chamocha, Tzur Yisrael. Please bless the state of Israel. For 2,000 years we longed for our return to this land. May the State of Israel realize our most fervent hopes. May this unparalleled blessing of sovereignty prove to be the beginnings of our redemption.

And yet since October 7th, we seem even farther and farther away from this promised redemption. War, and violence, appear to be an ever-present part of Israel’s, and our people’s, reality. Are our prayers helping to mix religion and politics into some toxic brew? Does this prayer in particular give license to the violent extremists among our people? The traditional version continues beyond our prayerbook’s words and invokes the words of Deuteronomy and says: “And the Lord your God will bring you to the land that your ancestors possessed, and you shall possess it; and God will make you even more prosperous and more numerous than your ancestors.” (Deuteronomy 30:5) I become uncomfortable and ill at ease when we ascribe divine license to our own actions. Violence, and murder, are then sanctified by God. It is not as simple as editing these words out.

I hold on to Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel’s words. He said, “The most basic way in which all people may be divided is between those who believe that war is unnecessary and those who believe that war is inevitable; between those to whom the sword is the symbol of honor and those to whom seeking to convert swords into plowshares is the only way to keep our civilization from disaster.” (“The Moral Outrage of Vietnam,” January 31, 1967) We pray despite our reality. We do not pray to affirm our reality but instead to make our dreams possible. Our prayers do not mirror our lives or even our views. They point heavenward and toward our dreams. We pray for the reality we seek. We pray for the reality God seeks.

Ours is a stubborn faith. Despite historical circumstances, despite the daily cycle of despairing news, despite our precarious situation, despite the world’s tortured history of war, we pray for peace. And so, I focus on our prayerbook’s concluding words, “Establish peace and fullness of joy for all who dwell there.” If we say it enough, and more often enough, maybe we can help to realize its message. That has always been our inclination. Don’t let the world derail your prayers. At least for a brief moment, when we gather, here in this sanctuary, we hold fast and remind ourselves of our noblest of aspirations. We must never allow our dreams for peace to be cast aside.

I think this is why we so love the Hashkiveinu prayer. It embraces our hopes for peace. “Ufros aleinu sukkat shl’lomecha. Spread over us your sukkah—your shelter—of peace.” And it wraps this hope with our most fervent prayer that this peace will come to Israel and in particular our beloved city of Jerusalem, “Haporeis sukkat shalom aleinu v’al kol amo Yisrael v’al Yerushalayim. Blessed are You Adonai, Guardian of Israel whose shelter of peace is spread over us, over all Your people Israel, and over Jerusalem.”

Whenever we think of peace, we think of it beginning in Jerusalem and emanating to the world. In fact, the root of the word for Jerusalem is shalom. It is meant to be the city of peace. I don’t need to point out that present day Jerusalem is a far cry from a city of peace but that’s exactly what makes it a prayer. We have always imagined that one day this city will be filled with peace and to quote the words we recite at every wedding ceremony, “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 voices of grooms and the voices of brides, the shouts of young people celebrating, and the songs of children at play.” As soon as we were expelled from Jerusalem, we started praying not only that we would prosper in the homes we built in other lands but also that our most beloved place will one day know joy and peace. We are stubborn in the face of history. We are defiant against the tides of circumstance.

In 1966 Shai Agnon, the giant of Hebrew literature, was awarded the Nobel Prize in literature. He is the only Israeli author to have ever been awarded this prize. His words constitute a beautiful and exquisitely written speech. He describes his writing as a conduit for the many traditions he inherited, those from the Jewish people, those from all people, and those gleaned from nature. He speaks of his attachment to Jerusalem. And how did Agnon, who also edited the final version of the prayer for the State of Israel, begin his acceptance speech? He began by reciting blessings.

And what blessing did he focus on? It was the blessing for a king. To the Swedish monarch, he pronounced these words, “Baruch Ata Adonai, Eloheinu melech ha-olam, sh-natan m’kvodo l’vasar va-dam. Blessed are You Adonai our God ruler of the universe, who gives some of God’s glory to flesh and blood.” He blessed the king, and I would like to think reminded the king that there really is only one Sovereign. Wow that’s chutzpah. And that’s stubbornness. That’s how we pray. We pray with stubbornness in the face of history and chutzpah in the face of circumstance. And Agnon filled his soul with thanks. His soul soared on the blessings’ wings.

