I Am a Jew!

To people in pain theirs is the only reality. Ask anyone who has suffered the death of a loved one if a friend’s statement of “I understand how you are feeling,” was helpful. More often than not they will tell you that such well-intended words felt cruel and unfeeling. No one can truly understand another’s pain.

No one should claim that their suffering is greater than someone else’s. No one should make pronouncements that their pain is greater than another’s. To a Jew the pain of the Holocaust, and the trauma of thousands of years of antisemitic persecution, remains acute. I feel things differently because I am a Jew. My people’s pain is my own.

Similarly, I feel my spouse’s pain more acutely. I sense my children’s struggles more. My brother’s difficulties are my own. My parent’s ailments become mine. To be part of a family means that the joys and tribulations of our relations become our own.

To a Jew the barbarism of October 7th is all too real. Genocidial hate has once again become lethal. To hear praise for our murderers on college campuses is all too painful. To see in our own age the same hateful words leveled against our people for thousands of years, most especially after October 7th, is too much to bear.

To a Palestinian their suffering is also acute and all too real. Israel’s justified war against Hamas has devastated Gaza. To see the United States support Israel’s military aggrieves the Palestinian heart. This is not to defend student protests or offer justification for Hamas’ terrorism. There can be no defense of Hamas and its terrorism. Instead, it is a recognition of another people’s feelings. I may not sense them. I may not understand them or think they are justified. Yet I recognize that their feelings are just as real as my own.

Likewise, I do not expect Palestinians to feel what I feel. I do not expect them to believe that what the world has done (and does) to the Jews is worse than what the world did (and does) to Palestinians, or even that Israel’s war against Hamas is justified. I do expect people to condemn atrocities done in their names and not to resort to terrorist violence to achieve their ends.

There are no winners in this competition for suffering.

There are two peoples in pain. There are two peoples suffering.

I feel more keenly the suffering of my own people. The angst and anxieties of the Jewish spirit are my own.

To my liberal Jewish friends, I say compassion for others must not replace love for our own people. To my conservative friends I say attachment to the Jewish people should not cast aside compassion for others.

Rabbi Ammiel Hirsch adds: “The uniqueness of Judaism and the source of its moral power lie in our commitment to the Jewish family and to all the families of the earth at one and the same time. Ahavat ha’briyot — love of humankind — is balanced with ahavat Yisrael — love for the Jewish people. It is not one or the other. It is both.” (It Is Still October 7)

On this Yom HaShoah I am going to remember my people’s pain. I am a Jew! It could have been my children, my siblings, my parents, and my relatives among the six million. If not for the good fortune that my family made their way to this country the murdered could have been my grandparents and great grandparents. It is an accident of fate, and perhaps fortitude and we like to believe prescience, that my family left years before the Nazi onslaught.

On this Yom HaShoah I am going to remember the lessons of the Holocaust. Antisemitism can become murderous. To be a Jew is to remain keenly aware of the dangers of this millennial hate.

On this Yom HaShoah I am going to remember our pain. I am also going to struggle to make room in my aggrieved heart for the suffering of others.

The Holocaust teaches compassion for my own people and then for others.

I am a Jew!

Set Their Teeth on Edge!

I am still thinking about the Seder’s wicked child. This child asks, “Whatever does this service mean to you?” The Haggadah teaches that this child excludes himself or herself from our collective story. The wicked child only points the question at others.

And I am watching with a mixture of horror and bewilderment as college campuses erupt in anti-Israel protests and antisemitism. It was the university and its students that led the charge against the Vietnam War. And it was the university that cemented my part in our Jewish story. How did the Israel I so love and admire become the object of similar protests?

People want to believe that the protestors share a commitment to free speech. They think they share the worries of Israel’s majority about the Netanyahu government and its policies but do not begrudge the State of Israel’s very existence.

People convince themselves that these protestors can make the distinctions between…

This post continues on The Times of Israel.

Accept the Seder’s Invitation for Debate

People think that the Seder’s Haggadah has one uniform message. “We were slaves to Pharoah in Egypt. And God set us free.” In fact, it offers multiple messages. Its purpose is not messaging but instead to promote discussion.

Take but two examples.

After we finish the meal, we open the door for Elijah and read the Haggadah’s vengeful words: “Pour out your fury on the nations that do not know you, upon the kingdoms that do not invoke your name, for they have devoured Jacob and desolated his home. Pour out your wrath on them; may your blazing anger overtake them.” After centuries of antisemtism and persecution Jews living in medieval times added this reading to the Seder.

They were understandably afraid to open the door. And so, they recalled the fiery vengeance of the prophet Elijah. Blood libels and massacres were commonplace in their day. Their fears were understandable. Their anger becomes palpable in the words of this prayer. It was as if to say, “They are at our doors. They are here to kill us once again.”

But once again is today. After October 7th these words have become all too real. They have indeed desolated his home!

Have their ancient fears become our own? Can we muster the courage to open our doors?

And yet at the beginning of the Seder we proclaim, “This is the bread of poverty and persecution that our ancestors ate in the land of Egypt…. Let all who are hungry, come and eat. Let all who are in need, come and share the Passover meal.” Before we even taste the matzah, we remind ourselves of the point of eating this unleavened bread. It is so we might remember our slavery. We must taste it!

We recall the feelings of suffering. We eat matzah so that we might remember our pangs of hunger. Then we can become more sensitive to the pain of others. Welcome them in!

The Haggadah contradicts itself. We remain conflicted. The same door that opens to vengeance is also held open to the pain of others.

In this year of our own torment are we able to open the door so wide? Are we able to reach out with compassion or only with vengeance? Can we feel the pain of others when our pain is so near, when our suffering is so acute?

The Haggadah does not answer these questions. It does not speak with one voice. It is a compilation of centuries of discussions. There are disagreements within its pages.

Can we be open to the world and attuned to the suffering of others while wishing for the destruction of our enemies and an end to antisemitic hate?

The question is as old as the Haggadah itself. We are meant to debate it. We are intended to welcome the arguments. The Seder is an invitation to discussion.

My teacher, Rabbi David Hartman z”l, teaches: “Don’t let the printed word paralyze the imagination. Talk. Discuss the Exodus. You are free.”

Freedom means the luxury to debate questions. It is about the necessity of discussion.

The questions never go away. Accept the Seder’s invitation.

Caring for the Sick

Yes, we are still reading Leviticus and yes, we are still reading about stuff we no longer do.

This week we read about ritual purity and in particular the details about what to do if people are afflicted with leprosy. In ancient times, this disfiguring and contagious disease was tremendously feared. People worried with good reason that if they became infected, they could become permanently disabled.

The ancients did not understand bacterial infections, were unaware of proper hygiene practices that prevent the spread of such diseases, and most certainly were not blessed with antibiotic treatments.

And yet, every year we still insist that we confront this ancient, and seemingly outdated text.

We believe that we can wrest some contemporary meaning from even the most obscure, and obsolete, laws. It’s time to talk about leprosy again.

