May Our Dreams Not Be Buried

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

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

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

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

This week we read the Torah’s command, “You shall not oppress a stranger, for you know the feelings of the stranger, having yourselves been strangers in the land of Egypt.” (Exodus 23) This frequently repeated demand appears two times in this week’s portion alone.

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

The Israeli singer Hanan Ben Ari laments,

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

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

Kibbutz Nir Oz’s announcement concludes:

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

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

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

Liberating the Spirit

According to news reports Agam Berger, one of the three hostages released on January 30th after 480 days in captivity, managed to keep Shabbat. If she was ordered by her Hamas captors to cook food on Saturday she steadfastly refused. (Meir Soloveichik, “Agam Berger, the Hostage Who Kept the Sabbath”)

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

Although the rabbis devote many pages of commentary to clarify the definition of work (see the Talmud), the contention is clear. Saying no, refusing to do the work that mark the other six days is liberating. On Shabbat we rest from creation, we say no to creative acts. Our modern understanding of freedom runs counter to this idea. We believe that we are free only when we can do whatever our heart desires.

Judaism teaches that the “no” might instead be the greater expression of our freedom. The kiddush blessing that we recite to welcome Shabbat praises this day as a “reminder of our going out from Egypt.” Only a free people can set a day aside. Only a free person can say no to the work week. A slave cannot refuse to do her taskmaster’s bidding. A free person can say, “Not today! My chores can wait for another day.”

Agam Berger’s example reminds us that no matter how trapped we might feel by work, or the demands of the week, the spirit can always be made to feel free. When we carve out a day and set it apart from the other days of the week we are uplifted. And now she, and her family, can truly enjoy the beauty and wonder of Shabbat. When they gather together for their Shabbat meal and lift the hallah to recite the motzi, they will once again feel their spirits rejuvenated (shavat vayinafash!).

Shabbat’s message is clear. The spirit can never be imprisoned.

The Miracle of Food

The Talmud states: “The task of providing a person’s food is as miraculous as the splitting of the Sea of Reeds.” (Babylonian Talmud, Pesachim 118a)

Perhaps this explains why only three days after walking through the parted sea the Israelites grumbled against Moses. They arrived at Marah and finding insufficient water cried out, “What shall we drink?” (Exodus 15) If a person does not have enough food to eat and water to drink even the recent memory of a miraculous deliverance is not enough to sustain one’s faith.

The Israelites’ complaint and the Talmud’s affirmation remind us that every meal is indeed a miracle. Is this why the rabbis penned the motzi blessing with the words, “who brings forth bread from the earth?” Everyone knows that bread does not emerge from the ground. The wheat is grown and then harvested. It is ground into flour. It is combined with eggs. After the yeast performs its magic, the baker’s loving hands knead the dough and then only after baking in the oven can it be enjoyed.

Bread is the work of many hands. The wheat grows in nourishing soil. It is sustained by the sun and rain. The bread is dependent on the farmer, miller and baker. It is not like the manna that God miraculously provided to the wandering Israelites. There was always enough manna to eat and according to tradition it tasted like every person’s favorite food.

But the rabbis decreed that every meal should be treated like a miracle. Every morsel is deserving of a blessing. They were intent on transforming the ordinary and making the everyday extraordinary. We recite the motzi and take the spiritual posture that God’s hand is decisive. Even though bread is the product of many hands, we bless only God’s.

“God brings forth bread from the earth,” we exclaim. Then again, I wonder if in our spiritual obsession with the Almighty we forget the many hands whose work is so crucial to our meal’s enjoyment. Even if we remember to thank the cook, we forget to offer praises to the farmer. We might do well recalling that the true miracle is not only about God.

The miracle is instead the community of people who manage to wrest bread from the earth.

Let us then offer a chorus of “Amens” to all the hands that make every meal a wondrous miracle.

The Loneliness Plague

What follows is my sermon from Shabbat Bo.

On this Shabbat I offer a meditation about the ninth plague of darkness.

Arbel Yehud, the twenty-nine-year-old who was kidnapped along with her partner, Ariel, from their Kibbutz Nir Oz safe room on October 7th was released by her Hamas captors yesterday. After hugging her parents, brother Neta, and sister-in-law she offered these first words, “I was lonely.” Apparently, she was held alone throughout her 482 days in captivity. She was held hostage in harsh conditions, underground and often denied food. Still, she did not say, “I was hungry,” but “I was lonely.”

I have often wondered why the ninth and second to worst plague is darkness. Why is darkness so terrible and second only to the killing of the first born? The Torah describes it as darkness that can be touched. We read, “Moses held out his arm toward the sky and a thick darkness descended upon all the Egypt for three days. People could not see one another, and for three days no one could move about.” (Exodus 10)

Imagine not being able to see another person. Imagine not being able to touch another human being. Is this the meaning of a darkness that can be touched? People need human contact. It is essential to our being. This is part of what makes the hostages’ fate so devastating. Three days seems unbearably long. For Arbel it was 482 days. And that is unimaginably long. Hamas has succeeded in making such unimaginable pain real. And the fate of the remaining 82 hostages is now our darkness.

Arbel was alone. She sat in the tunnel’s darkness wondering if her partner Ariel was still alive. That question remains unanswered. Did she dream of her grandparents coming to Gaza’s border in 1955 to help found her kibbutz? Did she dream about the stars that she could not see but that so fascinated her curiosity? Did the darkness block out all her dreams? Did it obscure all of nature’s wonders? Now, upon her return, she must contend with the news that her brother Dolev was murdered on October 7th.

Darkness is not so much the absence of light but the absence of others. It is the darkening of our dreams and the obscuring of seeing others. It is the loss of being held by others and holding others. What makes us human is our need to be with others. One need only watch one of these fifteen reunions to understand this truth. The families cannot stop touching and kissing each other. To truly see another person is to see their joys and their pains. To see another person is to watch compassion birthed. We need to carry others. And we need to be carried by others. What makes us human is the ability to share our dreams with others and to unburden our worries to other people.