And then the Israeli writer concluded with a prayer. Agnon prayed, “May a redeemer come to Zion, may the earth be filled with knowledge and eternal joy for all who dwell there, and may they enjoy abundant peace. May all this be God’s will. Amen. Kein y’hi ratzon. Amen.”

No matter where we find ourselves, no matter where we stand, we defiantly hold on to peace. This has always been the message of our prayers. This has always been the message of our songs. May we never let go of our dreams for peace—for this nation and for the land of Israel and for the entire world. May we enjoy abundant peace. Kein y’hi ratzon. May all this be God’s will. Amen.

How Can We Do Better?

This coming Wednesday we will gather for Yom Kippur services. We will recite the viddui, the confession of sins. We beat our chests and proclaim, “For the sin we have committed…” and we then intone a litany of wrongs.

Here are a few of the sins listed in our prayerbook:

The ways we have wronged You by hardening our hearts;
and harm we have caused in Your world through careless speech.

The ways we have wronged You by judging others unfairly;
and harm we have caused in Your world through disrespect to parents and teachers.

The ways we have wronged You by violence and abuse;
and harm we have caused in Your dishonesty in business.

Although there are several items on this lengthy list that every single one of us is guilty of doing—there is no one among us who is completely righteous—there are many others that each of us has not committed. This is why we say the viddui in the plural. There is someone who has done the wrong. Someone has transgressed each and every one of these sins and so we embrace each other in order to lift each other up.

Perhaps this past year I managed not to judge someone unfairly, but by proclaiming this sin as a group, others who did so will not feel singled out. If every individual had to declare their individual sins out loud, and say “For the sin I have sinned,” they might be too embarrassed to turn in repentance and correct their failings. The group provides protection and strength.

We say, “For the sin we have committed.” By proclaiming these wrongs together, even those that might not apply, we strengthen each other. We are supported and strengthened by the community. We gain courage to admit our failings by standing with others. This is a central teaching of the Jewish tradition.

We can encourage each other to realize our best version of ourselves.

Then again, maybe the reason why the viddui is said in the plural is to say we want the Jewish people to do better. We so love the Jewish community that we want our family to acknowledge its wrongs and correct its failings. It is not so much about the individuals realizing their potential but the Jewish people striving to do better. And the only way we can acknowledge our collective failings is by acknowledging them together.

On this Yom Kippur, for what must the Jewish people ask forgiveness?

Our Responsibilities to Others

What follows are the Jewish texts we discussed on the second day of Rosh Hashanah as we struggled with the question of what are our responsibilities to others, most especially in the shadow of the war in Gaza.

Leviticus 19:18
Love your neighbor as yourself. I am the Lord.

Exodus 23:9
You shall not oppress a stranger, for you know the feelings of the stranger, having yourselves been strangers in the land of Egypt.

Babylonian Talmud, Bava Metzia 62a
If two people are walking on a desolate path and there was a jug of water in the possession of one of them, and the situation was such that if both drink from the jug, both will die, as there is not enough water, but if only one of them drinks, he will reach a settled area, there is a dispute as to the halakha. Ben Petora taught: It is preferable that both of them drink and die and let neither one of them see the death of the other. This was the accepted opinion until Rabbi Akiva came and taught that the verse states: “And your fellow shall live with you,” (Leviticus 25:36) indicating that your life takes precedence over the life of the other.

Pirke Avot 1:14
Rabbi Hillel used to say: If I am not for myself, who is for me? But if I am for my own self, what am I? And if not now, when?

Midrash Mishlei 25:21
The Talmudic sage Rabbi Hama b. Rabbi Hanina says, “Even though your enemy intended to kill you, if he arrives hungry or thirsty in your house, feed him and give him water. Why? ‘For you will be heaping live coals upon his head, and the Lord will reward (yeshalem) you’ (Proverbs 25:22)—do not read ‘will reward you’ but rather ‘will bring peace between him and you (yashlimenu).’”

Babylonian Talmud, Sanhedrin 72a
If someone comes to kill you, rise up and kill him first.

