One of the many powerful narratives in Parshat Vayera is the destruction of Sodom and Gemorrah. You’ve heard of Sodom and Gemorrah - the degenerate ancient metropolises that are utterly annihilated by God through burning sulfur raining from the sky.
Interestingly, if you inverse the fire for water, you’ll see that the cities’ destruction closely parallels the earlier flood narrative. They read similarly.
First, wickedness is endemic to humanity. In the flood narrative, for example, we learn that every single human was corrupt with “every plan devised by the human mind [being] nothing but evil all the time.” In the case of Sodom, Abraham famously bargains with God to save the city if he can find at least 10 good people within it. Yet despite his effort and optimism, it turns out the good can’t even make a minyan.
Then there’s the total deletion of the humans and vegetation in the area. The flood “blots out” all living things on earth while the sulfur rain annihilates all organic material in the Mesopotamian plain.
And finally both narratives share an account of a surviving father and his offspring (Noah and his sons; Lot and his daughters) who commit a terrible sin amid the post-apocalyptic emotional chaos.
It’s almost as if the Sodom and Gemorrah narrative comes to show us that while God vows to not destroy the ENTIRE world again, that won’t stop God from rendering judgement upon SOME of the world and taking appropriate action. Because humans, it turns out, still haven’t learned the lesson of the flood. Not in Sodom’s time, not in ours. No generation is immune from the moral decay that renders creation unstable and worthy of rebuke.
In parshat Vayera, three heavenly messengers depart from Abraham’s home. Abraham, not surprisingly, treated them with dignity befitting a guest. They head to Sodom, where Abraham’s nephew Lot takes them in. He knows how corrupt the city is and assures them it is for their own safety. The text says that the men of the city pursued the messengers, surrounding Lot’s house. They demand that Lot give up the messengers so they can rough them up. When Lot defends his guests, the men of the city mock him as a migrant saying “this guy came here as an alien, and already he acts the ruler to us!” Not only are they thugs - they’re bigoted thugs. Although what generation does NOT go after immigrants and when their power is in jeopardy?
I wonder, though, just who were these guys, these “men of Sodom”? The Hebrew actually refers to them with two names: אַנְשֵׁ֨י הָעִ֜יר אַנְשֵׁ֤י סְדֹם֙. A most faithful translation would say “the men of the city, the men of Sodom.” Linking these two similar designations together, though, the text probably intends to convey all of Sodom’s society, that is, the insignificant people and the influential alike. Turns out station in society doesn’t matter when the mob mentality takes over. Shared hate can be a really helpful glue between disparate people. That too, hasn’t changed.
Ok, so the Torah makes it clear that the whole city was corrupt. As I thought about this, I started to wonder if the “influential people” of the city included the leader of the city. Who was he anyway, and what hand did he play in the corruption and downfall of his city?
To answer that, we have to look back to last week’s parshah.
Torah says that in the days of Abram and his nephew Lot, a great conflict erupted in the Vale of Siddim, a valley near the Jordan River plain. For years, the cities of the plain — including the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah — had lived under the rule of the king of Elam. After thirteen years of tribute, they rebelled. A war ensues, known as the War of the Nine Kings - 5 allied kings against 4 allied kings. Two of those kings belong to Sodom and Gemorrah and they are named by the text: King Bera and King Birsha, respectively.
Bera, the rabbis say, is a name made by combining the words “ben” and “rah” - the son of evil. Berisha, therefore, is a mash up of “ben” and “risha” - the son of wickedness. These two men’s names indicate everything we need to know about them.
In the Talmud (Arachin 17a), the sages note how the demeanor of a people always follows the demeanor of the leader and vice versa, as one rabbi remarked, “The righteousness level of the generation follows the righteousness level of the leader,” while another says: “The level of the leader follows the level of his generation.” They reflect one another.
“But is this always the case?” the rabbis inquire. “Surely we can think of exceptions. Plenty of good people have ruled over scoundrels and plenty of scoundrels have ruled over good people.”