What makes us Jewish is the blessing of community. It is there that we speak of our dreams. It is there that our worries become less burdensome. Our joys are magnified by community. Our pains are lessened by others. The congregation is the age-old Jewish answer to our present “loneliness epidemic.” When alone our fears tend to darken our dreams. Solitude obscures life’s wonders. That is why we say blessings in community. That is why we thank God for the evening when we gather.

Darkness is about being alone. It is about the absence of dreams. It is about the absence of being held by others.

The hostage prayer that many congregations now regularly offer has become hauntingly present. It was written during medieval times when Crusaders slaughtered Jews and when our fears about being taken hostage were all too common. It reads, “May the Holy One have mercy on them and take them out from narrowness to expanse, and from darkness to light, and from oppression to redemption, now, swiftly, and soon!” From darkness to light! From being alone to being enveloped by family and friends.

The prayer’s very name Acheinu makes clear is overarching message. We are brothers—and sisters. We are bound together. We need to be held. We need to hold others. To be human is to care for others. And it is to be cared for by others. To be Jewish is to always see another person.

The Torah states that when darkness descended on Egypt, “All the Israelites enjoyed light in their dwellings.” What was once a statement of fact has now become our prayer. May all of Israel enjoy light. May every hostage feel the embrace of family and friends. May darkness be forever banished from our midst. May every hostage be reunited with their loved ones. May such a plague never again touch our people.

And may our dreams of peace never become darkened.

Counting to Shabbat Shalom

The first commandment given to individuals is “Be fruitful and multiply; fill the earth and master it.” (Genesis 1) And the first mitzvah given to the Jewish people is “This month shall mark for you the beginning of the months; it shall be the first of the months of the year for you.” (Exodus 12)

To be a Jew is to count time. We are to mark the holidays. This is what makes us free.

The sixteenth century commentator, Obadiah ben Jacob Sforno, expands on the commandment’s meaning and imagines God adding, “From now on these months will be yours, to do with as you like. This is by way of contrast to the years when you were enslaved when you had no control over your time at all. While you were enslaved, your days, hours, minutes, were always at the beck and call of your taskmasters.”

It is a blessing to count the days toward Shabbat. It is a privilege to measure the passage of years by the holidays. And yet how often do we complain about time. We never seem to have enough time to get everything done on our to do lists.

Think of how harried our days feel as we prepare for a vacation. Recall how all-consuming those tasks feel in the weeks prior to our children leaving for sleep away camp. And yet even during these busiest of days, or for that matter the most ordinary of weeks, Shabbat arrives. We then let go.

We break free from these to do lists. We are free. We are blessed. We are fortunate enough to take a day of rest when we look away from work’s claim on our lives. We free ourselves from being slaves to time.

Rabbi Larry Kushner writes:

Now obviously no one can ever complete all the little tasks. Sooner or later, as the vacation departure clock ticks down, we decree arbitrarily that whether or not they are done, we are done. We renounce their claims on us. To do so requires great spiritual self-control. Well, it is like that with the Day of Being too. Every seventh day we clear off our desks. Of course we are not finished. And from the looks of the world, hopefully God isn’t finished either. (The Book of Words)

As Shabbat fades and the sun sets on Saturday evening, we begin our counting toward the next seventh day. We look forward to Shabbat. We will once again mark our freedom from the myriad of unfinished tasks that have their hold on the other six days.

We taste perfection. We embrace the momentary liberation of having no tasks, and the respite from to do lists. We relish in the privilege of shouting blessings to God and offering thanks for our people’s obligations.

We are free.

We continue counting toward the completeness that is embodied in the simplest and most profound of greetings, “Shabbat shalom.”

Magicians and Miracle Workers

“Daam—blood, tzfardeiah—frogs, keeneem—lice, ahrov—wild beasts…” we recite at our Passover seders as we take a drop of wine from our glasses. Curiously, the Egyptian magicians can repeat the first of these wonders and likewise turn water into blood and also bring frogs. (They turn a staff into a snake as well.) The Torah reports, “When the Egyptian magicians did the same with their spells, Pharaoh’s heart stiffened.” (Exodus 7)

When God performs these wonders, they are called miracles. When the magicians do the same, they are termed magic. What is the difference between magic and miracles? A Hasidic comment suggests magic tricks astonish the audience. Miracles, on the other hand, awe even those who perform it. In both instances the water turns red and there were frogs here, frogs there, frogs were jumping everywhere.

Is the difference only a matter of perspective? Is history indeed written by the victors? In the five books of Moses pulling a frog out of a hat is deemed an everyday magic trick and the ten plagues are evidence of God’s miraculous powers. Is that all there is to it? This is our book and our story and so it affirms our biases. The Torah confirms our faith.

Then again, Pharaoh’s magicians cannot remove the frogs. They can only bring more frogs (apparently that is an easy magic trick) And by doing so they make matters worse. By trying to prove their magical powers, they add to the Egyptians’ woes. The magicians were so worried about trying to match God’s miracles that they lose sight of their sacred task. Leaders are meant to assuage people’s anxieties and help lift their burdens.

Difficulties are made more unbearable when leaders worry more about their own power rather than lightening the burdens of those they lead. Magicians focus on wowing the audience and impressing people with their greatness. Too often they make people’s burdens more unbearable. They pull so many things out of their hats that the land becomes flooded with even more problems.

How often are our problems compounded by gossip? How often are our disagreements exacerbated by social media?

Remember this. When magicians hear the audience’s applause they think of their majestic might. They see these cunning tricks as evidence of their prowess. Miracle workers recall they are mere emissaries, and their hands are instruments of an even greater power. They remain forever awed by God’s majesty. They do not praise themselves but instead offer blessings of God.

Everyone has the capacity to be a miracle worker. It’s a matter of remembering who we serve.

Each of us can be servants of the divine.

Between Knowing and Not Knowing

A Hasidic story.

A student approached her rebbe and asked, “How can one tell when a new day has arrived?”