Iris Eliya Cohen, “Hope”
If there is one righteous person in Gaza
It’s certainly a woman.
A mother or sister
With a beating heart masked in her chest.
And in the midst of all the destruction
Amidst the ruins
And in the captivity of hatred
She gathers a child
Son of the enemy
Softly whispers some words
Gives him a drink of
Milk and a morsel of bread
As if he were her son.

Age Old Answers to Today’s Fears

What follows is my Rosh Hashanah morning sermon. To print a copy and begin reciting my suggested traditional morning prayer Modeh Ani, visit sefaria.org.

These days I am thinking about a young couple. We should remember their names. Shira Milgrim and Yaron Lischinsky. They were gunned down on Washington DC’s streets in May. I could also add Governor Josh Shapiro whose home was firebombed on Passover evening. The list is sadly far too numerous to enumerate. I could speak about Karen Diamond who was killed a few months ago while marching to free the hostages or Saturday evening’s attack at a New Hampshire wedding. Antisemitism and the violence it engender are part of our lives. Such reports have become far too frequent and all too common.

And I am thinking as well about Charlie Kirk’s murder. Political violence is on the rise. We no longer know how to calm our nerves or assuage our country’s ills. We are afraid. We are worried about our nation. We are terrified about our community and where we stand as Jews.

I have been thinking about how best to respond. How can we calm our fears? On this Rosh Hashanah morning, I wish to suggest some responses. I admit these are not original ideas. They are the age-old answers of my rabbinic forebears. That is my impulse. When things get really, really difficult double down on rabbinic wisdom. The rabbis’ answers to trauma and external forces beyond our individual control, was to offer wisdom for the everyday. Their suggestions are the antidote to our fears. Here are their answers: recite blessings and affirm argument. Allow me to unpack these two bedrock principles.

Recite blessings. Like many when I awake, the first thing I do is check my phone to see what messages and Instagram posts I may have missed since falling asleep. I also read through the alerts from the Times of Israel, the New York Times and the many other news sources I follow. I read several articles before rousing myself out of bed. Sometimes I send an article with some lengthy missive to the family group chat or to my brother. And so, by the time I get out of bed I am on edge. This should come as no revelation, but social media and the iPhone are intent on creating a perpetual excited and agitated state. This is what keeps people engaged. I then tried following more cooking influencers on Instagram but that did not help and then a slew of tequila brands, but again to no avail. The alerts about tragedy kept reappearing.

A few years ago, and I admit prior to October 7th and our now debilitating worries about Israel and the Jewish people, I tried another approach to the morning. I made myself read a poem first thing. Before I touched my phone I insisted on grabbing hold of a book. I began with Mary Oliver’s, A thousand Mornings. Listen to her words:

Every day I’m still looking for God
and I’m still finding him everywhere,
in the dust, in the flowerbeds.
Certainly in the oceans, in the islands that lay in the distance
continents of ice, countries of sand
each with its own set of creatures
and God, by whatever name.

On the morning of October 7th I stopped somewhere in the middle of Billy Collins, Sailing Around the Room and it remains dog eared on page 38 by my bedside. (The book stands unfinished on Billy Collins’ poem “The History Teacher.”)

Terrorism not only takes innocent lives, but it prevents us from tending to our inner lives. Take note of the phrase so often used, the luxury of the inner life. One needs the luxury of time to tend to it. But for my teachers, and our rabbis, there was nothing luxurious about tending to the spiritual. It was essential. The rabbis did not turn their backs on politics or what was going on about them, although that was the Zionists’ critique of the rabbinic tradition. Take up arms against our enemies, they argued. Do not retreat to prayers, Zionism counseled. Isn’t it interesting that modern day Israelis are among the world’s largest consumers of poetry? Perhaps the rabbis were right after all.

Our rabbinic forebears did not of course read Mary Oliver or Billy Collins, or Yehudah Amichai or even Leah Goldberg. For our rabbis our prayers were their poems.

