I Still Believe…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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