The rebbe turned the question around and said to her student, “Why don’t you tell me how you might know when a new day has arrived.”

At first the student was surprised, but then offered a hesitant answer, “When the rooster crows to signal a new dawn?” (And my seventh graders add, “When Siri tells me it is dawn.”) The rebbe answered, “No.”

“When the sun peers through my window. “No,” the rebbe responded.

“When the sky begins to glow, and I can first discern the silhouettes of the trees against the sky?” The rebbe answered again, “No!”

And then in her wisdom, the rebbe said, “The surest way to know when the night is over and a new day has dawned is when you can look into the face of another person, especially one who is a stranger and one who is different from you and come to know him as your brother and her as your sister.” Until that moment, it will always be night.

The Torah reports: “A new king arose over Egypt who did not know Joseph.” (Exodus 1)

And night descends upon Egypt. Our oppression begins. The distinction between day and night is that thin.

It is that thin line between knowing and not knowing that leads to enslavement. But then God hears our cries. Our sufferings become known to God. The Israelites are freed from slavery. Our Passover celebrations are ensured. The distinction between day and night, however, remains in our hands.

It is found in the face of a stranger.

Peace Is the Greatest Gift

Before dying, Jacob gathers his reunited family together for a final blessing. The Torah adds, “Jacob lived seventeen years in the land of Egypt.” (Genesis 47) And how old was Joseph when his brothers sold him into slavery years earlier? Seventeen.

The commentators notice this symmetry. Jacob enjoyed the same number of years living with his son in Egypt as Joseph did living with his father in Canaan. What are we to make of this symmetry? The years of Joseph’s youth when Jacob showered extra love on him are perfectly balanced by these final seventeen years living by his father Jacob’s bedside.

The tradition adds: “These seventeen years were the best years of Jacob’s life – years of prosperity, goodness and peace; his other 130 years were filled with toil and pain.”

Why were the best years of his life spent in Egypt? How could Jacob enjoy any place but the ideal land of Israel? The commentators suggest that the answer must be that he studied Torah in Egypt and thereby redeemed its pagan influences. I think the answer is far more obvious.

So why was Jacob so happy? In Egypt his family was once again whole. His sons have forgiven each other. Now they each have flourishing families of their own. Jacob can enjoy the comforts his son has amassed. He can relish in the joys of grandchildren. In Egypt he, and his entire family, have discovered a tranquility that eluded them in Canaan.

The lesson is clear. Shalom bayit, peace in the home, is more prized than even the most cherished of locations. It is a blessing that eluded our patriarch Jacob. The majority of his life his family is beset by conflict. Now he has found shalom. And he discovers it no less in Egypt!

Peace between siblings, love between parents and children, is the greatest blessing of all. We need not venture to a sacred destination to discover this blessing. It is always nearby.

May shalom be found in our lives and in our homes.

Don’t Embarrass Others

After years of discord Joseph and his brothers finally make up.

This week the moment arrives when Joseph reveals himself and offers forgiveness. He pushes aside the painful memory of when his brothers almost killed him but instead sell him into slavery. They cast aside the moments and when Joseph bragged to them that their father loved him the most.

Now the brothers stand before Joseph, pleading for their brother Benjamin, but still unaware of Joseph’s identity. They appear to have changed. They are no longer the jealous lot who conspired against him.

Joseph’s emotions overtake him, and he can no longer hold back his tears. He cries out, “Have everyone withdraw from me!” Joseph said to his brothers, “I am your brother Joseph, he whom you sold into Egypt.” (Genesis 45)

The commentators ask why Joseph insisted that only his brothers remain in the room when he reveals himself. Is it because this moment of reconciliation is so intimate that it can only be shared by family? No outsider should witness it. The tradition suggests even more. Joseph does not want to shame his brothers. He is a mensch.

Rabbi Samuel bar Nahman remarks: Joseph placed himself in an extremely precarious position, for if his brothers had killed him, not a single person would have been aware of it. Why did he then say: “Have everyone withdraw from me!”? It is because Joseph said to himself: “I would rather die than shame my brothers before the Egyptians.” (Midrash Tanchuma Vayigash)

The tradition is emphatic about the need to avoid shaming others. Although wrongdoers deserve rebuke, they do not deserve embarrassment. Joseph’s brothers must acknowledge their wrongdoing. They must show that they have changed and that they would no longer harm someone, especially a family member. They do not need to be shamed.

Too often we confuse public shaming with the acknowledgment of wrongdoing. Public officials release press releases apologizing for their wrongs. They are shamed in the press but avoid saying “I’m sorry” to the individuals they have wronged.

Saying “I’m sorry,” however, is best done privately and between the people seeking repair.

Making amends is best kept within the family. It is not about the larger group. It is about the individuals.

Banish Zealotry

I love debates. And I love rabbinic arguments. They illuminate our tradition’s insights. And holding on to such divergent opinions help to preserve the bonds of community.

Millenia ago Rabbis Hillel and Shammai argued about the lighting of the Hanukkah menorah. Shammai was a literalist and believed eight candles should be lit on the first night and then one candle less on each successive night. He reasoned that there was more oil on the first night, so the Temple’s light burned brighter on the first night and less brightly on the holiday’s last night.

Rabbi Hillel strongly disagreed and argued that the miracle increased on each successive night so we should light one candle on the first night and eight candles on the last. He believed that the lights were representative of our faith. As the last night approached, when our trust in God might have waned, we lit eight candles and cast aside our doubts.

Jewish law follows Hillel. (It almost always does.) And in so doing the tradition moves us away from the literal to the figurative, from history to myth. In fact, the central story about the oil lasting for eight days instead of one is nowhere to be found in the books written soon after the Maccabee’s victory. The Books of Maccabees do not speak about this miracle. Their language talks about the mightiness of their swords not the strength of God’s helping hand. They write at length about their battles against those Jews who supported the Syrian Greek dynasty.