The Gemara clarifies: “What we’re really talking about is harshness and gentleness. One Sage holds that if the leader is harsh, then the generation will be harsh. If the leader is gentle and kind, the generation will be the same. The other Sage holds that if the people of a certain generation are harsh, they will have a harsh leader; if the generation is gentle and kind, the leader will be similar.”
It’s not so much about innate good or bad, the sages teach. It is about the tone. Whether it’s the leader influencing the people or the other way around, the lesson is the importance of creating a moral atmosphere - between leader and constituency and between all members of the citizenry.
The Talmud reminds us that a leader is not only in a position of authority, but their office is a shared reflection of who we are. Whether we’re talking about a king, a president or a mayor, we cannot forget that we are always engaging in an exchange of tone and spirit that shapes the moral temperature of our generation.
Sometimes leaders come along who make us feel hopeful; they champion the needs that have long been suppressed or ignored. Our leaders can also manifest our most base inclinations, inappropriately giving voice to the uglier parts of society. Ultimately, our tradition promotes kindness and inclusivity. Both ends of society, the leader and the people, have a right to ask this of one another.
Enter Abraham, humanity’s new standard-bearer. Abraham’s nephew Lot is the one who echoes Noah’s flaws. Notice how Abraham sets a new tone — not only by becoming the first Jew, but for showing a different way for heroes to engage with society.
Abraham’s narrative demonstrates how he knew when to press and he knew when to observe. He gained the acclaim of the people of the region for being diplomatic, pragmatic, and collaborative. It is important to note though, that even as adept as he was at collaboration and negotiation, he never settles when it comes to staking a claim in what is rightfully his and unapologetically protects his family’s future. That is also of utmost concern to him.
Abraham ultimately cannot save Sodom and Gemorrah. The cities were too entrenched in the old human tropes. What he does do, though, is show us there is another way forward.
So when a leader arises with whom we agree strongly or with whom we have major opposition, we must return to Abraham’s story. We must ask: What is our mission as Jews? What sets us apart? The answer, drawn from Abraham’s life is: We are here to spread kindness, peace, and safety for ourselves and for others.
Like Abraham, we pursue a “good name.” We endeavor to create an atmosphere of confident calm, a willingness to engage, and a commitment to balance our personal needs with the needs of the larger community, never losing the sense that we are just as deserving of protection as others.
Because we are not the children of Bera or Berisha, but the children of Abraham. And we, like Abraham, must pay close attention to what we are worshipping, not being afraid to break out of group-think or the generational norm. Emerson famously said, “A person will worship something, have no doubt about that…That which dominates our imaginations and our thoughts will determine our lives, and our character. Therefore, it behooves us to be careful what we worship, for what we are worshipping, we are becoming.”
If, as Emerson said, we become what we worship, then let us continue to worship the ideals Abraham embodied — hospitality, humility, and justice - for his own family and for others. We need not repeat the mistakes of the generations before us. In doing so, we become not the children of the flood, or the children of Sodom, but the heirs of Abraham’s vision for a kinder, steadier world, promoting that ideal in all cities, near and far.
Friday, November 7, 2025
Friday, October 3, 2025
Discerning the Path of Peace - Yom Kippur AM 2025/5786
In a small village in Eastern Europe, long ago, there lived a modest and well-respected rabbi named Reb Shimona. Her town was poor but proud—its people lived by Torah, kindness, and a sense of community that bound them tightly.
One harsh winter, two strangers arrived.
The first was a man named Avner. He was polished, wealthy, and generous. He gave gold to the synagogue, donated warm coats to the children, and paid for a new roof for the beit midrash. The town welcomed him with open arms.
The second man, Yitzchak, arrived days later. He was ragged, rough-spoken, with eyes that had seen too much. He offered no gifts, told no sweet stories—only warnings. "There is danger coming," he said. "A storm of hatred in the world beyond. You must prepare."
But the villagers whispered, “He is bitter, that one. Angry. Suspicious. Perhaps not even truly pious.”
Reb Shimona invited both men to her home, curious.
