Faith Is About Perspective

Faith is a matter of perspective. It centers around the questions of am I strong enough, do I have enough.

There are people who have all the wealth in the world but are never content and there are likewise people who have little means but see their lives as blessed. There are people who regularly eat only a morsel of food and still give thanks to God and others who only eat the fanciest of foods and yet curse God.

Judaism wishes to inculcate the feeling that our lives are blessed regardless of how much or little we have. Think about the following commandments. Even the person dependent on tzedakah must give charity. And even before eating the smallest portions of food, we are instructed to say a blessing of thanks.

This contention stands in contrast to the messages of contemporary culture. We are inundated with advertisements urging us buy this or that with the promise that our lives will become more blessed. We are urged to up our game, fine tune our competitive drive and increase our work ethic to achieve more. Such inner drive is good but only to a point.

If the drive stands in the way of contentment, then it is for naught—at least as far as our tradition is concerned. If we are all drive and no thankfulness then, the rabbis suggest, we cannot achieve success. They counsel, only a soul filled with gratitude can stave off the terrors the world continues to throw at us.

The Torah offers the spies as an illustration. Moses commands twelve spies to reconnoiter the land of Israel. Joshua and Caleb offer only positive reports. The other ten come back with negatives. They say, “All the people we saw in the land are of great size… and we looked like grasshoppers to ourselves, and so we must have looked to them.” (Numbers 13) They are so overwhelmed by fear that they no longer see the delicious grapes and beautiful pomegranates they discovered. They quickly forget that they also gleaned that the land of Israel flows with milk and honey.

Fear pushes aways even the most wonderous of blessings. Even though the taste of grapes and pomegranates is still in their mouths they become blinded by fear. They see themselves not as strong—God is on their side as Joshua and Caleb remind them—but small.

This is why Rabbi Meir urges us to recite one hundred blessings every day. His theory is that saying thank you over and over again strengthens the soul. If people repeatedly say I am blessed, then they feel strong—or at least strong enough. Seeing oneself as strong enough is the secret recipe our tradition wishes to teach.

I have known people of great stature and renown who appear small and others of little fame and prominence who stand tall. And I have come to understand it is all matter of choice. Does one see the grapes and the pomegranates and recall the land indeed flows with milk and honey or does one fixate on how overwhelming our opponents seem?

It is all about perspective.

And the most important ingredient to building a life of faith is how one sees oneself.

The path to seeing oneself as tall enough and strong enough, or even wealthy enough, is to say thank you.

Gardens of Hope

My garden is my teacher.

This fall we planted garlic in our backyard garden. And so, a few weeks ago I snipped off the scapes curling from green stalks. (I pickled them. Some people liked these pickled garlic scapes. Most did not.) If one does not trim these tops the plant focuses too much energy producing flowers rather than the bulbs with which we are familiar. In about a month, I will harvest the plants and then dry the bulbs so that I can have homegrown garlic for the upcoming year.

This makes me wonder about this week’s complaint from the Israelites. “The riffraff in their midst felt a gluttonous craving; and then the Israelites wept and said, ‘If only we had meat to eat! We remember the fish that we used to eat free in Egypt, the cucumbers, the melons, the leeks, the onions, and the garlic.’” (Numbers 11)

My teacher instructs. Garlic and for that matter, onions, leeks, melons and cucumbers require cultivation. They demand a landed, agrarian society that has the time to tend to such crops. Perhaps the Israelites’ complaints are not so much about the tasteless, albeit sustaining manna, but instead about their wandering. They are tired of living as nomads.

They just want to have a home. They want to be so settled that they can plant a garden. Of course, they forget that the delicacies for which they pine did not come from their own gardens but instead from those of their Egyptian taskmasters. Or perhaps they looked back at their Egyptian taskmaster’s meals and imagined they were their own. The imagination of yesteryear is not always an accurate portrayal of past experiences.

Collard greens are for example staples of African American cuisine because these were one of the few vegetables slaveholders allowed their enslaved Africans to grow for themselves. Their bitterness is transformed by even this modicum of freedom. Scraps of vegetables dished out by slaveholders do not taste the same as those grown with one’s own hands.