The Torah proclaims: “As for the person with a leprous affection: the clothes shall be rent, the hair disheveled and the mouth covered, and that person shall then call out, “Unclean! Unclean!” (Leviticus 13)

How unfair! It seems like infected people are being punished for having a disease. Then again, it is not so much that they are punished but instead that they become like mourners who likewise rend their clothes. Still given our modern approach to sickness the Torah’s requirement that people with leprosy must publicly acknowledge their disease is off-putting.

How embarrassing! How undignified! The ill’s feelings are cast aside.

The medieval commentator, Rashi, offers clarification. He writes: “They must proclaim aloud that they are unclean, so that people may keep away from them.”

Sick people’s concerns are no longer for themselves but for others.

Ibn Ezra, another commentator, adds more emphasis. He writes: “The word unclean is repeated. When lepers pass on a road in an inhabited area, they shall continually announce that they are unclean so that people will be on guard and not touch them.”

The Torah appears to be adding to sick people’s burdens. I want shout back, “Leave them alone. They have a terrible disease. Don’t make them declare their pain out loud.”

And yet I am reminded that the Jewish tradition emphasizes over and over again that our worry is first and foremost for others. An individual’s embarrassment is secondary to the needs of the larger community.

We bristle at such demands. We live in an age that emphasizes individual needs, and desires. The Torah appears unfeeling, and even cruel in contrast.

We hesitate to share our illnesses with others reasoning it is a private matter. Imagine a contemporary analog in which people are required to loudly proclaim, “Cancer! Cancer!” We would be aghast and taken aback. We might even become frightened.

Then again, the Torah’s demands might not so much be about protecting the community but instead about presenting communal members with opportunities to offer consolation to the sick. We can only provide words of healing if we know what ails others!

There is no way of making our way through sickness and disease without the care and concern of others. We must loudly declare, “This is no time to try to go it alone!”

Be Proud To Be Jews

What follows is my sermon about what I learned from ordinary Israelis on our congregation’s mission.

I returned from Israel a few days ago. I was there on another mission to learn more about the situation and express our solidarity. I will never tire of going to Israel, regardless of the situation. Although beleaguered, Israel will always remain beloved. Although disillusioned with Israel’s political leaders, I will never turn away. I continue to gain inspiration from ordinary Israelis. Let me share three of their stories as we mark six months since October 7th.

Immediately after arriving we traveled to Jerusalem and Israel’s military cemetery, Har Herzl. Given that Jerusalem sits on a mountain the cemetery is not like Arlington’s expansive green lawns with rows and rows of white grave markers. Instead Har Herzl is terraced. Each terrace is filled with the graves of those who were killed in each of Israel’s particular conflicts. Here is the 1967 Six Day War and there the 1948 War of Independence. We stopped in the section with the graves of those killed in the 1973 Yom Kippur War. We wanted to gain a frame of reference for what we would see next.

We then made our way to the new section with the graves of those killed on October 7th and the war that continues to this day. One section is already filled. Another is also nearly filled. I was struck by the ages inscribed on the graves. Born in 2000. Fell in 2023. Nearly everyone buried here is so young. Look at Israel’s youth. Is this the tragic cost of being a Jew

We then saw a young man sitting on a plastic chair by a grave, rolling a cigarette. We ventured toward him… 

This post continues on The Times of Israel.

Israel’s Courage and Its Mistakes

People make mistakes. People sometimes make tragic mistakes. And in war, these mistakes occasionally have deadly consequences. We mourn the deaths of seven World Central Kitchen aid workers. The organization’s director accused Israel (and Hamas!?) of using food as a weapon. Erin Gore said, “This is an attack on humanitarian organizations showing up in the most dire of situations where food is being used as a weapon of war. This is unforgivable.”

I do not believe Israel is using food as a weapon. It understandably prioritizes the lives of its hostages still held in Gaza’s tunnels over ordinary Gazans. I have confidence there will be an honest accounting of what went so terribly wrong, and I hope a thoughtful reckoning. I believe in Israel’s character. I have faith in its military leaders despite its soldiers’ occasional callousness. I recognize that others do not feel the same. They do not know Israel as I know Israel. They do not know Israelis as I know Israelis.

At present I am again in Israel traveling with congregants to learn more about the current situation. There is growing disaffection with Israel’s political leaders who many accuse of prioritizing their own political survival over the lives of soldiers and hostages. This past weekend there were large protests calling for new elections when Netanyahu will most likely face defeat. Six months into this war Israelis remain traumatized and pained.

There is anger at the Netanyahu government’s failures that led to the October 7th massacre. There is anger that the burden of service is not shared by the ultra-Orthodox. I came across a protest sign that reads, “Your brothers go to war while you stay here!?” There is anger that the world once again appears blind to Jews’ pain. There is disillusionment and sometimes, understandable despair. There is gratitude to those who travel here and continue their support.

I remain inspired by Israelis’ resilience. Their courage is enviable. The sense of “we are all in this together” is palpable. One unexpected example. We met with a young Bedouin woman who runs an organization devoted to women’s empowerment. She taught herself English by watching “Friends.” She is Muslim and wears a headscarf. Her boyfriend serves in the Israeli Defense Forces. Members of the Bedouin and Druze communities serve in the military and are Israeli citizens. On October 7th she lost family members and friends. Other Bedouins rescued people escaping the terrorist onslaught. She shared this remarkable story with the group. Everyone should watch the video.

She also told us that she has family members living in Gaza and was recently there attending a wedding. She described the difficulties crossing the border and how Hamas fighters questioned her. She refused their pressures. She despises Hamas. She worries about Israel’s soldiers and the hostages. She mourns those murdered. She worries about her Gaza family living seemingly nearby but in reality in a distant land. She worries that such a holy land could feel so cursed.

Her heart is broken and torn. We asked her how her family in Gaza is doing. We misunderstood her answer. “Yes, they must be angry,” we said. She responded, “No, they are not angry. They are hungry.” It’s even more basic. And now, I fear, they are even hungrier.

The hostages too are hungry. 134 people remain in captivity. It is now 180 days since they were captured. A new exhibit at hostage square displays half eaten pitas symbolizing how the captives must be scrounging for food. Another a long table with over 200 seats. Nearly half the table is neat and tidy with plates displaying the words “How good it is that you have come home.” The other half displays bottles of dirty water and filthy plates. People remain captive in underground tunnels.

I hear the words in my ears. They are hungry.

This is unforgivable.

Change Your Clothes, Change Your Attitude

Leviticus is filled with inordinate and detailed lists about rituals we no longer perform. This week we read more about the sacrifices. The priests, descendants of Aaron, were charged with performing these offerings.

One would expect given the priests’ lofty position they would not have to perform mundane activities. Yet, they had to do things like tending to the fire. It is not left to the temple custodian but instead to the priests.

The Torah proclaims, “The fire on the altar shall be kept burning, not to go out: every morning the priest shall feed wood to it.” (Leviticus 6) Keeping such a fire going was no easy task. It was physically demanding. And yet, it was left to the priest. Tending the fire required constant attention and care.

What is ordinary becomes holy when performed in the temple’s sacred precinct. What is mundane becomes elevated in the priest’s hands.