Their writings are a polemic against assimilation. The first death in the war is not that of a Syrian Greek soldier but instead a fellow Jew. Mattathias kills a Jew as he is about to offer a sacrifice on a pagan altar. The Book of Maccabees praises his zealousness. His actions inspire a popular uprising. Mattathias cries, “Whoever is zealous for the law, and maintains the covenant, let him follow me.” (I Maccabees 2)

But civil war, and strife, do not make a good recipe for building community. And fortunately for Hillel and Shammai the Books of Maccabees were not codified and made part of the Hebrew Bible. They could minimize the Maccabees’ version of events. They could sideline the story of military prowess. As much as Hillel and Shammai disagreed with each other, they wanted to ensure that the Jewish people never again became embroiled in civil war.

And so, their book, the Talmud, became the work that defined Jewish life for millennia. On its pages arguments are preserved. Although we light the Hanukkah candles according to Hillel’s interpretation, we still teach Shammai’s approach.

Our faith increases, the light grows, when we make room for more opinions at our tables, when we include such diversity within our celebrations. Zealousness is antithetical to community. Zealots do not compromise. They are blinded by ideology. They see only their own beliefs.

The rabbis, on the other hand, at least the sages living millennia ago, valued sitting with others and making room for their ideas over always being right. The value they elevated was the centrality of community. The darkness they banished was that of zealotry.

If we are likewise able to banish such polemics and the ever-present disdain for differing opinions, this year’s Hanukkah light might very well increase. And then on that eighth night, when all the candles are illuminated, we might see the images of more people sitting around our table. They may very well not agree with one another, but they will remain present for each other.

Everyone Can Write History

Jewish history hinges on the Joseph story. Because of the jealousy and hatred between Joseph and his brothers they sell him into slavery in Egypt where he rises to prominence. Eventually his family follows him there. The Jewish people then build comfortable lives in Egypt until a new Pharaoh comes to power. As the Torah recounts, “A new king arose over Egypt who did not know Joseph.” The people are enslaved. Their cries reach heaven and so God calls Moses to lead the people to freedom. The rest of the story is the tale we tell at our Passover seders.

It turns on Joseph. Jewish history depends on the moment Joseph’s brothers sell him into slavery. It also revolves around an unnamed stranger.

Jacob sent Joseph out to the fields to look for his brothers. He apparently had difficulty finding them. The Torah reports, “When Joseph reached Shechem, a man came upon him wandering in the fields. The man asked him, ‘What are you looking for?’ He answered, ‘I am looking for my brothers. Could you tell me where they are pasturing?’ The man said, ‘They have gone from here, for I heard them say: Let us go to Dothan.’ So, Joseph followed his brothers and found them at Dothan.” (Genesis 37)

If not for this stranger Joseph might never have found his brothers. They might not have sold him into slavery. Then the Jewish people might never have arrived in Egypt and become enslaved there. And we might never have drawn so much inspiration from the Seders we continue to enjoy where we retell our going out from Egypt.

Moses Maimonides suggests that this stranger is an angel. How else could one explain that Jewish history turns on this stranger’s directions? For this medieval thinker it could only be a divine messenger who set Joseph on the proper course.

I would like to think that this stranger could be anyone.

Perhaps it is the unknown, unnamed people upon which history turns. Their names are never known. History books do not even record their deeds. Instead, they tell the stories of presidents and prime ministers, kings and queens, generals and strategists. And yet history could never be written without the guiding hand of the unnamed.

Far too many people aspire to fame. They wish to be the ones whose names are recorded in the history books. They worry about their legacy. They spend precious hours wondering if they will be remembered for good.

Yet it is often the unnamed stranger who points the direction and who moves the story forward. And it is upon their shoulders that history turns.

Perhaps it is the hidden, and unnamed person, upon which history revolves.

You never know where the directions you offer might lead. You never know how the advice you give might shape history.

Forgiveness Is for the Forgiver

David Whyte writes:

Forgiveness is a heartache and difficult to achieve because, strangely, it not only refuses to eliminate the original wound but actually draws us closer to its source. To approach forgiveness is to close in on the nature of the hurt itself, the only remedy being, as we approach its raw centre, to reimagine our relation to it. (Consolations: The Solace, Nourishment and Underlying Meaning of Everyday Words)

The Torah reports: “Esau ran to greet Jacob. He embraced him and, falling on his neck, he kissed him; and they wept.” (Genesis 33)

It is a remarkable turn of events. Twenty years earlier Jacob stole his brother Esau’s birthright, and Esau then threatened to kill Jacob forcing him to run for his life. Now, Jacob is terrified about meeting his brother. He presents him with an endless stream of gifts. Jacob bows before him but offers no apology. He does not even acknowledge his wrong.

And yet Esau runs toward his brother to forgive him. Despite Jacob’s fears Esau no longer wants to kill his brother. This dramatic reconciliation is initiated by Esau rather than Jacob.

David Whyte again,

To forgive is to put oneself in a larger gravitational field of experience than the one that first seemed to hurt us. We reimagine ourselves in the light of our maturity and we reimagine the past in the light of our new identity; we allow ourselves to be gifted by a story larger than the story that first hurt us and left us bereft.

Perhaps forgiveness comes because Esau needs it. He wants to rewrite his story. He wants to let go of his justified anger and his understandable resentment. He wants to heal his own pain. Esau becomes our unexpected and unlikely hero.

We learn from him that sometimes forgiveness is not motivated by the wrongdoer’s honest reflection. It does not come from an acknowledgment of the wrongdoing but instead because the forgiver needs it.

Forgiveness has the power to transform the person who grants it more than the one who receives it.

Once we realize this, we come to understand that we might need to offer forgiveness more than we need to accept it. Only then can we become the forgotten hero of our Torah.

Only then can we write a new story for ourselves.

Heading Towards Dreams

There are approximately 7,000 languages spoken throughout the world. I speak one very well and another not as well as I would like. And yet it is the Hebrew language that conjures my devotion and summons my tireless efforts. It is our language. It contains the words that orient our Jewish faith. Other languages offer different orientations.