There is a taste of freedom in a garden. Supermarket vegetables are not the same as homegrown! This is why building community gardens is so meaningful. They are liberating. These gardens provide people with space to plant their own vegetables, to be less dependent on the prices of store-bought goods. They offer ownership of one’s own food. They provide glimpses of freedom. Freedom sweetens the taste of even the most bitter of vegetables.

Planting vegetables even in a modest garden such as my own, is in some, small way a statement of faith in the future. It is saying, “We will be here long enough to tend to these crops. We will be here next season to enjoy these garlicky delights.”

This is why the early Zionists invested so much in the kibbutz movement. Tending to crops, planting trees, and most especially fruit trees, are about looking years into the future. “We will be here even several generations from now when we can enjoy this fruit together.”

The wanderer can forage. The Israelites gathered manna and there is a measure of delight and wonder in wandering and exploring. “The forest is the menu,” I was advised by the waiter at a Madrid restaurant that centers mushrooms for every course, including dessert.

The gardener, however, can plan. The wanderer explores.

The garden can restore hope in the future.

We are here to stay.

And soon, if I have done everything right, and continue to do everything right, and of course the weather cooperates, it will also grant me some tasty garlic.

The garden provides hope.

Have faith in the future!

Thank You for the Invitations

What follows is my speech from the celebration marking my twenty-fifth anniversary at our congregation.

For this evening, I asked that we not have a parade of speeches. I want this event to be a celebration filled with enjoying each other’s company and of course dancing and perhaps some tequila. So let me honor my own request and not make this a lengthy High Holiday sermon, although like every sermon it will have the requisite three points.

First, I wish to acknowledge the events of October 7th and the difficult year we as a people are experiencing. Although on this evening our hearts are rightly filled with joy, they are also tempered like the wedding ceremony’s broken glass by this tragic and painful year. We are once again facing the dangers of antisemitic hate. We grieve. We fear for our future. Our hearts are bound to the hostages’ fates. Our compassion is sparked by the suffering of ordinary Gazans. Israel’s ongoing war chips away at our hopes each and every day. And yet I have faith that our people will once again survive these challenges.

Second, thank you to our synagogue’s leadership and especially to our current president Marty and the Gala committee and its co-chairs, Edra and Mike. I am grateful for your devotion to Congregation L’Dor V’Dor and your friendship. I have been fortunate to partner with many lay leaders so allow me to acknowledge those past presidents who are able to be here tonight and who I remain privileged to call friends: Mike, Ben, Jeff, Josh, Debbie, Marie, Lisa and Brian. Thank you for your continued support. I wish I could thank every one of you who served on our Board over the past twenty-five years and every synagogue member by name but then I would be ignoring my own request. Know that I remain grateful for your ongoing support, dedication and friendship.

Our synagogue is blessed to have a devoted staff. Li knows everyone and makes each member feel comfortable and keeps the office humming along. Ozzie, our newest addition, brings a wonderful enthusiasm to our workplace. Anne Marie continues to offer levelheaded advice and counsel. Every Friday Justyna greets me with her enthusiastic smile as she readies our sanctuary for the weekend’s activities. Jen makes teaching even the most challenging seventh grade a wonder and joy. And our cantor’s voice remains unparalleled. Talya never fails to lift our hearts with spirit and song. I am very fortunate to work alongside such a talented staff and devoted lay leaders.

I am also grateful to my parents, and in laws, who drove here from St. Louis and Baltimore to celebrate this occasion with us. I am happy they arrived here safely. My sister-in-law Sandee traveled all the way from New Rochelle and my sister-in-law Leslie from Detroit’s suburbs. And of course, my brother Michael is also here. We are the best of friends. I turn to him for rabbinic advice, but also wardrobe suggestions and cocktail recipes. I am so very grateful that my family can be here tonight.

My daughter Shira is here. Although Brooklyn can seem like a different world, Ari actually lives on a different continent. Shira and Ari did not of course choose to be part of a congregational family, let alone two congregational families, but they embraced it. They learned that for rabbis the line between work and home can often become blurred and that sometimes our congregants’ pains become our own. And Susie is obviously here. She is the voice in my ear simultaneously telling me she loves me and maybe it would have been better if I did this or that differently. I did not know this could be possible, but I am more in love now than I was then.