Furthermore, the priest was charged with other ordinary jobs. One in particular seems rather disgusting. The large sacrificial fire must have produced a tremendous amount of ash. Again, every morning it was the priest’s job to remove the ash. “He shall then take off his vestments and put on other vestments and carry the ash outside the camp to a pure place.”

Why did he have to change his clothes? He does not change his clothes to lift the ash out of the fire pit. It is only when he removes the ash from the sacred precinct and carries it outside the camp.

The Hasidic rebbe, Simchah Bunim, responds. He writes, “The first act of the priest every morning is to put on ordinary clothes and remove the ash of the previous night’s sacrifice. This ensures that he will never forget his link to the ordinary people who spend their days in mundane pursuits.”

The Torah insists that the priest is not exempt from menial tasks. It also insists that he never forget he is just like everyone else. His change of clothes helps guard him against thinking he is unlike others, that he is better than others.

Too often leaders allow themselves to believe they are extraordinary. They forget the central responsibility of leadership. Leaders only become extraordinary when the people they lead are lifted to extraordinary heights.

Likewise, we often think that our synagogue services, and the prayers we recite, are somehow disconnected from our everyday, ordinary lives. They are not. They may seem like they are only about God but instead they are about changing our frame of mind.

Our prayers are meant to reinvigorate the everyday with meaning. They are intended to provide us with renewed strength. Then the ordinary can feel extraordinary.

I just wish it was as simple as changing our clothes.

Today’s Antisemitism and Today’s Politics

What follows is my sermon from Shabbat evening services about antisemitism and in particular anti-Zionism.

Effy’s Café, a popular Israeli restaurant on Manhattan’s Upper West Side, was recently vandalized. Graffiti was spray painted on the sidewalk. It read “Form line here to support genocide. Israelism is terrorism. Israel is ethnic cleansing.”

We live in an age when anti-Zionism, when opposition to Israel’s legitimate defense of its citizens is the same as the antisemitism of ages past. Such graffiti misrepresents Israel’s policies. They distort its actions. On college campuses Jewish students are accosted. This is antisemitic hooliganism. Don’t buy the arguments “We are not opposed to Jews, only to Israel.” Why is it that only the Jewish state is not only denied the right to defend its citizens but denied the right to exist? The chant “From the river to the sea,” means the end of Israel as a Jewish nation. Professor Ron Hassner, who is protesting Berkley’s failures to protect its Jewish students from such violent protestors with a sit-in—he has not left his office in over a week—argues that anti-Zionism is the worst form of antisemitism because its goal is to rob Jews of their only home.

Two weeks ago, the literary magazine, Guernica, named for Pablo Picasso’s famous anti-war painting and founded twenty years ago partly in response to the Iraq War, retracted an article written by an Israeli author. In this piece Joanna Chen struggles with Israel’s military response to October 7th and worries about the future of peace with her Palestinian neighbors. Chen is a translator of both Hebrew and Arabic poetry. She did not serve in the IDF. Instead, she worked with Road to Recovery, an organization that helps transport Palestinians to and from their needed medical appointments. She is not your typical Israeli. Then again, like every Israeli, she writes about her fears after October 7th. She mourns the murders of friends, some of whom were likewise devoted to Israeli-Palestinian co-existence. She reaches out to her Palestinian acquaintances and shares these exchanges in her article. It is an angst filled essay entitled “From the Edges of a Broken World.”

And yet soon after the article was published, the magazine had an open revolt among its staff. Fifteen resigned in protest. One called the article “a hand-wringing apologia for Zionism and the ongoing genocide in Palestine.” Another wrote that the magazine’s decision to publish the piece made it “a pillar of eugenicist white colonialism masquerading as goodness.“ Tell that to the hundreds of thousands of non-European Jews who fled Arab lands (approximately 750,000) and then made Israel their home. In our upside-down world the victims are the oppressors. And the murdering terrorists are the heroes. Antisemitism! The magazine retracted the article and removed it from its website. In its place we read, “Guernica regrets having published this piece, and has retracted it. A more fulsome explanation will follow.” That was posted on March 4th. There has been no follow up to date.

I share this example because it is emblematic of our current times. Guernica is not a magazine meant only for Palestinian writers although it often features them. It claims to provide a space for writers of every identity and culture so that the pressing issues of the day can be aired. But that is not where we are at anymore. The magazine has a liberal bent and an anti-war bias, but this example illustrates what is the quagmire of today’s antisemitism. We are trapped by narrative and belief. We only believe what we believe and never what they believe. Gone is the art of discourse. Lost forever is debate.

There is only my narrative versus your narrative, my beliefs versus your beliefs. How else does one explain the fact that the sexual violence committed by Hamas terrorists is ignored or even denied by many feminist groups? It does not fit into their narrative that Israel is the oppressor and Palestinians are the victims. This is what we saw on display at the Academy Awards when Jonathan Glazer spoke as if the occupation was the singular cause of the continuing war and bloodshed between Israelis and Palestinians. It’s not so simple. No narrative box fits perfectly for every situation. No amount of Instagram posts or TikTok videos will fix the misunderstandings. We can share all the memes we want, but they will only further entrench both sides. We convince only ourselves and not the people we actually need to talk to. We push the very people who desperately need to talk face to face farther apart.

That seemed like Joanna Chen’s primary lament. She was struggling to reach across the divide, but our world has become about building walls around each and every thing, and each and every person, and each and every feeling. I only want the magazine I read, or write for, or work for, to publish things that affirm my feelings and my beliefs.

And this brings me to Senator Schumer. I know this is going to make me unpopular, but can we just relax about his speech. Of course, it makes me uncomfortable that my Senator castigated Israel and its leaders on the Senate floor, but we are spending so much time and energy arguing about whether or not he should have given this speech that we avoid talking about the content of his words. I read his speech in detail. He spoke about his love for Israel. He spoke out against antisemitism in general and Hamas’ evils in particular. He spoke about the pain of October 7th and the ongoing suffering among innocent Gazans. He then said in effect, “The goal of US policy is peace between Israel and its neighbors, most especially the Palestinians. And there are four obstacles to achieving this: Hamas, radical right-wing Israelis, Palestinian Authority President Mahmoud Abbas and Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu.”

I am not going to parse his arguments at this moment, but I think we should engage his ideas. We should debate the content of his arguments. Yes, I am uneasy that he proclaimed them so publicly. Yes, I am uncomfortable that he laid bare the divide between the two nations I love and most especially that he urged for Israeli elections, but our arguments about propriety and statesmanship avoid the debate. Given that Israel is the recipient of US aid Americans can debate whether aiding Israel is in American interests. Americans are allowed to criticize Israel when they feel it falls short of meeting American values. I strenuously disagree, but it is not illegitimate for the US and its leaders to offer pointed criticisms of Israeli policy.

If we believe in free speech, then we must believe it for our elected officials. We have a voice. It is heard every November. Until then, let’s argue even with those with whom we disagree. Let’s not confuse our friends—however uncomfortable they may make us sometimes feel—with our enemies.

This Shabbat is called Shabbat Zachor, the sabbath of remembrance. It is the Shabbat immediately preceding Purim. On Purim we recall the antisemitic wrath of Haman and our victory over his hate. On this Shabbat we remember Amalek, our ancient enemy who attacked the weak and frail Israelites who marched in the back.