There is an Aboriginal language that has a unique way of directing its speakers. In English I might say, “Susie is standing in front of me” or “My tequila is on my left.” In Kuuk Thaayorre, the answers are structured around the cardinal directions of north, south, east and west. And so, Susie might be standing west, and my tequila south.

This fascinating language orients its speakers around these cardinal directions. In fact, in Kuuk Thaayorre one does not say, “Hello” but instead “Which way are you going?” And the answer might be, “I am heading northeast.” The cognitive scientist, Lera Boroditsky, who studies how languages shape our thinking, argues that people who speak languages such as these rarely if ever get lost. They always know in which direction they are traveling.

I wonder how my wandering and meandering might be different if my language provided me such an extraordinary internal compass. I can tell you one thing for sure. I would have less stories to tell. Why? Because most begin with something like I turned left when I was supposed to go right. Or I took a wrong turn and discovered this wonderful new restaurant or my phone’s battery died and I was completely lost and bumped into a long-lost friend.

In between leaving and arriving a great deal can happen. Some of it depends on right turns. More often it is influenced by what appears to be wrong turns.

Jacob leaves Beersheva. He is running away from his brother Esau who wants to kill him after Jacob stole the birthright. Jacob sets out for Haran. The Torah opens with these words, “Jacob left Beersheva and set out for Haran.” (Genesis 28) His trickery and deception set his path. Jacob never arrives at his intended destination. He is heading north.

Somewhere in between he dreams of a ladder with angels going up and coming down from heaven on it. God stands by his side. God promises never to leave him. When he awakes, he exclaims, “Surely the Lord is present in this place, and I did not know it. How awesome is this place!” But he should have known this. He is standing on the promised land.

It is this very land around which our language orients. It is the center of our world. It is the place that sets our direction.

Even the cardinal directions of north, south, east and west are imbued with meaning in the Hebrew language. In the Torah the words for west and south are based on locations familiar to people living in land of Israel. Yama means towards the Sea, namely the Mediterranean. And Negbah is more exactly translated as towards the Negev. Tzafon suggests more than north. It derives from the word meaning hidden. And Kedmah implies more than east. It suggests moving forward or going toward the beginning.

Our language always takes us back east. There we were born. There our dreams are centered.

When we were exiled from this land our language kept us oriented. We never forgot about the land whose places were embedded in how we conversed and prayed. We meandered throughout other lands. We picked up other languages and their directions infused our spirits. Our thoughts meandered away from its biblical orientation.

Rather than saying, Mah shlomcha which is usually translated as “How are you?” but conveys the more profound meaning of “Are you whole?” we say, “What’s up?” whose origins may hearken not to ancient scripture but instead Bugs Bunny’s well-known “What’s up Doc” or even that Budweiser commercial from years ago.

As I look to the east, I am wondering how we might reorient our lives and reclaim our language’s direction. Instead of asking such nonchalant questions such as “How are you?” and expecting only the perfunctory response of “I’m ok,” we should ask, “Which way are you heading? What are your dreams?”

“And Jacob dreamed; a ladder was set on the ground and its top reached to the heavens.” (Genesis 28)

Our Words Make a Difference

What follows is my sermon from the Friday night of Thanksgiving weekend when we read the portion Toldot.

This week we read about the tortured relationship between Jacob and Esau, twin brothers born to Isaac and Rebekah. Even though Jacob is revered as our forefather he can in these earlier stories act as his name implies like a heel. And Esau who the tradition sees as the father of our future enemies can sometimes appear as a sympathetic character.

The portion opens with this story. Jacob, our mild-mannered hero, is home cooking lentil stew while Esau, a skilled hunter is out in the field hunting for some tasty game. Esau comes home famished and asks his brother for some stew. Jacob tells him to first sell him his first-born birthright. Esau says and I quote, “I am at the point of death, so of what use is my birthright to me?” And this is how Jacob first supplants his older brother Esau and the beginnings of the tension between the two.

Leaving aside the questions about Jacob’s trickery let’s focus on Esau’s disregard for his obligations and most especially his statements about hunger. It is hard to believe that he was so hungry that he was at the point of death. And yet his words seem all too familiar. They make me think of my own and our own. How many times do we say, “I’m starving?” We do not really know hunger. We are as fortunate as Esau and perhaps as self-absorbed. We say his words all the time. We casually use words such as “I am famished” when we are really not. We say, “I’m starving” so often we are unaware of saying it. We say things like “I’m so hungry; I am going to die” when this is not even remotely true. I am pointing a finger at myself too.

In the Hebrew Esau describes himself as tired or weary. He states, Anochi holech lamoot—I am walking towards death. How dramatic! His emotions are the center of the universe. He sees nothing of the struggles of others. He forgets that there are so many people who are in fact truly hungry and who are really approaching death.

Likewise, when we use such words and phrases, we distance ourselves from those who are truly hungry. We diminish their truth when we muddle our own. We brush away the facts when we allow our emotions do the talking. Perhaps it is defense mechanism. We would rather think of our own needs rather than the needs of others. We would rather focus on the hunger we feel even though it will soon be satisfied rather than the hunger out there that might never be allayed. It’s almost impossible to think about the actual numbers.

Twelve percent of Americans face food insecurity. As I explained to our religious school students, food insecurity is defined as not having access to sufficient food or adequate food. It may mean people who are not able to eat three meals a day or eat even one proper meal. In this land of plenty nearly 13 million children face such conditions. In the world, it is estimated that the number is about 800 million. Here on Long Island, it is over 200,000 people. Those are sobering numbers. They are frightening statistics. They are so large that we feel like we can’t do anything about it.

But we cannot give up. We cannot give in. This is why our synagogue has an ongoing collection for the local food pantry. We want to help to make sure its shelves are always stocked so that people who are hungry and who understand what hunger really feels like can shop there at no cost. And as important as this and other efforts are this evening I want to focus on those words, and those offhand phrases that turn us inward rather than outward. I want us to think about our attitude and our language.

The words we use do matter. They shape our feelings. They influence our actions—or our inaction. They can do as they did for Esau and push him more and more inward or they can help us look outward, away from our own wants and needs to those who actually need more.