And now to the third point about the celebration at hand. Let me state an unspoken but obvious truth. You cannot have an anniversary celebration without two parties. Not only did I stay here for twenty-five years but you kept me for twenty-five years. And so, I remain grateful to you for calling me your rabbi and for inviting me into your lives. You ask me to be there at your best moments and your worst. And I never take that for granted. I see my calling as an enormous blessing. It is a gift with which you have provided me. Thank you.

I can experience a lifetime of memories in a week. In a single week I can dance with a wedding couple, grieve with children mourning their parent, kvell with the family of a b’nai mitzvah student, console another couple contemplating divorce, report back from a beleaguered Israel, and celebrate a birth with yet another family. It is an existence that sometimes demands too much heart. But I only know how to give all my heart.

Those of you who hired me back in 1999 saw something in me that I did not yet see in myself. Most young rabbis begin serving a congregation under the guidance of a more experienced rabbi. They begin as assistants. Although I had already been a rabbi for eight years, I spent my days teaching at the 92nd Street Y. I had not spent more than an evening or a morning in a synagogue and then only when giving a guest sermon. I had only officiated at the occasional funeral and the rare wedding. I was a teacher with some very strong ideas about the right ways and wrong ways of leading and serving a congregation but no experience putting such ideas into actual practice.

I imagine they said to themselves, “Well he seems earnest and most certainly energetic. Let’s hope he figures out the rest of the stuff.” Perhaps they also said, “He is really passionate. Let’s hope he does not upset too many people with some of his ardent convictions.” Then again, if everyone agrees with everything I say I would not be fulfilling my duty. I am called not only to comfort and cajole, but challenge. The sermon is not supposed to be about what we want to hear but what we need to hear—or to be honest, what I think we need to hear.

And yet I recognize that I could not have said any of what I said if you had not continued to place your faith in me. Thank you for affirming that friendship and agreement need not go hand in hand, that love and concern can overcome even the most strenuous of disagreements. Together we have tried to make sense of the world’s struggles. Along the way I have sought to offer some grain of wisdom, some fleeting inspiration to which we can take hold and perhaps even a different angle with which to look at a problem anew.

Together we can find meaning. It is to be found among us. Together we have discovered the power of community. We have come to understand that if a group of people stick together long enough we may not be able to overcome all of life’s challenges but the bonds we create can make them feel slightly less weighty. It’s not going to hurt any less, but it can feel slightly less overwhelming if we have each other. This is what community offers.

All we have to do is not let go of one another. And that’s what we have done. This not-so-secret power of community is what I continue to believe in and what I most endeavored to model and teach. To put it more succinctly, you can’t dance the hora by yourself!

But I have not only taught you. You have taught me.

Your tears have been my teachers. Your joys have offered me unexpected lessons. Your love and support have sustained me. We have learned a great deal from each other.

And yet, our story is still an unfinished story. There is more to learn. A lot more to say. And more to do.

Thank you for continuing to call me your rabbi and for the enormous gift of inviting me into your lives. Being your rabbi remains a privilege and a blessing.

May we continue to celebrate many more anniversaries together. Let’s dance!

Loving God

Recently we helped Susie’s uncle pack up his apartment. He has lived in this New York City apartment his entire life. He shared the apartment with Susie’s grandparents who died many years ago. We tried our best to help him determine what was worth saving and what might be valuable on the antique market. At one point Billy protested that there are no antiques.

Susie retorted that everything in the apartment is an antique as she pointed to the rotary phone still affixed to the kitchen wall. “Mid-century modern is in these days,” she added. We then discovered a drawer in the beautiful dining room piece containing warranties and owner’s manuals to appliances long ago replaced. Among these papers we also found never before seen old pictures and even love letters.