And they of course instructed us to recite a blessing when awakening. They understood that the world’s noise causes agitation and distraction. Although they could not have imagined social media and this triggering world we now live in, they believed that filling our lives with blessings was in our hands. We must not wait to receive blessings. Instead, we create them ourselves, by saying words. So here is my challenge to each and every one of us, including myself. Begin the morning with the words, “Modeh ani l’fanecha. I give thanks to You, every-living Sovereign, that You have restored my soul to me in mercy: How great is Your faith. She-hechezarta bi nishmati. You have restored my soul to me!”

Rabbi Meir once advised that we should strive to fill every day with the recitation of one hundred blessings and while that may seem excessive, imagine how different life might feel if it we read one hundred blessings rather than one hundred posts or alerts.

There is plenty of time to fill our day with the world’s noise and controversies and pains, but it really is in our hands to create the blessings and to say them and acknowledge them. That is Judaism’s intuition. By saying them we make them real. The words we utter can fashion a different reality than the one we inhabit. A soul filled with gratitude cannot be beaten down. We can banish fear by offering blessings. It’s not that we are going to get rid of all the terrible things happening in the word. We are not going to make peace between Russia and Ukraine, or Israelis and Palestinians by offering these prayers, but we will strengthen our souls by doing so. We will fortify ourselves so that we can go headfirst into the day’s troubles.

People might now be saying, “How quaint! While the world is on fire and burning, the rabbi wants me to say blessings.” Well, yes. That’s actually exactly what our tradition says. In fact, the last phrase of this prayer “rabbah emunatechah—how great is Your faith, O God” is taken from one of the saddest books in our Bible, Lamentations. This book portrays the prophet Jeremiah’s lament over the destruction of the first Temple. Just like 2,500 years ago, we are not ignoring the world’s traumas, but we are strengthening our resolve to face them.

Start the day with a blessing. Begin the morning with gratitude. Allow your first moments to be filled with thanks. Then read through the alerts and posts and articles. It’s not going to change the world, but it is going to change you. And that is where we must start. Banishing our own fears is where we must begin. Otherwise, we become prey to our worst impulses. Modeh ani l’fanecha. We give thanks to You O God.

Suggestion number two. And this one is going to require a lot more effort and work but if we start with the blessings then this step becomes easier. Here it is. Affirm argument. I recently remarked to a friend that everything has become politicized. It has gotten so intense that I have started worrying about the color of my ties. I can’t wear a solid red tie or blue tie. To which my friend said, “You better not wear a red tied!” That’s exactly my point. I tested my theory on a more conservative friend and guess what she said, “Oh my God. Don’t wear a blue tie.” It used to be that people welcomed the challenge rabbis’ sermons offer, but now people seem more interested in searching for affirmation. They want the rabbi to affirm their opinion. It’s as if our virtual world has become real and there are like buttons in the seat pockets before you. I appreciate affirmation just like everyone else but to be honest I much prefer argument and debate. Our society no longer appears able to sustain robust, and even heated, discussions. “Either you agree with me, or you are my enemy,” is the mantra of today’s world.

And nothing is more antithetical to the rabbinic world view than this notion. The Talmudic rabbis built an entire tradition around argument. They called it machloket l’shem shamayim, arguments for the sake of heaven. Most people think the Talmud is a law code. It is not. It is a record of discussions and debates. It preserves minority opinions alongside those of the majority. It places on the same page disagreements between rabbis who lived centuries apart and sometimes even in different cities. Two rabbis who never met each other argue with each other on the same page. The brilliance of the Talmud lies not so much in all of its opinions but in that of the editor who stitched together argument in this beautiful, and confusing, tapestry of wisdom that people like me spend a lifetime trying their best to figure out. We need a Rav Ashi, the Talmud’s editor, to stitch together the broken fragments of our society that these days appear only to know how to scream and yell at each other and label those with whom they disagree as traitor.

But if agreement was the measure of loyalty there would be no Talmud. If we labeled the views of those with which we disagree as dangerous, there would not be this 2,000-year-old rabbinic tradition. I am pretty sure there are few if any of Charlie Kirk’s views with which I agree save his embrace of argument, but murder silences debate. That is not who we are or what we are about. To the rabbis there was nothing that was out of bounds.