This is the essence of why we say a blessing for food. If we pause and say thank you before eating, we are more apt to think of the food we eat as a gift. The blessing is the corrective to the false words we might have offered while waiting to eat or after coming in from a long day when we inevitably say I am famished. They become the true words. They are the balance to the false words we may have said before we sat down. That’s the tradition’s theory. They force us to stop and think before stuffing our faces with food.

The Thanksgiving dinners that we just celebrated are about excess. Most, if not all, of our tables had too much food on them. It would be contrary to our American ethos to run out of food when hosting such a Thanksgiving meal. We stuff ourselves until we are uncomfortable so that we might feel blessed.

But the tradition’s counsel is that it should not have to be an overabundance of food to make us feel blessed. In fact, the Talmud asks how much food do you need to have in front of you before offering the motzi? And its answer is my rabbi David Hartman’s favorite teaching. The Talmud’s answer is k’zayit. It only needs to be as big as an olive. I am pretty sure that there is no one here or anywhere for that matter who considers such a small bite size satisfying. Such a morsel cannot possibly be filling. It is almost not deserving of a blessing especially when you put that up against last night’s meal. An olive was less than what we munched on during the football games.

That’s exactly the tradition’s point. If you say a blessing for such a small morsel of food, then your perspective and your words stay true. Food is not only an answer to hunger. It is instead an opportunity to give thanks. Rabbis think about the spirit. They reason that if the spirit is satisfied the rest can follow. They believe we will then think less about what we want and more about what other people need. We will think about those who are truly hungry.

It begins with a blessing. And leads to making room for others. And that offers us the opportunity to make sure less people actually need to say, I am famished.

Giving Thanks Can Be Heavy Lifting

When we think of prayer, we most often think about making a request of God. We ask God to grant us health. The words of the Mi Shebeirach for healing are familiar and are often our most heartfelt prayer.

Likewise, Isaac prays for his wife Rebekah. After twenty years of marriage, they remain infertile. Our forefather turns to prayer. The Torah reports: “Isaac pleaded with Adonai on behalf of his wife, because she was barren; and Adonai responded to his plea, and his wife Rebekah conceived.” (Genesis 25) If only all our similar prayers were answered with such an emphatic yes.

The Hebrew word for pleaded is “vayetar” is unusual. It suggests a prayer that is a heartfelt request. Our ancient rabbis debate its meaning. Rabbi Yohanan said, “Isaac poured out prayers abundantly.” Reish Lakish recognized the word’s similarity to that of a pitchfork and comments, “He overturned the decree just as a pitchfork overturns the grain.” (Bereshit Rabbah 63)

And I would like to add, heartfelt prayers emerge from a tumultuous soul. Their cries emerge from trials and difficulties. Like the farmer who wields a pitchfork such prayer is hard work and even painful. All our prayers cannot possibly take this form. They are too hard. They hurt too much. It can become debilitating to utter over and over again, “Why me?”

Perhaps this is why most Jewish prayers are not requests but instead thanks. When we pray, we give thanks. We are familiar with the words we offer in the evening. “Blessed are You, Adonai, our God, Ruler of the universe, who speaks the evening into being, skillfully opens the gates, thoughtfully alters the time and changes the seasons, and arranges the stars in their heavenly courses according to plan.” This is emblematic of our prayers. Look at the stars. Give thanks.

Offering thanks is about acceptance.

As much as we believe that our choices are our own, that our fate is something we can write for ourselves, our prayers are instead about accepting our destiny. It is does not matter how big your Thanksgiving turkey is. It does not matter how small the morsel of bread may be. Offer the blessing, the rabbis counsel.

No matter how big or small we say thank you. Now matter how much or how little, we say, “Baruch.” This is the essence of the tradition’s message. It is also the thrust of our Thanksgiving holiday. Give thanks for the food. Give thanks for family. Give thanks for friends.

Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel adds, “Our goal should be to live life in radical amazement. Get up in the morning and look at the world in a way that takes nothing for granted. Everything is phenomenal; everything is incredible; never treat life casually. To be spiritual is to be amazed.”

Prayer is about burnishing the spiritual. It is about cultivating amazement.

And teaching ourselves to offer thanks can sometimes be as hard as lifting a pitchfork.

It is not just tumult that requires heavy lifting. Sometimes the hard work is as simple as giving thanks.

Dignity Requires Hard Work

This week we meet Rebekah. Her marriage to Isaac is arranged by Abraham and orchestrated by his trusted servant Eliezer. She is chosen because she offers to draw water for Eliezer after his long journey to Abraham’s native land. She also undertakes the difficult task of drawing water for the camels. This must have been a strenuous undertaking. She must have to run back and forth to the well hundreds of times. (A camel can drink thirty gallons of water!)

The rabbis do not, however, praise her physical strength and stamina. Instead, they speak of her kindness. She is the model of compassion. She thinks not only of people’s needs but those of animals. She reaches out to all of God’s creatures. This is why she is the perfect wife for Isaac. After his mother Sarah’s death, he needs tenderness and love. Rebekah offers it.

Rabbi Isaiah Horowitz, a seventeenth century teacher, fashions a beautiful story highlighting these attributes. He adds to Rebekah’s character and writes,

Rebekah displayed remarkably ethical conduct. She showed respect for fellow human beings. First, she let Eliezer drink. When some water was left over in the jug, she did not know what to do. She debated whether to give the left-over water to the camels. In doing this, however, she would place a person and beast on the same level by letting both of them drink from the same vessel. If, on the other hand, she would pour out the left-over water, this would also be a lack of respect, since drinking water would be demoted to the status of dirty wastewater. What did she do? She "ran" as if to give the camels to drink. While running, she pretended to fall, so that the water spilled from the jug. She then had an excuse to fill the jug anew from the well. In this way Eliezer was not slighted at all. (Shenei Luchot HaBerit)

Rebekah is unconcerned about creating extra work for herself. She only thinks about the feelings of others. She worries about Eliezer’s needs rather than her own burdens.