Among these treasures were ten letters written by Susie’s grandfather, Justus, to his then girlfriend, Diane. In July and August of 1939, they spent the summer apart while Diane worked at Camp Woodcliff, and he began his medical practice. On July 3rd, Justus writes,

Darling, I miss you so! Since you have gone, I lead a model life. It would be ridiculous for me to see any ‘babes’ as they would be inconsequential by comparison with you. Please write soon, dear and tell me about yourself, your hopes, your plans, camp, the kids, the food, the water and anything else of interest. Love, Justus.

Sandwiched between this stack of letters is their engagement announcement from October 1939.

The Jewish tradition views the relationship between God and the Jewish people as a loving relation, akin to marriage. It weaves this understanding into its explications of the holidays. Passover represents the beginning of the romance between God and the people Israel. This is why we read Song of Songs, the Bible’s beautiful and lyrical love poem.

Your lips are like a crimson thread,
Your mouth is lovely.
Your brow behind your veil
Gleams like a pomegranate split open. (Song of Songs 4)

The holiday of Shavuot which begins this evening represents the marriage between God and Israel. There is a Sephardic custom that an interpretive ketubah is read. Sanctuaries are sometimes decorated with roses. (The customary foods of cheesecake and blintzes have nothing to do with this theme of romance.) We read the Book of Ruth.

In this book, Ruth not only chooses to become Jewish but pledges loyalty and love to the mother of her deceased husband. Ruth says to Naomi:

Do not urge me to leave you, to turn back and not follow you. For wherever you go, I will go; wherever you lodge, I will lodge; your people shall be my people, and your God my God. Where you die, I will die, and there I will be buried. Thus and more may the Lord do to me if anything but death parts me from you. (Ruth 1)

On this holiday we celebrate the Torah as a testimony between God and Israel. In its words one can see the unfolding relationship between the two. God is figuring out how to relate to the people. And the people are struggling with what it means to be devoted to God. At times it goes well. Other times the relationship becomes distant.

The love never wavers. It transcends generations.

“Darling, I miss you so!”

Open a New Translation

As people grew less familiar with Hebrew it became necessary to translate the Bible into the vernacular. The earliest effort is the Septuagint, a Greek translation authored in the third century BCE.

In the second century CE Targum Onkelos translated the Hebrew into Aramaic. In the fourth century, Jerome authored the Latin Vulgate. And then, in 1611, King James published the first English translation of the Bible, rendering, for example, the words of the Psalmist into the well-known, “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.” (Psalm 23)

The Hebrew for “shadow of death” is unusual and is a poetic term for darkness. Robert Alter, who offers exquisite translations of Biblical Hebrew suggests instead “vale of death’s shadow,” but we often find ourselves beholden to the familiarity of earlier translations. We bristle at alternatives. We become angered when the familiar is altered.

The music of familiarity offers comfort.

Translation is interpretation. And we are dependent on centuries of interpreters who have rendered our sacred texts into our familiar language. In recent years, more English translations have appeared. Many have cast aside the “thee’s” and “thou’s” of prior years. Others have removed masculine references to God. English does not have to be gendered. God is not a masculine noun and need not be translated as “He.”

This week we open the fourth book of the Torah: Numbers. Even its name is dependent on centuries of translation. It was the Septuagint that named it for the census which is described in its opening chapters. The Israelites are counted by tribes. Males over the age of twenty years are tallied. 603,550 is the extraordinary number.

The Hebrew name, however, is Bamidbar—in the wilderness. It’s not about counting. It is instead about where the events occur. Then again, the Hebrew name is more about finding the portion’s location in the Torah scroll rather than describing its contents. The name of the book is the same as the name of the book’s first portion. The Hebrew names are location guides.

Numbers suggest things are quantifiable. The Bible, and the interpretations it invites, cannot be measured. We think otherwise. Everett Fox in his landmark translation of the Torah notes, “Everyone who has ever taken the bible seriously has staked so much on a particular interpretation of the text that altering it has become close to a matter of life and death.”

As we begin a new book of the Torah, I find myself wondering. How are we to find ourselves back to the joy of interpretation and away from seeing each and every word as matters of life and death?

We find ourselves again in the wilderness.

Open a new translation. Invite new interpretations.

We forever wander and search.