Sometimes I think things seemed clearer in the ancient world. Friend and foe were more obvious. Of course, the world was equally dangerous, but those lines appeared clearer. Perhaps that is the benefit of hindsight. Then again maybe our current predicament is different. We are so trapped in our silos that we can no longer even give countenance to those with whom we disagree. We refuse to engage with those who profess ideas we find abhorrent. We appear to be forever playing defense. But our tradition, both the Jewish and American, is about engaging, and debating, ideas. We use our words as weapons. We use our pens as our armaments.

When I was traveling in Madrid, I saw some graffiti scrawled on a wall near the apartment I was renting. It read, “Free Palestine.” And someone had come along and added, “From Hamas.” And then someone else had come along later and crossed out Hamas and wrote, “From Israel.” That seems like the perfect metaphor. There is plenty of wall space left for the debates and the arguments to continue.

Violence must be met with a vigorous defense and if necessary, an armed defense. But I am going to continue fighting words with words.

Addendum: Professor Ron Hassen ended his two week sit-in on Saturday, March 23.

Israel’s Responsibilities to Gaza’s Children

Although Purim is celebrated with laughter and revelry, the megillah concludes on a violent note. We dwell on the joy. We forget the violence. We hide it behind costumes and masks. The Book of Esther declares: “So the Jews struck at their enemies with the sword, slaying and destroying; they wreaked their will upon their enemies… They disposed of their enemies, killing seventy-five thousand of their foes.” (Esther 9)

We forget how the war started.

It begins with antisemitic violence and genocidal hate.

It was not only that Hamas terrorists attacked Israeli communities and murdered innocent people. It was that Hamas terrorists invaded Israelis’ homes, butchered, and brutally murdered people. They raped women and girls. They took people hostages where they continue to brutalize and rape them. They desecrated the dead and took bodies captive. This is what started the war. Hamas represents the worst of humanity. They are akin to the Nazis who likewise filmed their atrocities.

Israel has every right, and duty, to attack the perpetrators. It must fulfill its obligations to its citizens to safeguard their lives and their homes. But these truths do not mean that this war can be won the way it is currently being fought…

This post continues on The Times of Israel.

Carrying Grief, Lifting Together

Some of parents’ fondest memories are those times when they held their infant children and paced the room trying to soothe them. We often forget the screaming and crying, the lateness of the hour and even the smelly diaper. Instead, our memories tend to dwell on the softness of their skin next to ours and the weight of the babies in our arms.

In ancient times, the Levites carried the tabernacle, transporting it from one encampment to the next. Why does the Torah insist they had to carry the mishkan? As one study partner added, “Why didn’t God tell them to add wheels to the portable sanctuary?” That would have made their journeying so much easier.

One answer is that easy is not the goal. It does not appear to be part of God’s vocabulary. Is parenting easy? Of course not. Just ask my brother’s mother and father! Easy rarely coincides with meaningful. As children grow older, carrying transitions from the physical to the emotional. As we grow older, carrying sometimes moves to the shoulders of our children.

The Levites were specifically charged with carrying the tabernacle. It was broken into its constituent parts for transport. Later the Torah reports, “You shall put the Levites in charge of the tabernacle, all its furnishings, and everything that pertains to it: they shall carry the tabernacle and all its furnishings.” (Numbers 1)

There is an intimacy suggested by carrying. Parents don’t allow anyone, and everyone, to carry their children. The tabernacle was the Levites’ responsibility. Its weight was their blessing. In addition, the mishkan could not be carried by one person alone. Heavy lifts should be shared.

They must be shared. Too often people try to do all the carrying themselves.

Think about grief and mourning. Even though it might be an individual’s obligation and we frequently cry when alone, Judaism suggests that we should not mourn by ourselves. Reciting the Mourner’s Kaddish requires a minyan of ten, the minimum number for a community. It is a fascinating philosophical statement. It is as if Judaism says, “You may feel like being alone or maybe even think you should be left alone, but we are not going to do that. We cannot do that. Never forget, even though you might be the only one standing, you are always surrounded by the love of your congregation.” The Mourners’ pain remains their own, but the weight of their grief is carried by others. There is a little bit on this person and another fraction on another.

Together we can lift what may seem unimaginably heavy.

There was gold, silver and copper used in the building of the tabernacle. The gold alone weighed 87,730 shekels which is equivalent to 21,933 pounds! And still the Levites lifted and carried it on their shoulders. It was not one person’s job, but the entire tribe’s. Together they lifted and carried the tabernacle—despite its heaviness.

And there are moments when the demands of parenting seem unimaginably heavy. The weight of the responsibilities can feel crushing. There are moments when the demands of caring for elderly parents, or sick relatives, seems impossibly heavy.

Remember this. Even when it appears like there is no one to help, there is. Recall the message of the minyan. Even when you might be the only one standing, there are others who are offering their support and concern. There are others who can help.

And always remember, “The Presence of the Lord filled the tabernacle.” (Exodus 40)

Why? Why was the mishkan filled with God’s presence?

Because we carried it together.

The Blessings of Burdens

According to the ancient Greek legend, Sisyphus angers the gods and is punished with the task of rolling a huge boulder up a steep hill. Each time he gets close to the mountaintop the stone rolls back down and Sisyphus must again start the exhausting work of pushing the boulder up the hill. Again and again, and for all time, Sisyphus must do this same task, even though there is no hope of ever completing the work. He is condemned to the eternal fate of rolling the stone up the mountain but never reaching the top.

This week we read about the building of the tabernacle. Even though the entire community contributes to the building of this mishkan, and Bezalel is the construction project’s leader, the honor of lifting the final boards into place is reserved for Moses. When God explains his privilege, our hero worries about his age and his ability to do this heavy task. He is well into his eighties at this point. (Makes me think of someone else doing some difficult and important work.) Moses protests and says, “Maybe I could have done this many years ago, but I am no longer young. I cannot lift these boards myself.”

God instructs Moses to lift them anyway. And when Moses bends down to lift the boards, it is as if they lift themselves. The midrash explains. Our hero is aided by God in doing the work of the tabernacle. We never lift by ourselves. The heaviest of lifts are assisted by God (and others, I would add). No matter how young or how old we are, when doing such holy work, it is as if the weight of the burden no longer exists. It is as if the boards are like feathers.

For Judaism, lifting is a privilege. It is not a punishment. Even if we never get to the top of the mountain, lifting is a blessing. It is not a curse.

In fact, our tradition constructs our lives around responsibilities, duties, and yes, even burdens. It is not easy carving out a day like Shabbat and even a few hours on this seventh day to leave the work week behind. It is not so simple preparing a Passover seder and its many symbolic foods. It is not always so convenient to give a tzedakah donation. (I have so many other emails to wade through!) And yet these are among our tradition’s holy tasks.

Burdens are blessings.

This is not how we tend to see things. The goal of modernity is to un-burden our lives and most especially to un-burden our children’s lives. How many newfangled devices are advertised as time savers and ways of doing away with everyday chores? Look at some of the many autonomous vacuum machines and their advertisements. “iRobot. So you can human.” Look at how we twist ourselves in knots, and throw our schedules into disarray, so our children cannot miss out on any activity or be saddled with chores.