I wonder. Are we willing to go to such lengths to help others? Would we likewise add to our own burdens to make someone else’s life easier? How far would we go to preserve the dignity of another? Would we add tasks to our lengthy to do lists so that someone else is not offended?

For the sake of family, the answer may very well be yes. For the sake of friends, the answer might also be yes. For the sake of animals we might say, perhaps, if they are our pets. For the sake of strangers, I doubt it. Rebekah is concerned about strangers. She shows compassion to someone she just met.

We struggle to live up to our matriarch’s example.

We rarely put in extra effort when it comes to other people’s feelings. Ideas so important to our ancestors, like dignity and honor, feel outdated. Institutions that were once unquestioned are under attack. We don’t trust government and its leaders. We question schools and their teachers. We march into doctors’ offices with mountains of information downloaded from the internet. In an age when everyone is an expert, no one is an expert.

Dignity, however, is something that we extend. Honor is not only earned. It must be granted.

Like Rebekah we must be ready to go to extra lengths. We must extend honor and compassion to even the passing stranger.

We never know. A casual acquaintance could likewise be on a divine errand.

Amsterdam’s Past and Present

I have been thinking about pogroms—both their far too many historical examples and their modern incarnations. I find myself hesitant to use the term pogrom to describe the antisemitic violence unleashed against Jewish and Israeli fans of Maccabi Tel Aviv. I wonder if the word’s blood-soaked history turns our focus away from present scenes toward past images. I worry will we see Cossacks where they do not exist. Will we think more about history, and its emotional overtones, rather than what happened in Amsterdam?

Then again, such worries are immaterial. An antisemite is an antisemite. It does not matter what uniform they wear or in which language they curse. And my initial hesitancy to use such loaded terms may be more about a reluctance to see the new life and breath yesterday’s antisemitism has gained in our own day. Such intellectual protestations are entirely irrelevant. Pogrom is in fact an apt description of what transpired on Amsterdam’s streets last week, and what has continued into this week. Let us not add to the world’s denial of this growing violent reality. Yesterday has become today!

The mobs were organized. And their attacks were planned. The term pogrom comes from the Russian meaning to wreak havoc or demolish violently. It has come to mean any violent attacks against a specific ethnic or religious group, most especially Jews. Sometimes the pogrom is government sponsored. At the very least authorities are passive or slow to respond. Groups waited for Maccabi Tel Aviv fans on Amsterdam’s streets. And the police offered little response when these Jewish fans were attacked.

There are often all manners of excuses and justifications offered for such violent antisemitic attacks. After the infamous Kishinev pogrom, Russian authorities blamed Jewish creditors, saying it was not about Russians and Jews, but instead peasants and money lenders. Likewise, Israeli fans’ racist chants while inexcusable must not be viewed as an understandable provocation for this violence. Antisemitism is antisemitism. A pogrom is a pogrom.

Bret Stephens comments, “Notice what these attackers aren’t saying. They aren’t expressing themselves in the faddish language of anti-Zionism. They aren’t denouncing Israeli policy or speaking up for Palestinian rights. They aren’t trying to make careful distinctions between Jews and Israelis. They are, like generations of pogromists before them, simply out to get the Jews.”

The confluence of these attacks with Kristallnacht’s eighty sixth anniversary makes history feel even more present. It's not about yesterday. Such antisemitic violence is no longer the stuff of history. It is about today. The fact that this pogrom occurred in Amsterdam, the city that gives prominence to the Anne Frank House, makes it even more painful. This place, and the city that hosts it, are supposed to be about memory, and the promise of a better future, not bloody present circumstances. European leaders are again complicit.

The American Jewish Committee reminds us, “European leaders who demonize or criminalize Israel cannot credibly claim to fight antisemitism while fanning its flames. While saying that antisemitism often hides behind anti-Zionism, they use language that contributes to Israel’s vilification and, by extension, emboldens those who target Jews across Europe. This hypocrisy must end.”

The Anne Frank House, and its nearly one million yearly visitors, allows one to imagine that the very city that offered hospitality and welcome to Jews fleeing fifteenth century Spain saved many of Holland’s Jews during the Holocaust. In fact, seventy five percent of Dutch Jews were murdered by the Nazis and their collaborators. Holland failed the Jewish people. Anne Frank’s family was hidden, and her father saved, by one person. It was Miep Gies who offered them safety. She hid eight people. Her Amsterdam neighbors turned them in. And only Otto Frank survived.

We forget how many cooperated with the Nazis. We tend to see the Anne Frank House as representative of what is best about Amsterdam. Museums sometimes tell us what we want to hear. We see the beautiful sunlight streaming through the attic window but forget that Anne Frank unlike the visitors who will soon see the same light when they freely walk the city’s streets was trapped in this very room. This past week we were reminded of this stark truth.

Amsterdam did not try to save Anne. Miep Gies did.

It is not about a city, but one person.

If only cities and nations could be led by the likes of such righteous people.

Have faith. History can turn on the actions of individuals.

“Then a messenger of the Lord called to Abraham from heaven, ‘Abraham! Abraham!’ And he answered, “Here I am.’” (Genesis 22)

True Leadership

Abraham is a true leader. This is why.

Before Isaac and Ishmael were born to Abraham and before Jews who trace their lineage to Abraham through Isaac and Muslims who trace their lineage to Abraham through Ishmael were imagined, Abraham struggled to keep the peace. His nephew Lot, the son of Abraham’s deceased brother, Haran, pastured a large flock while Abraham tended to his own.

The Torah reports that the land could not support both of their large flocks. There was bickering between their followers. The Torah reports: “And there was quarreling between the herders of Abram’s cattle and those of Lot’s cattle.”

Abraham quickly came up with a solution. He said to Lot, “Let there be no strife between you and me, between my herders and yours, for we are kin. Is not the whole land before you? Let us separate: if you go north, I will go south; and if you go south, I will go north.” (Genesis 13). The generous Abraham allows Lot to pick first. It is Lot who will designate Abraham’s path.