We welcome the discoveries the wilderness affords.

Skipping through Rain Puddles

The poet Mary Oliver writes,

Last night
the rain
spoke to me
slowly, saying,
what joy
to come falling
out of the brisk cloud,
to be happy again”
in a new way
on the earth!”

There is joy to be found in the rains.  They nourish the earth.  They bring blessings to its inhabitants. I often console wedding couples who are lamenting moving the huppah indoors from their dreamed about outdoor location with the words, “Rain is good mazel.” 

The Torah connects rain and its waters to our deeds.  God states, “I will grant your rains in their season, so that the earth shall yield its produce and the trees of the field their fruit.” (Leviticus 26)

And I am thinking more and more about the rains.  It never seems to drizzle anymore.  There are only downpours and their resulting floods.  It’s more challenging to see such joy and blessings when it rains an inch in one hour!  Of course, one can always embrace the deluge and skip through the puddles but most of the time I find myself thinking, “This is way too much mazel!”

Rain is a fickle thing.  Too much water is a curse.  Too little is a catastrophe.  The rabbis understand this tension.  They argue about the meaning of the Torah’s phrase “in their season.”  They write, “This means that the earth will be neither drunk nor thirsty; rather, a moderate amount of rain will fall. For as long as the rains are abundant, they muddy the soil of the land, and it does not give out its produce.”  (Taanit 23a) The Torah’s promise is about the perfect amount of rain.

Then again, maybe it’s not about what the land needs but instead what is best for us.  The rabbis suggest, “in their season” means it rains on Friday nights.  On Shabbat evening everyone is in their homes and so the Torah’s promise means the rains do not interfere with people’s schedules.

The difference between blessing and curse revolves around our understanding of “in their season.”  It is not about whether or not it rains, but instead its timing.  Rain is a blessing if it happens in the right amount and at the right time. 

Maybe blessings are all about timing.  Seeing something as blessing is a matter of perspective. And perspective is more about a moment in time rather than the facts.  Some people see their illness as a curse.  Other people view the discovery of this same illness as a blessing.  “Thank God, my doctor found this when she did!” they say.

It’s all about the timing.  It’s all about perspective.

It’s all about the season.

And so maybe it’s time to get back to skipping through the puddles.

Let Us Bless the Land

The Zionist philosopher A.D Gordon writes:

At times you imagine that you, too, are taking root in the soil that you are digging; like all that is growing around, you are nurtured by the light of the sun’s rays with food from heaven. You feel that you, too, live a life in common with the tiniest blade of grass, with each flower, each tree; that you live deeply in the heart of nature, rising up from all and growing straight up into the expanse of the world.

Gordon believed that the Jewish spirit is renewed by working the land, and in particular the land of Israel. Likewise, each of us must find a way to reclaim the earth as our own, to regain a sacred connection to the land. Doing so can renew our spirit.

Too often we think of nature’s power and majesty when confronted by a hurricane, earthquake or tornado. Instead, we should recognize its majesty and proclaim it each and every day.

We can live deeply in the heart of nature!

This week we read about the sanctity of the land of Israel. So revered is this land that it, and it alone, is granted a sabbatical year. “When you enter the land that I assign to you, the land shall observe a sabbath of the Lord.” (Leviticus 25)

The purpose of this sabbatical year, a year in which the land lies fallow, is twofold. On the one hand it is a reminder that only God truly owns land. The land is lent to us by God. On the other hand, the sabbatical year teaches us that all of God’s creations, must rest. Menuchah, Shabbat rest, is a universal right. It is not just a Jewish obligation. It is instead a right that every living being must enjoy. The land too is a living and breathing creation.

Let us rekindle a reverence for the land and nature. The everyday majesty of the earth is too often missed by us. We revere nature’s awesome power, most especially when it is manifest in storms, rather than its everyday holiness.

You, too, live in common with the tiniest blade of grass!