Judaism teaches us not to let go of these burdens but instead to see them as blessings. We should not lift them for our children. But instead lift them together.

I once heard a legend about a Hasidic rebbe. One day his disciples saw him sweeping the sanctuary’s floors. His disciples were astonished. He responded that even something as mundane as cleaning the synagogue’s floors is holy work. “But rabbi,” they said, “It is beneath your stature. You could be studying. You could be teaching.” He turned to them and smiled. He continued sweeping then began singing a niggun. When done with the task, the rebbe said, “Now the sanctuary is indeed deserving of our prayers. Now the synagogue is fit for study and learning."

To be Jewish nothing is a curse. To be human nothing need feel like a burden.

Chores may feel like Sisyphus’ boulder. They are not. They are instead like the boards of the tabernacle. They may be heavy and may even seem beyond our abilities, or perhaps beneath our worthiness, but they can always be filled with meaning.

A life of meaning is predicated on duty, not leisure. Our lives are blessed with responsibilities.

Perhaps the burdens we carry we feel as light as the final boards of the mishkan.

Then again sometimes the most meaningful burdens are in fact the heaviest.

Anger’s Double-Edged Sword

If ever there was an example of justified anger it is that of Moses who, as we read this week, smashes the tablets when he sees the people dancing before the golden calf. “As soon as Moses came near the camp and saw the calf and the dancing, he became enraged; and he hurled the tablets from his hands and shattered them at the foot of the mountain.” (Exodus 32)

And if ever there was an example of unjustified anger it is that of Moses who, as we will read in later months, strikes the rock because the people will not stop complaining about the lack of water. “And Moses raised his hand and struck the rock twice with his staff. Out came copious water, and the community and their beasts drank.” (Numbers 20)

Then again are the effects of anger ever so clear.

In the first instance, Moses’ actions are deemed understandable. The people are punished for their sin and God makes another set of tablets. In the second, Moses is punished. Because he strikes the rock, he is not allowed to enter the promised land. The difference between Moses’ actions is not apparent.

Why in one is our leader’s anger understandable and rewarded, and in the other questionable and punished? Rabbinic commentators expound at length. They debate the differences. They parse the meaning of this emotion. Is anger ever justified? Can it sometimes serve noble purposes?

Rebecca Solnit opines: “Much political rhetoric suggests that without anger there is no powerful engagement, that anger is a sort of gasoline that runs the engine of social change.” She rightly points out that people often dismiss legitimate complaints about societal injustices by calling their advocates “angry.” Those who speak out against our nation’s ongoing struggle with racism or our current battles against antisemitism are labeled by their detractors as angry.

When the status quo is threatened the agitator is called angry. Look to the struggle for women’s rights. In the same situation a man who takes charge might be called “decisive” and a woman “bossy.” Solnit writes, “For decades people have stereotyped feminists as angry, and in doing so have denied aspects of women’s experience that it is reasonable to be angry about.” (Harper’s Magazine, “Facing the Furies”)

Our tradition worries about the dangers of anger. It urges us to let go of this emotion. (Like most institutions, and governments, our Jewish tradition is of course resistant to change.) Our rabbis are weary of anger’s effects. They worry about how it turns people away from each other. “Anger causes one to think irrationally and speak out of anger, thus triggering disputes and quarrels.” (Orchot Tzadikim, Gate 12) Look at social media. Count how many exclamation points and all caps appear on your feed. These sites’ algorithms turn the temperature up rather than down. Let’s be honest. Facebook is not really about friendship. It is instead about anger. It damages more relationships than it cements.

Anger is indeed a double-edged sword.

There is a thin line separating anger’s effects. At times it serves noble purposes and others debases these very same purposes.

Look back to Moses. In both instances he hit stones. He did not hit people. And yet, these very same apparent actions have different outcomes. In this week’s example he effectuates change and moves the people away from idolatry. In the later instance Moses’ anger ends up denying him personal reward and his lifelong goal of reaching the promised land.

Anger may indeed be likened to gasoline. It can fuel change. Solnit concludes, “But sometimes gasoline just makes things explode.” And that is the problem with anger. Once it is unleashed it can lead to change. Once it is poured out it can also lead to destruction.

We need to change. We also need each other.

Humility and Leadership

Sometimes the burdens of leadership are obvious. Other times they are not. Sometimes leaders get all the credit they deserve. Other times they do not.

This week Moses is not even mentioned by name. He is called by name in every other portion from Exodus to Numbers, but not in this week’s. Furthermore, he is instructed to lavish honor on his brother, Aaron as well as his four nephews but not his own children or most especially himself. Moses must fashion Aaron’s priestly robes. He must honor his brother. The Torah commands, “You are to make sacred garments for Aaron your brother, for glory and for splendor.” (Exodus 28)

Why is this Moses’ job? Why does the head honcho have to make sure Aaron has the correct outfit to perform his duties? Moses certainly has a lot on his plate. Why can’t Aaron take care of his own clothes? Why must others, and most especially Moses, dress Aaron and the priests?

It is because even the greatest of leaders must bow before the importance of Aaron’s role. As priest, he will reassure the people of God’s presence and care. The rituals Aaron performs offer comfort. Moses, on the other hand, is burdened with difficult decisions. He must be decisive, and sometimes even forceful. His job is to get the people to the promised land. Aaron’s role, on the other hand, is to offer reassurance along the way.

I wonder. Are comfort and reassurance the more important, and necessary, offerings? Is Aaron’s role more crucial than Moses’ pronouncements? Perhaps you cannot get to the promised land, perhaps you cannot accomplish the most difficult of goals if your hearts are not reassured.

Moses participates in accomplishing these in a quiet, behind the scenes manner. He does not command comfort. Instead, he stitches fabrics.

Often people confuse such humility with a lack of decisiveness. Perhaps the command to prepare his brother Aaron’s clothes serves as reminder to Moses. “You might think you’re a big shot, but everyone needs to do ordinary things. Moses, you do not always need to be the most important person in the room (tent).”

The task teaches the lesson. By tending to his brother, Moses learns. The tradition praises Moses for his extraordinary humility. The rabbis teach: “People who humble themselves, God exalts them. People who exalt themselves, God humbles them. People who seek greatness, greatness flees from them. People who flee from greatness, greatness follows them.” (Babylonian Talmud, Eruvin 13b)

The rabbis preach to themselves. If you are humble and shun greatness God will take care of the rest.

Leadership is not always accomplished by fiery pronouncements. Sometimes it is learned by tending to others.

There is no job beneath any person. Every task, no matter how seemingly lowly, is imbued with holiness.

The Torah Is Not a History Book

One of the challenges in reading the Torah is that we read its stories in chronological order. Because something is reported in Exodus, for example, we assume it occurred before those things detailed in Deuteronomy. We bring our modern view of history and time to ancient words.

Perhaps this is not the best approach. The Torah is not a history book. Instead, its purpose is to provide meaning.