Take this one Talmudic example. It is the story of Elisha ben Abuya who after watching a young boy die in the midst of performing a mitzvah renounced his faith in God. (Babylonian Talmud, Kiddushin 39b) Did the rabbis write him out of the Talmud? Did they cancel his late-night show? Absolutely not. Granted some unfriended Elisha and others refused to even utter his name and called him instead Acher, meaning the other one, but they preserved his doubts and his questions and even his rejection of what they held most dear. And I love them for that simple, but profound lesson.

On this Rosh Hashanah we all need to double down on that rabbinic value. Listen to what Van Jones said who Charlie Kirk reached out to twenty-four hours before he was assassinated. He writes, “I’ve taken issue with many of Charlie’s words—sometimes strongly—but never his right to speak them. Never his right to express those views and then go back to his family. That is a sacred American value.” It’s not an argument for the sake of heaven when we call someone else dangerous. It’s not even ok to label their views as dangerous. That opens the door to violence and even murder. It grants permission to censorship. There must never be a silencing of ideas. Wasn’t that what the Right once accused the Woke Left of doing?

How do you think we survived for so many thousands of years? It was not because of a strong army. That’s a very, very new thing and it remains a rather unparalleled thing. The great lesson of our history is that we survived because we embraced arguing about any and all ideas. One cannot confront new and different circumstances if you don’t think, and argue, about different possibilities.

And these debates were built on the notion of hevruta, partnership. You argue over something sitting across the table from someone else. So here is my practical suggestion. Find a friend with whom you do not always agree. If you don’t have such a friend, then to be honest you might not know true friendship. In our siloed social media age, we argue with some disembodied other side and then retreat to our circles of agreement that offer us dopamine blasts of self-affirmation and self-congratulation. But that’s not the point. The whole point is about the sharpening of ideas. It’s about honing our responses. The only way this works is if we argue face to face with other people. I admit. It’s exhausting and can even be maddening, but I am absolutely sure that it is the only thing that has any hope of preserving community and country. We have lost the ability to argue with love.

The Jewish mystics Moshe Cordervero and Shlomo Alkabetz, the author of one of our favorite payers Lecha Dodi, had a wonderful custom. The two friends would go on regular walks through the fields of sixteenth century Safed. There was one rule and it was this. They must debate Torah. In other words that had to converse about ideas. They insisted they not fill their walks with gossip. They did not say, “Did you hear where the Rabinowitz’s are hosting their wedding?” They argued about tough questions like the one we will debate tomorrow morning, if two people are traveling in the desert and they only have enough water for one, should one person drink and thereby survive or is it better they both die? People often think that mysticism is about removing ourselves from the world, but our mystics wished to engage with each other and engage with ideas. Want to know the best answer to such difficult, if not impossible questions, then find a friend and argue.

What is the best response to antisemitism? Fight like we always have. With words. Of course we should make our institutions more secure, but the rabbis remind us that we are not arguing to convince. We are arguing for the sake of heaven. We have it all wrong. We think argument is all about winning and losing. It is not. It’s l’shem shamayim. It’s for the sake of heaven. Too often we have taught that l’shem shamayim is all about how we argue. We have to argue with love and with respect. One cannot resort to ad hominem attacks. I think it might be better to understand l’shem shamayim to be about the purpose of our arguments. It’s for heaven’s sake; it’s for God’s sake that we debate not for our own.

Find a friend and go for a walk and discuss controversial and important topics. Listen to each other. Argue and debate about things that really matter. You are probably not going to change anyone’s opinion, and the walk is probably not going to end with words like, “Wow rabbi you are so wise. I was completely wrong. And you are so right. I now agree with everything you say.” That like button does not exist in real life. Affirmation is not what argument is about. It’s not about how many likes one accumulates. Instead, here is what will happen from honest debate. You will learn and you will grow. Keep in mind it’s not about us, but about heaven. It’s all about God. We bring gratitude to God and arguments for God. That’s what is going to fortify our souls and enable us to face the difficult times ahead.

One more bit of advice. Try keeping that in mind when you host an upcoming holiday dinner. Try not to play the role of peacekeeper who lays out rules for what is allowed and not allowed to be said around the family table. Instead make sure everyone has enough time to express their views and argue their ideas. No shouting. No saying, “That’s idiotic.” Or “Are you stupid?” Why must we only wrap our arms around those with whom we agree? Forbidden family topics are antithetical to our beloved tradition.