The Native American poet, Joy Harjo writes:

Bless the destruction of this land, for new shoots will rise up from
fire, floods, earthquakes and fierce winds to make new this land
We are land on turtle’s back—when the weight of greed overturns
  us, who will recall the upright song of this land
Bless the creation of new land, for out of chaos we will be
compelled to remember to bless this land
The smallest one remembered, the most humble one, the one
whose voice you’d have to lean in a thousand years to hear—we
  will begin there
Bless us, these lands, said the rememberer. These lands aren’t our
lands. These lands aren’t your lands. We are this land.
And the blessing began a graceful moving through the grasses
of time, from the beginning, to the circling around place of time,
always moving, always (Joy Harjo, “Bless This Land”)

We must (re)learn how to bless the land and its everyday holiness.

Our Actions Are Our Lessons

This week we read about the stringencies the ancient priests observed. They could not, for example, come into contact with the dead unless they were a mourner. They could not shave their heads. They could not marry a widow or divorced woman. The list goes on and although only observed in more traditional communities, they offer us lessons.

The portion is introduced by the words, “Say (emor) to the priests, the sons of Aaron, say to them.” (Leviticus 21)

Why does the Torah repeat the command “say”? It cannot be a mistake. It must offer lessons.

The medieval commentator, Nachmanides, argues that the phrase is repeated because it runs counter to accustomed norms. In this case it is incumbent on everyone to attend a funeral and offer comfort to mourners. Because the priest must observe additional stringencies, the Torah repeats the phrase. It is as if to say, “Priest, pay attention!” These laws are not what we would expect. They are contrary to our inclinations.

The priest is expected to do more. The priest is held to a different standard. People expect priests to be more observant. They are expected to be more scrupulous in their behavior. People watch what they do, and what they don’t do. They emulate their actions.

Then again, perhaps the repetition teaches us something about leadership. When people assume a leadership role, they not only take on additional responsibilities but also added stringencies. What is permissible for others is not necessarily permitted for leaders.

We expect our leaders to act in the right way. We expect them to be model ethical action. It is not that we expect them to be perfect. They are of course human beings. But they can strive to be better. And when they err, they can admit their errors.

Leadership is not about being perfect. It is about striving. It is about admitting when mistakes are made. It is about serving as a model for how we can learn from our errors. Acting righteously does not mean acting perfectly.

Moreover, the Torah emphasizes to the children of Aaron. Perhaps this offers a lesson for parents. Parents can say all they want “Do as I say not as I do,” and children will always do as they do no matter what they say. Our actions are our lessons. They teach more than we even sometimes want.

If we are impatient and short tempered with others, then our children learn these behaviors. If we, on the other hand, are kind and compassionate, then our children will follow our example. If we are generous to charities, then our children will learn the value of tzedakah. Again, the list goes on.

If we are to be a kingdom of priests as the Torah suggests then we must strive to do more. We must be just as scrupulous in our personal ethics as any leader and any parent.

Our actions are our lessons.

I Am a Zionist!

As we approach Yom Haatzmaut, Israel Independence Day, I am struggling to make sense of this moment. Why is our people’s greatest success story, namely the restoration of sovereignty in our people’s historic homeland, the rescue of countless Jews from persecution and the flowering of Hebrew culture, begrudged us? Is the world only content if we are victims and not masters of our own fate?

Of course there have been excesses in Israel’s road to success. There is most significantly the lingering injustices Palestinians suffer. Many are culpable. Blame should not only be ascribed to Israel’s founders or its current leaders. Arab countries, the United Nations, world politicians and Palestinian leaders share guilt.

And yet there appears no sense of shared responsibility for these injustices. Our very existence, and most certainly our independence, are begrudged us. The injustices are all our doing. They are all Israel’s fault. Zionism has become a dirty word. To be called a Zionist is a slur. Young Jews hesitate to call themselves Zionists. They see only the flaws and not the successes.

In many Jewish circles what was once a font of endless pride is now a source of embarrassment and consternation. Our youth distance themselves from Zionism and the State of Israel. They were raised during the excesses of the war on terror. They came of age during the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, neither of which eradicated terrorism in general or the Taliban in particular.

And now Israel has taken up this fight. They struggle to see the justice in Israel’s response against Hamas. Military might does not necessarily produce security. No matter how justified more weapons do not always bring more safety. Their reality is framed by lock down drills!