The rabbis understood this and read our sacred book’s words searching for meaning. They were guided by the principle that there is no early or late in the Torah. In other words, despite the order of events, all of the Torah was given in one moment. This worldview allows us to read an ancient text in new and novel ways.

Take for example, the command to build a tabernacle, detailed in this week’s portion. The Lord commands the Israelites to build a sanctuary and to locate it within a “tent of witness.” And to what will this grand building project witness? That our wrongs will be forgiven. How do we come to this interpretation? Because our tradition argues—despite the chapters’ order—the instructions for building a sanctuary follow, rather than precede, the sin of the golden calf.

The rabbis continue. According to tradition, the command to build this tabernacle was given on Yom Kippur, the day we believe God forgives our wrongs if we but acknowledge them and work to rectify them. Even though we continually fall short, and disappoint, God always remains in our midst. God forever remains by our side.

The Torah declares: “Build for Me a sanctuary that I may dwell among them.” (Exodus 25) The tabernacle assuages and provides meaning. It is as if to say, “Even after you sin and build an idol, God forgives us. All we have to do is direct our prayers in the proper direction.”

Reading the command to build a tabernacle after the sin of the golden calf makes more sense. It offers needed reassurance and concrete tasks. Otherwise, we only see God’s anger.

This week, and its commands, comes as a response to our failures and a salve to God’s wrath. God does not need a sanctuary. We need it. God is constantly learning how to teach the Israelites and realizes after the golden calf that people cannot pray to some abstract being.

Moses leaves them alone for several weeks and they panic and start building an idol. “Better they should build what I tell them to build,” God reasons. “Better that they should build the right thing.” The Torah states, “Tell the Israelite people to bring Me gifts; you shall accept gifts for Me from every person whose hearts so move them.”

People need to be able to see something with their own eyes. They need to be invested in building something with their own hands.

By doing away with the chapters’ order, the rabbis invest new meaning into the Torah’s words.

Order does not always provide meaning.

History, and its endless timelines, do not always provide the greatest lessons.

God never abandons us.

An Eye for an Eye

Mahatma Ghandi famously said: “An eye for an eye only ends up making the whole world blind.”

Ghandi’s life was of course the living embodiment of pacifism. He preached against taking up arms and called others to turn away from seeking the revenge the Torah’s words imply. Ghandi however, as well as the vast majority of commentators, misunderstand the Bible’s intent.

The Torah states: “If other damage ensues, the penalty shall be life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot, burn for burn, wound for wound, bruise for bruise.” (Exodus 21)

Scholars suggest that the phrase “an eye for an eye” is a poetic way of expressing the idea, also enshrined in American law, that the punishment must fit the crime. The punishment should not be too lenient, namely a tooth for an eye, or too harsh, a life for an eye. Justice must be served by the punishment. The medieval philosopher, Moses Maimonides, writes: “There never was any Rabbi, from the time of Moses until now who ruled, based on an eye for an eye that he who blinds another person should also be blinded.”

It is not vengeance the Torah urges. Its goal is instead justice. Punishment, or compensation, restores balance. The scales tip towards equity. Society endures.

Revenge is contrary to the Jewish tradition. It is expressly forbidden in the Torah: “You shall not seek vengeance.” (Leviticus 19) In addition the Torah provides protections for someone who commits manslaughter. It urges the establishment of what are called “cities of refuge” so that the person’s safety is guaranteed from family members, or friends, who might try to seek revenge.

Vengeance is a distortion of justice. And this is the Torah’s paramount concern.

This is why I bristle every time commentators describe Israel’s military response to Hamas’ October 7th massacre as revenge or for that matter the United States’ attacks against Houthis or Kataib Hezbollah as revenge. They are exercises in self-defense. It is a nation-state’s right, and even more important, duty to protect its citizens from harm and guarantee their future safety.

People can disagree about the wisdom of particular military actions. There are legitimate criticisms of Israel’s military response in Gaza and America’s wielding of power, most especially in the turbulent Middle East, but to suggest their goal is vengeance is to misunderstand a nation’s obligations and rights.

We are not pacifists. We do, however, stand against vengeance.

We stand for justice and equity.

Ask Your In-Laws

The relationship to in laws is often filled with tension. The family to which one becomes a part has different customs, and even rules, than the family in which one was raised. Both think their way of doing things is the right way or so it appears to the so-called newcomer. There is rarely a perfect melding of families. Sometimes there are jealousies. Other times there are resentments.

This is why it is so surprising to read that Moses leans on the advice not of his father, but of his father-in-law Yitro, for whom the portion is named. Granted Moses’ father was not part of his life because of Pharoah’s threat to kill all the first-born Israelites. The Torah’s hero was raised by his adopted Egyptian family from whom he then fled because he killed one of the taskmasters. Now we find him in Yitro’s house.

Who else could Moses go to for aged wisdom? He could have asked God who burdened him with the task of leading the Israelites out of slavery. Instead, he turns to Yitro. And we quite frequently gloss over this relationship because it is mentioned in the same portion that details the revelation on Mount Sinai and the words of the Ten Commandments.

We read: “Moses’ father-in-law said to him, ‘The thing you are doing is not right; you will surely wear yourself out, and these people as well. For the task is too heavy for you; you cannot do it alone. Now listen to me. I will give you counsel.’” (Exodus 18)

Like any good in-law, Yitro offers unsolicited advice. And like any good son-in-law Moses is at first resistant. Moses argues that he is the one whom God has chosen and that only he can discern God’s will when adjudicating disputes among the people. Moses responds with a considerable amount of “I’s.” Yitro reminds him that other people can help. He can delegate. He does not need to get it all done himself.

This stands in stark contrast to the tradition’s praise of Moses. There we read of his unparalleled humility. I am wondering if he learned that here and now. He learned humility not on the top of Mount Sinai communing with God but instead at the feet of his father-in-law.

The Torah proclaims, “Moses heeded his father-in-law and did just as he said.”

And now I am wondering if that’s all it takes to let go of the tension and dispense with the jokes about in-laws.

Or as my father-in-law likes to advise, “Never pass on dessert. And aways pay in cash.”

Every Ending Is Also a Beginning

This week we mark the conclusion of the Book of Genesis. Jacob dies. His body is carried back to the land of Israel from Egypt. Joseph dies. His body remains in Egypt where the Jewish people now reside, only to be carried to the Promised Land after the people’s freedom from slavery. Genesis ends with the words, “Joseph died at the age of one hundred and ten years; and he was embalmed and placed in a coffin in Egypt.” (Genesis 50)

Genesis concludes in the wrong place. We are trapped in Egypt. The anticipation of our return hangs in the air. And then, as we know, from our Passover seders, the journey begins (again) when we are freed from slavery. Joseph accompanies them. “And Moses took with him the bones of Joseph, who had exacted an oath from the children of Israel, saying, ‘God will be sure to take notice of you: then you shall carry up my bones from here with you.’” (Exodus 13)

Every ending is also a beginning.

Such is the theme of our upcoming New Year celebrations. Goodbye 2023! May 2024 be better and brighter. May it be filled with peace and harmony.