There is a rabbinic value called shalom bayit which is usually translated as peace in the home. This may seem like it contradicts our embrace of argument. It doesn’t always sound so peaceful when everyone is arguing at the Thanksgiving table when some are saying, “Israel is committing genocide.” And others are shouting back, “Israel is defending itself against Hamas’ desire for genocide.” Or when one person says, “Immigrants are ruining this country. They are taking away jobs from you and me.” And others are shouting back, “Immigration is what built this country. I don’t care if they come here legally or not; we are a nation of immigrants.” Passions can run high. Agreement remains elusive. Shalom seems like it was not even on the menu with all those sweet potatoes. And so, the peacemaker says, “Let’s not talk about politics.” And instead says, “Did you hear where the Rabinowitz are holding their wedding? I mean L’Dor V’Dor does not even have a caterer, and Rabbi Moskowitz still thinks people should not eat lobster.”

I have come to believe that avoiding heated topics is not the shalom bayit the rabbis imagined. They wanted family harmony. They believed in relationships. They thought they could endure even the most strenuous of disagreements. Back to Elisha ben Abuya who everyone called Acher and who lost most of his friends because of his heresy. When no one else would even talk to him, Rabbi Meir the same guy who counseled us to say one hundred blessings every day, continued his friendship despite his profound disagreements with Elisha. No one was filled with more faith than Meir who even though he buried two children held on to his abiding belief in God’s providence. One Shabbat Rabbi Meir saw Elisha riding his horse. And what did Rabbi Meir do? Did he castigate his friend and teacher for his Shabbat transgression? No. Instead, he ran after him and walked alongside the horse so the two friends could continue discussing Torah. (Babylonian Talmud, Chagigah 14b)

Shalom is not about agreement. Elisha and Meir could not have disagreed more. Where there is such disagreement there is often passion and sometimes even the heartache of thinking that a friend’s views are woefully wrong and misguided. The Hebrew shalom comes from the word meaning whole. Shalom bayit means not family harmony but instead wholeness. Somehow, and as so often happens, our families and friendships stay whole despite our disagreements. We have to hold on to each other. It’s as simple as that. We have to hold on to each other while holding on to our differing commitments. We have to continue to walk together.

One of the things I love about weddings—wherever those Rabinowitz’s might end up holding their festivities—is the hora. As you are swirling around to the music and singing “Siman tov u’mazel tov” have you ever thought to yourself, “I wonder if she voted for Trump. I wonder if he voted for Biden? (Is that a blue tie?) I wonder if he is for abortion rights? I wonder if she is pro-gun rights?” Of course not—or maybe these days, I should say, “I really hope not.” In the swirl of the Jewish dance that really requires no dance moves—which is why I am so damn good at it—there is only the insistence of wrapping your arms around the person next to you. The only thing that matters is our embrace of others. The hora insists that we hold on to each other. It’s not the most peaceful moment of the party, but you have to admit the hora does live up to the shalom of wholeness.

Rebbe Nachman of Bratslav had it right about the importance of dancing and the significance of wrapping our arms around each other. His followers can still be found—and even on these days and during these turbulent times—on Jerusalem’s’ streets blasting their music and inviting people in for a dance. Nachman taught. “Kol haolam kulo gesher tzar m’od. The whole world is a narrow bridge, but the essence is not to be afraid.” The world is indeed narrowing, and our fears are growing larger, but we can combat them.

Affirm argument. Recite blessings. The fears won’t go away, but I can promise you this. “V’ha-ikar lo l’facheid klal.” The essence will no longer be our fears. We will have transformed the ikar, the essence, by our blessings and yes, even our arguments. And then our inner lives will be strong enough to face the turbulent years ahead.

Recite blessings. Affirm argument.

Every Person Is a Diamond

Soon we will gather for Rosh Hashanah services. This day is marked by introspection. We look inward so that we might better our lives. We do this surrounded by others, embraced and strengthened by our community.

A Hasidic story. I learned this tale from Rabbi Rami Shapiro.