At dinner, Avner spoke elegantly of tradition, of how charity was a mitzvah, and how he admired the town’s simplicity. But Reb Shimona noticed something: Avner never asked questions—he only gave answers. After finishing his plate, he politely thanked his host and left.
Yitzchak, by contrast, was blunt. He criticized the town’s leaders for ignoring the world outside. He spoke of pogroms in neighboring provinces, and how Jews were being forced from their homes. He begged them to prepare, to seek out trustworthy allies. He listened and counter-argued, and he conversed back and forth with the rabbi deep into the night.
That night, the rabbi dreamed.
She stood before a great scale. On one side stood Avner, golden and glowing, with a smile like honey. On the other stood Yitzchak, dark and burdened, weighed down by sorrow. But when the scale tipped, it leaned toward Yitzchak—not because of weight, but because of truth.
The next morning, Reb Shimona spoke to the town.
“You think good is always soft,” she said. “You think evil is always loud. But listen well: Evil can come dressed in silk, handing you gifts that make you forget how to think. And good can come rough and sharp, forcing you to see what you'd rather not.”
They asked what she meant.
She told them that Avner was a government informer. His "gifts" were bribes to keep the village quiet and complacent, so the authorities could map it, watch it, and later uproot it with ease.
And Yitzchak? A survivor of three destroyed communities—his warnings would eventually save them.
***
Now let me stop you before you get started: there is no specific politician or leader whom I believe Avner represents.
I have no one particular in mind for Yitzchak.
When it comes to campaigning candidates, elected leaders, or just “people in power,” it is foolhardy, and frankly, dangerous, to implement a litmus test for determining “who is good for the Jews” and who isn’t. There is no secret checklist of policies or credentials that can reveal a true ally.
Actually, it takes a willingness to see beyond easy labels; it means ongoing engagement and asking questions. The story urges us to be discerning -
to detect comforting messages that numb us into dangerous complacency and to acknowledge truths that unsettle us, but can lead to important action.
Today, I believe this manifests in the Jewish struggle to balance our need for communal safety with moral integrity. We are currently seeking partners who want to find this balance with us.
It’s feeling harder to find them.
But, more than worrying about any particular person or policy, I am concerned that sometimes we get so lost in the weeds of this deliberation that we forget the lesson the sages and historians have proved time and time again: a weakened society, a crumbling democracy, hurts the Jews just as badly as a direct attack.
Not once in Jewish history have we been able to hole up and just “wait it out” as the storm brews outside; which means advocating for the Jewish good also means advocating for the greater good.
The prophets of old knew that a rising tide lifts all ships. Their vision was not only for Jewish survival, but for the flourishing of society as a whole.
Even this morning, we heard Isaiah’s words: “You shall be called the repairer of the breach, the restorer of streets to live in” (58:12). Basically, through our acts of repair, both internally and externally, we bring about our own redemption and the redemption of the world.
Through the prophet, God declared: “This is the fast I desire: To unlock the fetters of wickedness, and untie the cords of the yoke, to let the oppressed go free; to break off every yoke” (Isaiah 58:6). Isaiah highlights how everyone benefits when systems expand opportunities and barriers are removed.
And it’s not just Isaiah who preaches this message. Nearly every prophet in our tradition advocates for providing oppressed individuals and groups the tools they need to advance their position in society.
And yet I see this principle being tested in our American democracy today, dangerously weakening the fabric of our society. This is dangerous for all people, including Jews.
I believe this is particularly pronounced in the controversy around DEI. DEI serves as a case study of how noble intentions can become complicated in practice, and how the Jewish community is caught up in between.
Let me start with a quick definition, because DEI is one of those terms that has been bandied around and causes all kinds of feelings.
DEI is a conceptual framework - it stands for Diversity, Equity and Inclusion. The framework can be applied in various environments, most notably school curricula and workplaces. DEI, by definition, promotes the fair treatment and full participation of all people, including populations who have historically been underrepresented or subject to discrimination because of their background, identity, disability, etc.