To be a Zionist, however one need not embrace the particulars of Israel’s fight. It is instead to embrace the necessity of Jewish power. In this dangerous and violent world of nation states, the Jewish people require power. We are the only ones who can, and too often, will protect us. In addition, Zionism sought to provide the Jewish people with a home. We need not wander any longer. The Declaration of Independence states,

The catastrophe which recently befell the Jewish people — the massacre of millions of Jews in Europe — was another clear demonstration of the urgency of solving the problem of its homelessness by re-establishing in Eretz Yisrael the Jewish State, which would open the gates of the homeland wide to every Jew and confer upon the Jewish people the status of a fully privileged member of the community of nations.

We are no longer homeless. We have a home.

The tragic fact of October 7th is that we have now discovered our home is not safe. The sad fact is that Israel’s response to Hamas’ massacre has made Jews’ position throughout the world more precarious. I never imagined that antisemitism would gain such virulence and that it would be most directed at the very place meant to protect us from this hatred.

The State of Israel was intended not only to offer the best protection for the Jews (and Arabs) living within its borders but uplift the lives of Jews throughout the world. It is now struggling to reclaim these goals. I support its struggle even when I might disagree with some of its tactics.

Even though our home is beleaguered and besieged, we have returned. We are homeless no more. Even though decried by others, I remain steadfast. I am a proud Zionist.

Years ago, I used to soothe my baby daughter to sleep with the words of Naomi Shemer’s lullaby, “Al Kol Eileh.”

My Good God, keep these safe: the honey and the sting, the bitter and the sweet, and our baby daughter; the burning flame, the pure water, and the man returning home from afar.
Keep all of these safe my Good God: the honey and the sting, the bitter and the sweet. Do not not uproot what has been planted; do not forget the hope. Return me, and I will return to the good land.

Do not forget the hope. Al tishkach et hatikvah! We have returned.

I am a Zionist.

Fight for Life

What follows is Friday evening’s sermon marking Yom HaShoah, Holocaust Remembrance Day.

Yesterday, to mark Yom HaShoah, the seventh graders, and I, as well as our dedicated principal, sat outside in Annie’s Garden to talk about the Holocaust. I taught them about Annie and told them some of her extraordinary stories and in particular a few details about how she managed to survive Auschwitz. She used to tell us that she and three other girls would share one cup of the dirty brown water that the Nazis claimed was tea and use it to color their faces so they would not look so pale. Looking healthy meant the promise of being chosen for one more day of life, Annie would say. Then they would divide the remaining three cups of dirty water between the four of them for the morning ration of fluids.

We spoke about how the Nazis only provided those interred in the camps with about 200 calories of food per day, just barely enough to keep them alive. The educator from the Holocaust Center in Glen Cove explained that this is the equivalent of about one to two Oreo cookies. All the students understood that this is less than they eat when they go to the kitchen cabinet for an afternoon or evening snack.

I told them how before reaching Auschwitz, Annie, and her father, jumped out of a moving train when they found out it was headed to a death camp. I will always remember, I told them, how she used to describe the feeling of her mother’s hand pushing her out of the train’s window. That was the last time she saw her mother and sister. They were both murdered by the Nazi death machine. She was supposed to be the first to jump among the girls, but the last boy in line became frightened and she took his place, and he then went after her. But the Nazi guard heard him jump and shot him dead. Annie would always explain that she survived in part because of such luck. If she had jumped when she was supposed to, she would have been the one shot instead.

And she survived because of the occasional kindness of strangers. There was the person who gave her a boiled potato. “It was the best potato I ever tasted,” she would exclaim. And every year, I would add that she also survived because she was blessed with an extraordinary dose of inner strength, or as we say, koach. I hold on to Annie’s memory, as one example among the millions. And now the students hold on to her memory.