A wealthy diamond merchant went to visit his rebbe, Rabbi Shalom Ber of Lubavitch. The merchant recently returned from Antwerp and was excited to share with the rebbe his recent purchases. He could not wait to show him some of the precious stones he purchased. The merchant was confident these stones would make his business successful, but he also hoped to get the rebbe’s blessing. The rebbe, however, appeared more interested in talking about some common laborers who the merchant found to be unlearned and boring.

“Rebbe,” the merchant finally blurted out, “I just don’t see what you see in these people. They are illiterate boors.”

The rebbe calmly replied, “Actually each and every one of them has many honorable traits.”

“Perhaps that is true. But I cannot see them,” the merchant responded.

The rebbe sat silently for a few moments and then said, “Show me your new diamonds.”

The merchant eagerly untied the velvet sack and spread the glittering diamonds on the rebbe’s desk. Lifting one stone up and holding it to the light, he said, “This one is especially fine, Rebbe.”

“I see nothing special in it. It looks like all the rest of the diamonds,” Rabbi Shalom Ber said.

“I would not expect you to see such finery, Rebbe. One must be a true connoisseur of gems to see what makes each diamond worthy of such praise.”

“Every person is also a gem, my dear friend,” the rebbe said. “And just as with your diamonds, you must be connoisseur to see what is precious in each and every person.”

The challenge of Rosh Hashanah is twofold. On the one hand we are to honestly examine our own failings. And on the other hand, we are commanded to be more forgiving of other people’s failings.

Every person is a gem. We just have to become better connoisseurs.

Make the Routine New Again

The editors of the Mishkan T’filah Shabbat prayerbook offer this Lea Goldberg poem on the page facing the tradition’s Chatzi Kaddish.

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

Lea Goldberg was one of Israel’s foremost and most beloved poets. “Lamdeini” is among her most well-known poems. It speaks of finding renewal in blessings and songs. It bemoans routinization.

Too often our tradition’s words become habitual. We recite them without thinking about their meaning. We sing them without contemplating their intention. We rush through our prayers, grabbing hold of the familiar landmarks of Barechu, Shema, Mi Chamocha and Shalom Rav. We slow down as we approach the familiar Mourner’s Kaddish.

Every Friday evening the order remains the same. This is the meaning of the Hebrew word for prayerbook, Siddur. It shares the same root as “Seder.” The words suggest it is all about the order. We begin and end our Shabbat prayers with the same formulaic words.

I have often found it curious that Goldberg’s poem lamenting routine stands opposite the Chatzi Kaddish’s words. How can we say the same words every week without making them routine? Isn’t this routine part of the prayer service’s very meaning? We would feel adrift if there was no Shema or Kaddish. We would feel lost if we did not conclude with Adon Olam. These prayers anchor our week. We enter the sanctuary searching for the familiar.

So why highlight this contrast between the Chatzi Kaddish and Goldberg’s Lamdeini? How can we realize Goldberg’s vision and make these familiar prayers new every Friday evening? How can routine offer renewal? This is the prayerbook’s dilemma. We are wedded to the tradition and its words but instructed to make them new.

The Torah affirms, “This day the Lord your God commands you.” (Deuteronomy 26). The medieval commentator, Rashi adds: “This suggests each day God’s commandments should be to you as something new (in other words, not antiquated and something of which you have become tired), as though you had received the commands that very day for the first time.”

This is our task: to make the old new again, to feel as if each recitation of every prayer is the first time we are offering it. Lest routine set our ways!

Every morning is a new day.

But only if we truly make it so.

Banish Hatred, Rewrite History

When it comes to cars, my father is extraordinarily passionate. In addition to teaching me how to change a flat tire and how to properly wash the car (“wax on, wax off”), he raised me on the mantra that I should never buy a Ford. I was taught Henry Ford was an antisemite who believed in the antisemitic canard that Jews used nefarious means to dominate the world. He republished the fabricated antisemitic The Protocols of the Elders of Zion.

To this day, I have never driven a Ford.

Among the many lessons I learned was never forget what was done to us.

It therefore came as a surprise to discover that the Torah suggests we should be more forgiving of people’s past sins and the wrongs they committed against us. “You shall not hate an Egyptian, for you were a stranger in that land.” (Deuteronomy 23) What about my father’s teachings? Forgive the Egyptians? They embittered our lives. They enslaved us!