These days, these sentiments feel like empty hopes and prayers. We are at war with our enemies. And with ourselves. The words of the poet, Peter Cole, come to mind:

Either the world is coming together,
or else the world is falling apart —
here — now — along these letters,
against the walls of every heart.

Today, tomorrow, within its weather,
the end or beginning’s about to start —
the world impossibly coming together
or very possibly falling apart….

That’s the nightmare, that’s the terror,
that’s the Isaac of this art —
which sees that the world might come together
if only we’re willing to take it apart.

The dream, the lure, is the prayer’s answer,
which can’t be plotted on any chart —
as we know the world that’s coming together
without our knowing is falling apart. (Song of the Shattering Vessels)

Every ending contains the seeds and promise of new beginnings.

When we conclude the reading of one of the Torah’s five books, we say, “Chazak! Chazak! V’nitchazek!—Strength! Strength! May we be strengthened!”

The world is falling apart. Can we see glimmers that it might also be coming together?

Every ending is also a beginning! Chazak! Chazak! V’nitchazek!

We Are Stronger Than You Think!

What follows is my sermon about the strength and inspiration I gained from traveling on a solidarity mission to Israel.

As you know I returned this morning from a brief, but intense rabbinic solidarity mission to Israel. When there we volunteered and picked vegetables that were later distributed to hotels overwhelmed by the 100,000 Israelis displaced from their homes in the South and North and to army bases also overwhelmed but in this instance by the unprecedented call up of reserves. We walked the pathways of the once thriving kibbutz Kfar Azza that was attacked on October 7th and where 68 people were murdered because they are Jews, and a number were taken hostage by Hamas terrorists and where we also heard promises that the kibbutz will be rebuilt. We traveled to the army base that cares for soldiers killed in battle but that was forced to care for thousands after the October 7th massacre and where one of the rabbis told us he can never again drink chocolate milk because hundreds of victims arrived in a refrigerator truck emblazoned with the Shoko milk graphics and logo. And that was only part of one day.

I have seen things that no one should ever see. And I have seen things that everyone needs to see, and I would add, hear.

Before I left on this trip, people asked if I was afraid for my safety, and some were even nervous about my going. (Shout out to my mom and dad!) I was not. And I am still not afraid. Here is why. Even during war, I feel safe in Israel. It is home. And even during the worst of times one feels comfortable at home. I was afraid however that what I might see would be unsettling—and some of what I did see and hear was so disturbing that I had trouble sleeping most nights.

I was especially nervous that the situation is worse than I thought. In some ways it is. The end game is unclear. Israel’s political leadership is vacuous. In other ways, it is not. The people of Israel are resolute and strong and inspiring. Despite the extensive trauma and ongoing war, I came away even more inspired by Israel and the Jewish people.

First let me briefly talk about the unsettling. Every Israeli I spoke with believes in the need to eliminate Hamas’ military capabilities and in particular its ability to terrorize Israel and its citizens. Despite the American press describing Israel’s military actions as retaliatory they are not. They are an exercise of Israel’s sacred obligation to defend its citizens. Everyone agrees about the importance and need to return the hostages to their families. People might wonder how this will end, or even think some of Israel’s military actions are too severe, but everyone is supportive of the army and its soldiers.

Still, I was surprised by the level of anger and disillusionment with the current government. It seemed to cut across political lines. Most believe that Netanyahu’s day of reckoning will come. Let me be clear. The failures of Israel’s leadership and the many mistakes made allowing so many Hamas terrorists to massacre so many people on October 7th and the funds that were knowingly allowed to go to Hamas does not excuse Hamas for its crimes. The government’s continued insistence that Palestinian statehood is not in Israel’s moral and strategic interest does not explain Hamas’ murderous ideology and antisemitism. We must not confuse how this happened with why. Some of the how’s can be leveled at Netanyahu and his cronies and even at IDF leaders, although the latter have already taken responsibility for their failures. The why’s, however, remain Hamas’ ideology of murder and hate.

Israelis’ anger at their political leadership is palpable. I think this is because it stands in stark contrast with the extraordinary leadership of Israel’s ordinary citizens. The level of volunteerism that has taken root is breathtaking. Organizations shifted their focus overnight. New charities emerged. Strangers showed up to wash soldier’s uniforms when they returned to their bases. Award winning chefs cooked meals for them. Where the government failed to step in, the people rushed into the void.

Take but three examples.

In Jerusalem, we met with Adir Schwartz, a community leader. In a few days he and others built what is now a command center for volunteers that has taken over the film school complex. What was on October 8th was only one floor, now occupies almost the entire building. 6000 volunteers help get personal gear to soldiers, tend to the needs of the 25,000 evacuees housed in 63 Jerusalem hotels and help local Jerusalemites. There was no such organization two months ago. Now it is vast network of people helping others, supplying 40,000 meals every day to those in need. They set up the clothing donations as a clothing store with a coffee shop. He spoke to us about the guiding principle of their efforts: kavod haadam—respect for the human being. Every act of generosity is guided by this idea. That is why it is a clothing store rather than piles of handouts. He said, “The worst feeling during the war is to feel alone.” Then he added, “We have not felt alone since day one. We are one people with one heart.” Adir concluded, “It could have happened to any of us.”

We watched as people ran in and out, running volunteer errands, lifting boxes for deliveries or shopping for dresses. There was no obvious distinction between who was a giver and who a recipient. Perhaps, I wondered, in some not so mysterious way, even the givers are recipients. We are one people. He thanked us for coming and then told us that he sees our difficulties and struggles. He knows about the rising antisemitism in America. He feels our pain. Imagine such a sentiment. In the midst of this difficult war and challenging time in his own life, he is thinking beyond and about others—even those thousands of miles away. We are one people with one heart.

We then met with evacuees at the Orient Hotel. The Orient is among Jerusalem’s fanciest hotels. Its owner decided to prioritize the housing of evacuees even though the government does not pay enough to cover the true costs. Almost all the residents of Kibbutz Or HaNer are living there. Imagine walking to a conference room only to discover that it has been converted to a nursery school room and the lobby made into a makeshift playground. A girl roller bladed outside our meeting room. One kibbutz leader said, “It’s a nice hotel but we miss our kitchen and our garden. Our teenagers don’t like the city schools and even penned a protest letter demanding that we return to the kibbutz.”

Through tears they described what happened to them on October 7th. Their kibbutz was not directly attacked. Still, they hid in safe rooms. The security team members grabbed their weapons and kissed their partners goodbye. Many raced to their cars and hastily threw their children in the backseat, only stopping to buckle their seatbelts when they were miles and miles away. They are traumatized by that day. They are traumatized by the sporadic rocket attacks that has continued throughout the years. They are traumatized by living in a hotel and wonder if they will be able to stay in the Orient until the day they can return home. They are traumatized when it will be safe to go back to their beloved Or HaNer. And they are traumatized that they may forever be afraid to go back home. The Israel Trauma Coalition is working overtime. And yet, these kibbutzniks are faring better than most. “Always remember,” they said, “Our strength is our community.” They have each other to rely on. Even though they are not home they are together.

We then traveled to Tel Aviv and to what is now called Hostage Square and there we met with the Hostages and Missing Families Forum. 160 families are represented by this forum.