Rarely do we focus on this story. Instead, we focus on the promise made to Abraham and his descendants. “I assign the land you sojourn in to you and your offspring to come, all the land of Canaan, as an everlasting holding.” (Genesis 17) We highlight the promise made to Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. We focus on the gifts given to the Jewish people.

On this day, however, I wish to highlight the magnanimity that precedes the acceptance of this gift. It is human nature that once we acquire something we hold on to it very tightly. We do not want to part with such God-given gifts. We come to believe they are mine and not yours. We come to act like there is never enough to be shared.

Abraham’s example reminds us that this magnanimous spirit is his genius. This is why he is called by God. Perhaps the mark of a true leader is one who he gives up and gives in. Abraham is a God-chosen leader because he relinquishes what he has every right to claim is his alone.

In this moment this is what I hope we can learn. To give rather than hold is the example we must follow.

And this is the leadership model we pray President Trump might emulate. (My prayer would be the same if Vice President Harris were to be our next president.) Leadership must be generous. It must be forgiving. Look to Abraham’s example for inspiration. Peace and harmony remain our dream. Unity remains our promise.

I pray. Let us stand united. Let us work together so that our nation might live up to its founding principles. Let us put aside our grievances. Let us cast aside our anger. Let us vanquish our despair. Let us be forgiving of our differences. Let us be generous to our neighbors.

And let us remember that regardless of the difficulties of any given week or the challenges, and tragedies, the world brings us on any given day, Shabbat arrives every Friday evening. And with Shabbat comes a measure of peace and harmony. And that Shabbat tranquility is so abundant that it can be shared by as many as would grasp it.

The Beauty of the Broken

Kintsugi is a Japanese art form meaning to join with gold. Artisans use gold to repair broken pottery. Rather than discarding these broken pots, they are transformed into new, beautiful works of art. The cracks become part of the artwork. This artwork embodies the philosophy that brokenness and imperfection are part of our world. They have the potential to make us whole.

According to Jewish tradition, God created several worlds before ours. These were discarded like artists discard their first, second and even third attempts. When God creates our world God decides to let stand despite its imperfections. One of these cracks in our world is what causes us continued pain. Human beings are given to doing terrible things. They bring evil to our world, others and themselves.

God knows this. God sees this. God lets it continue.

One way to read the Bible is to see it not as description of our spiritual journey but instead as God’s. It is about God coming to terms with the world’s imperfections. That journey is marked by fits and starts. One such fit is the story of Noah and the flood. The Torah states, “The earth became corrupt before God; the earth was filled with violence. God said to Noah, ‘I have decided to put an end to all flesh, for the earth is filled with violence because of them.’” (Genesis 6)

God then shatters the world.

The mystics believed that when God created the world divine sparks of light were trapped in broken vessels. These powerful lights energize evil. God withdraws from creation, making room for us to engage in religious acts, to repair this brokenness. We must perform tikkun olam, repair of the world, to banish these shards of evil.

When the flood waters recede, God sees the world’s beauty anew. God seizes on creation’s potential. “The dove came back to Noah toward evening, and there in its bill was a plucked-off olive leaf!” (Genesis 8)

Peace remains possible!

There will always be cracks.

It is not about ignoring them or most especially discarding them. It is instead about acknowledging these imperfections and making them a part of an even more beautiful whole.

This is what God comes to realize. It is what we must also come to understand.

Repair is in our hands.

Why We Rejoice

The seventh blessing of the wedding’s sheva brachot offers words to express the inexpressible. It represents an effort to answer the question of how does one describe pure joy?

Here is its attempt: “We praise You, Adonai our God, Sovereign of the universe: Creator of joy and gladness, love and companionship, laughter and song, pleasure and delight, harmony and celebration, peace and friendship.”

The blessing offers a litany of synonyms. Its words are rhythmic. “Sasson v’simcha, gila, rina, ditzah v’chedva, ahava v’achava shalom v’reiut.” Even though I have recited these words on countless occasions and offered them to hundreds of couples, I wonder if any words can ever fully express our sense of joy.

As we look forward to our celebration of Simhat Torah, Joy of Torah, I ask, is it possible to fully rejoice in the shadow of October 7th? Do these attacks now cast darkness over this day? The attackers not only murdered thousands but desecrated our holiday. Their hate clouds our joy. They must not be allowed to obscure our celebrations.

There is always pain. Every joy is tempered by loss. At every wedding someone is absent. I wonder if we use words like celebrate and rejoice too freely. We rarely think about their profound meaning. What is the meaning of joy? Rabbi Alan Lew anticipates this dilemma when he writes,

Joy is a deep release of the soul, and it includes death and pain. Joy is any feeling fully felt, any experience we give our whole being to. We are conditioned to choose pleasure and reject pain, but the truth is, any moment of our life fully inhabited, any feeling fully felt, any immersion in the full depth of life, can be the source of great joy. (This Is Real and You Are Completely Unprepared: The Days of Awe as a Journey of Transformation)

Death and pain are not antithetical to joy. Too often we confuse happiness with joy. Simcha, however, is a feeling that we feel deeply. It is something that consumes our whole being. There can be joy where there is also pain. Even when happiness is absent and smiles come less frequently, joy can exist.

Although all holidays, with the exceptions of Yom Kippur and Tisha B’Av, are supposed to be filled with joy, only Simhat Torah has joy in its actual name. What then is so joyful about concluding the Torah reading cycle and beginning it again?

Maybe it is as simple as we have lived another year with all of life’s wonders and disappointments, joys and pains, celebrations and tribulations. We have been privileged to bear witness to another year marked by the words of our Torah. They are of course the same words year after year, but we are different. And therefore, the Torah’s meaning, is different.

We do not arrive at answers. We are travelers on the pathway of this sacred scroll. We rejoice in the journey.

Thom Gunn writes, “Reaching no absolute, in which to rest,/ One is always nearer by not keeping still.” (On the Move)

We rejoice that we might find new meaning in these same words.