If not for our going out from Egyptian slavery, we would not have learned what it feels like to be a stranger. The meaning of the suffering and pain we recount at our Passover seders is so that we recall how it feels to be an oppressed stranger. “Love the stranger,” the Torah repeats over and over again. Why? So that we never make anyone feel the pain we felt. So that we can help lift others out of their persecution and oppression.

But love even the Egyptians? Forgive our enslavers? Forget our tormentors?

The medieval commentator Rashi explains, “Because they were your hosts in time of need, during Joseph’s reign when the neighboring countries suffered from famine; therefore, although they sinned against you do not hate them.” Even though our years in Egypt ended with bitterness, remember the good that preceded it. Focus on the good, even if it has faded from memory and was long, long ago and even, and perhaps more importantly, if you did not personally experience this good.

Moses Maimonides, the medieval philosopher, adds, “The Torah teaches us how far we have to extend the principle of favoring those who are near to us, and of treating kindly every one with whom we have some relationship, even if they offended or wronged us; even if they are very bad, we must have some consideration for them.” (Guide of the Perplexed III:42). We are not supposed to focus on the negative. We are commanded not to dwell on the terrible things done to us but instead strive to find a measure of good in each and every person.

Is the Torah extending its love of the stranger to love our one time enemy and even oppressor? Is it possible for kindness to be so limitless? Is such unbounded kindness even achievable? At times, especially during times like these, this seems like an impossible, and unachievable, task. When we are threatened, we don’t feel much like be kind and welcoming.

Then again, if we always see ourselves as victims, if we are always intent on righting the wrongs of past injustices, our hearts will be incapable of bringing healing to others. We will be unable to see the good that is also present, albeit sometimes hidden, in the people standing before us.

Glimmers of good are too often obscured by bad. They are shrouded by the evil of prior generations. And yet good can always be discovered.

Perhaps the first step is to banish hatred from our hearts.

And in a surprising turn of events, my brother’s synagogue, Temple Shir Shalom, is now home to a Torah scroll, written in in Spain or Portugal over 500 years ago when it was forbidden to practice Judaism. The Torah was purchased and donated to the synagogue by none other than Benson Ford Jr., the great grandson of Henry Ford.

History can be rewritten by opening our hearts to good.

Addendum: Temple Shir Shalom’s Torah was recently examined by an expert scribe who determined that it is not as old as once thought or from Spain or Portugal but instead from 1860’s Hungary. In addition, my father also corrected me and said it was my grandfather z”l who advised me never to buy a Ford and that I really never mastered how to properly wash a car.

Keep the Arguments Outside the Gates

In ancient times, the court room was the city’s gates. In fact, archeologists have uncovered stone benches attached to gates of biblical cities where judges sat, heard cases, and issued rulings.

It is unfortunate that most contemporary translations render the Hebrew “shaarecha” as “your settlements” rather than the more literal “your gates.” The Torah proclaims: “You shall appoint magistrates and officials for your tribes, in all the settlements (shaarecha) that the Lord your God is giving you, and they shall govern the people with due justice.” (Deuteronomy 16)

The Bible’s intent is clear. Your gates are where justice is established. Why else would the Torah’s V’ahavta also instruct us “To write these words on the doorposts of your house and on your gates?” (Deuteronomy 6) It is because justice begins, and ends, at the threshold of a house or a city. This is why justices sat and ruled at the city’s entrances.

When people debated matters of law, or had difficulties they could not resolve, they are supposed to go to judges who are more expert in the law and more experienced in rendering decisions. People, quite literally, took their disputes to the edge of town where they were resolved.

Disagreements are kept at the borders of the city but not within. The community is kept whole, and differences, are kept at the outskirts. Only justice is allowed to enter through our gates.

It is a wonderful, and enlightening, image. Keep your arguments out there. Maintain your cohesiveness within. Repair to the gates when matters become heated, when it is too difficult for you to solve your problems without the assistance of a professional.

The prophet Amos declares: “Hate evil and love good. And establish justice in the gate.” (Amos 5)

If we establish justice at our gates, then our cities and towns, countries and communities, can indeed remain whole.