Its goal is to make sure that the plight of the hostages is never forgotten. The danger is the human heart will grow accustomed to the fact 130 hostages remain in captivity. They wish to pressure the Red Cross to act and to visit the hostages as the organization is supposed to do. There are art displays filling the square and a giant table set with place settings and empty chairs for each of the hostages. We entered a large tent and sat in a small circle and listened intently to one story.

We heard from Dani Miran. He is the father of Omri who was taken hostage by Hamas from his home on Kibbutz Nir Oz. Dani lives in the Galilee and is a farmer. His wife died thirty years ago. On October 7th he messaged his son, “I see that there are rocket attacks near you.” Omri responded, “Yes. Don’t worry.” Then Dani turned on the news and saw that Hamas terrorists had infiltrated into Israel. He messaged Omri again who responded, “Yes, they are all over the kibbutz.” After several minutes, Dani messaged his son, “It’s your father. I’m worried. Answer me.” That was the last message he sent. There were no more responses from Omri. Later that day his daughter in law’s parents called to tell him that his son was abducted but his daughter in law Lishay and granddaughters were ok. The girls are two years old and six months old. He said to us, “I was happy that my granddaughters were alive, but I felt as if a knife went through my heart. My son is a hostage.” He continued, “It was only on Monday when I had the courage to ask my daughter in law what happened after my last message.”

She told me that the Hamas terrorists threatened to kill a neighbor if they did not come out of the safe room and so the Omri’s family exited. Then the terrorists threatened to kill all of them if Omri did not go with them. He felt he had no choice. Lishay said to her husband, “I love you. I’ll protect our girls. We’re waiting for you. Don’t be a hero.”

By this time a large crowd had started to form around us. People leaned in to hear Dani’s story. He then said to the group of rabbis, “You all look so sad.” Most of us had been crying since he told us of his last words to his son. “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.” He continued, “Let me tell you the story about the flag that was raised over the Western Wall in 1967. I was in the paratrooper’s brigade that fought in that battle.” Dani said, “Most people don’t know how we got that flag. Before we marched to the Wall we were sitting in a bunker, and we were talking about how we should have a flag. A family was also in the bunker and overheard our conversation. One family member said, “I have a flag. Come with me.” “So, we went up to his apartment. First, he insisted that we make kiddush and have some wine. We said the blessing and drank the wine and then he gave us the flag.” The man said, “I have been saving this flag since 1948 when we lost Jerusalem, hoping and praying for this day.

Don’t be sad. We are a strong people.

And with that, we jumped up, formed a circle and started singing and dancing Rebbe Nachman’s familiar words. We shouted, “Kol haolom kulo gesher tzar maod, v’haikar lo lefachad klal. The whole world is a narrow bridge, but the essence is not to be afraid.” We sang and we danced. The crowd took videos and pictures. We hugged Dani and we hugged each other.

The Jewish people are inspiring. The Jewish people are resilient.

Draw strength from these stories. Draw strength from our resilience.

The Psalmist declares, “Adonai oz l’amo yitain, Adonai y’varech et amo b’shalom. Adonai will grant strength to the people. Adonai will bless the people with peace.” Even though we may pray for peace, shalom comes not before but after strength. (I thank Rabbi Shani Ben Or for this teaching.) And we have an extraordinary amount of strength. We will emerge even stronger. And then I continue to pray, we will find peace.

First and for now, let’s focus on the strength. Adonai oz l’amo yitain! God grant us strength.

A Wounded Torah, A Defiant Spirit

Judah, the namesake of the Jewish people, draws near to the brother he no longer recognizes. His brother Benjamin is held in captivity. He pleads for his release. “Then Judah drew close to Joseph.” (Genesis 44)

Over the years the distance between American Jews and Israel has grown. We no longer seem to speak the same language. Israelis talk about survival. American Jews argue about tikkun olam. October 7th has transcended this distance. It is shrinking the dissonance.

I plead. We cannot grow apart. We must not remain divided.

At present I am here in Israel on a rabbinic solidarity mission. I am here to convey our support. I am here to bear witness to the tragedy...

This post continues on The Times of Israel.

Wearing Our Jewish Identities

In 1885 a group of Reform rabbis gathered in Pittsburgh. They agreed on eight principles. Among them was the following:

We hold that all such Mosaic and rabbinical laws as regulate diet, priestly purity, and dress originated in ages and under the influence of ideas entirely foreign to our present mental and spiritual state. They fail to impress the modern Jew with a spirit of priestly holiness; their observance in our days is apt rather to obstruct than to further modern spiritual elevation.

Several weeks ago, an intelligent and well-spoken college student (Jacob Rosenberg!) spoke to the congregation about his experiences at the University of Pennsylvania. A congregant asked asked him if he wears a kippah when walking around campus. Jacob answered that he did not. Like his rabbi, he refrains from wearing such “rabbinical dress” outside of the synagogue. And so, perhaps, the questioner implied he can more safely walk around campus.

I have been thinking about that exchange for some time. I wear a kippah when I pray and study, and when I officiate at occasions, but not when walking around outside. We do not wear clothing that clearly identifies us as Jews.

Throughout the Joseph story, Joseph often changes clothes. In the opening chapters, his father places the coat of many colors on him and then his brothers tear it from him. There is as well the garment torn from him by Potiphar’s wife when she tries to seduce him. And finally, this week we read: “Pharaoh had him dressed in robes of fine linen and put a gold chain about his neck.” (Genesis 41)

By the time his brothers come before him, in search of food, Joseph looks like an Egyptian. He is unrecognizable. His clothes, and apparently his mannerisms and language, allow him to hide from his family even though he stands right in front of them. He is not yet able to let go of the trappings of his Egyptian identity and reveal himself to his brothers.

What do we hide? What do we hesitate to proclaim?

What do we reveal? What do we proudly declare?

Later Joseph removes his mask and embraces his brothers in forgiveness. He is only able to do this after realizes they have changed. When they refuse to consign their younger brother Benjamin to slavery as they once did Joseph, he is able to reveal himself. It is then that Joseph unmasks his identity. Joseph discovers that he is more a brother, and a member of the family of Israel, than an Egyptian. Despite the trappings of his attire, his inner self becomes one with his outer identity.

Are we the same on the outside as we are on the inside?

Recently I asked my seventh graders what they can do to proudly declare their Jewish identities. They offered answers that spoke to clothing and dress. “Wear Jewish swag,” one suggested. “What’s Jewish swag?” I asked. “IDF T-shirts! Bar mitzvah sweatshirts. Bat mitzvah hats.” Other chimed in, “Wear a Jewish star.”

No one suggested a kippah. Another student offered, “Give tzedakah. Be kind to strangers.” I asked, “How would someone know that you’re doing those things because you are Jewish?” We arrived at answer. Perhaps it is not so much about what others think and more about reminding ourselves who we are.

Still the question remains, what more can we do to wear our Jewish pride on our sleeves? What can we do to remind ourselves, and others, that we remain proud Jews?

I don’t believe it is as simple as a kippah. I do think it is a continuous effort—inside and out.