I explained how the Nazi’s antisemitism was unique. It was unlike that of Haman’s for example who wanted to murder all Jews because Mordecai would not bow down to him because of his Jewish beliefs. Nazi antisemitism was racial. In their minds it was about blood. It did not matter if you believed in God or went to synagogue or even called yourself a Jew. If you had one Jewish grandparent, then you were a Jew and deserving of elimination. Many of the students shared what they are learning about the Holocaust in school and what they remembered from our sixth-grade curriculum. The Nazis built factories to murder people. Six million Jews. And six million others. Unimaginable numbers that I recently learned are not accurate. Yad VaShem experts continue to uncover evidence that the numbers are at least a million greater.

We then spoke about the Holocaust’s meaning. What does it teach us? The students surprised me. They are afraid. They don’t think what the Nazis did could happen here, but they are keenly aware of the growing threat of antisemitism. They spoke about the war in Israel and what is happening on college campuses. There were bits and pieces of facts and lots and lots of worries.

They peppered me with questions. “What did Israel do?” one asked. “What are they fighting about?” another queried. “Where is Palestine?” one student added. We spent the remaining time unpacking as many of their questions as we could tackle in the remaining time.

And then I said, “Do you see how much time it took us to answer a few of your questions? It took us fifteen minutes. That is far longer than a TikTok video or an Instagram post.” People want you to think that this can all be reduced to black and white. You are for Israel or against Israel. For Palestinians or against them. Nothing is so simple. As you can see it requires a lot of discussion and a lot of asking questions.

I continued. People seem to think that one can be anti-Zionist and not antisemitic, but you cannot. If a person believes that every one of the peoples of the earth deserve sovereignty and a state of their own except the Jews, then that is antisemitic. If one believes that all nation states are wrong and that they only lead to violent bloodshed over borders and deadly arguments about who was there first and that we should live in some sort of utopian borderless world then this is not necessarily antisemitic although terribly naïve. In this world of nation states there must be a Jewish state—and I would add, a Palestinian state. The Jewish people must have power in this violent and dangerous world.

There are many things that one can protest, I explained to the students, about how Israel wields its power. I may disagree with protestors who could criticize Israel’s use of too many bombs in civilian areas or the lack of food getting to ordinary Gazans, but when protestors blame a fellow Jewish student for the decisions of the Israeli government or prevent Jewish students from getting to classes or deface Jewish institutions then that is antisemitic. When protestors commit violence in the name of their struggle then that is wrong, and they should be arrested. Of course, we have to protect free speech but when it crosses those lines in can no longer, and should no longer, be protected.

Israel, and our people, find ourselves again in an existential moment. Hamas states clearly and unequivocally their genocidal intent. In a cruel, and antisemitic, twist protestors contort the discussion by accusing Israel of committing genocide and Israelis of being the new Nazis. They are not. Israel is not. I have misgivings and worries about how Israel is currently conducting the war. I no longer feel its actions will best guarantee Israel’s or the Jewish people’s future security or the release of the precious few hostages who remain alive and continue to be held in inhumane conditions. And yet I stand with the Jewish people and Israel in this moment. It is struggling, albeit under compromised and failed leadership, for its survival. Its purpose is not to kill all Palestinians but to destroy Hamas. Whatever our feelings about Israel’s direction, its decisions, and its actions (may God bless the memories of the World Central Kitchen’s aid workers!), whatever our sentiments about its political leaders, we must always be clear about this point. We must always say, we stand with Israel and the Jewish people.

As the petals of the beautiful cherry blossoms on our synagogue’s front lawn began to swirl in the evening breeze, the students screamed with delight and smiled with excitement. I then told them about the dedication stone in Annie’s Garden that reads “Annie Bleiberg; 1920-2018; Holocaust Survivor; She shared her story and inspired hope.”

“Do you know why the stone is placed on the right side of the garden?” I asked. None of the students could guess the answer. It is because when someone arrived in Auschwitz and got out of those foul smelling, crowded cattle cars, they were inspected by Nazi officers, the most infamous of which was Josef Mengele y”s. If you were deemed healthy enough to work, you went to the right. If not, you were pointed to the left and then to death in the gas chambers.

“To the right meant life,” Annie would tell us. And she would add, “Life is always worth fighting for.”

On this Yom HaShoah, we loudly and once again defiantly declare, may we continue to be blessed with life. And may the memories of our millions continue to offer our students countless lessons.

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.