In the last decade, progressive Jews took on the call towards these goals with gusto both inside and outside our community. In Jewish spaces, DEI initiatives have provided more hospitable spaces for Jews of Color, LGBTQ+ Jews, women and folks with disabilities. In pursuing this noble goal, we have broadened and deepened the experience of all Jews.
The Union for Reform Judaism dug in especially, making sure our movement more thoughtfully and authentically speaks to the diversity in our ranks. Our movement also pursued the painful work of exposing the deep misogyny and abuse that has long permeated our seminaries, camps and communal institutions. We haven’t eradicated these injustices completely, but we’ve put them on the run. When we say “all are welcome,” we are closer to actually meaning it.
I’ve been encouraged by these efforts in the public sector as well. Just the other day, my daughter was doing her Social Studies homework. She was learning about our nation’s early history. At the same time she was appreciating the genius of America’s architects, she was also learning about the genocidal violence against America’s indigenous peoples and the lasting effects of our country’s founding on the Native population. The lesson carried the message that we can be proud Americans while also addressing the historical injustice. She was learning how to be a thoughtful reader of history and how to be a proud but conscientious American citizen today.
I notice that because my kids have off school for Diwali, Eid, Lunar New Year and Juneteenth, and because they learn about Pride month in school, they are better equipped than I ever was to appreciate others’ experiences. With this deeper understanding, they are primed to be more effective allies, people who know how to listen across lines of difference and demonstrate respect for others’ needs.
So many positive outcomes.
But there have been shortcomings as well.
Many of you have brought forward real-life examples of where the DEI initiatives in your schools and workplaces have excluded Jews or demonstrated ignorance on Jewish issues. More often than not, the pain comes from when Jews feel left out of the conversation or ignored when trying to share the Jewish perspective. There is a lack of understanding on how certain platitudes and symbols act as micro- and macro-aggressions toward the Jewish community.
This has us doubting our allies and our place not just in DEI initiatives, but in justice spaces as a whole. These are spaces we very much want to be helpful in.
According to a study by the Jewish People Policy Institute think tank, the pain the Jewish community is experiencing in this area is a data-backed phenomenon. Shlomo Fisher, a JPPI researcher and one of the two authors of [a study on this topic], said: “[We concentrated] on the inner experiences of American Jews, and especially of young people…in connection with university campuses. And what we discovered was that there was — this is a sort of hackneyed phrase — something of a crisis in identity, or at least an issue, a dilemma of identity among [this population].”
The study showed that the main tension came from respondents’ commitments - or non-committments - to Israel and the Jewish people. This often clashed with the views of fellow progressives.
Fisher articulated the view prevalent among these conflicted respondents:
“I view myself as a persecuted minority who has the moral authority to critique and to promote social justice concerns…and I’m being told that I’m part of a privileged oppressor class that is the very paradigm of colonialism and genocide. So my own self-definition is being contradicted by the outside world, by the other.” “That’s unprecedented,” Fisher reflected, “very unusual.”
This “identity crisis” creates a “get out!” ultimatum: either get out of the justice space or get out of your Jewish space. It’s a false binary, a fabricated fiction that only promotes isolation on all sides.
Let’s be clear: in many cases, I believe we are experiencing benign ignorance. Jews are only 0.2% of the world’s population. Most people simply do not understand Jewish culture, holidays, and the nuanced Jewish connection to Israel. I believe that clear explanations and authentic human connections can clear up many issues. Thoughtful, friendly engagement should always be our first step.
And yet, we cannot ignore the fact that as long as there have been Jews, there have been people who hate Jews for all kinds of perverse reasons.
Whether it’s ignorance or blatant hate, just as folks don’t understand Jews, they also don’t understand anti-Semitism. Thinking about the nature of anti-semitism can help us understand why it so often flies under the radar or gets dismissed, exposing how others can have failed to combat it alongside other forms of discrimination.
Anti-Semitism is a form of hate with its own perverse ideology attached. Anti-Semitism uniquely operates as an insidious lie about Jewish power and control. It is designed to pit communities against one another, erode trust in democratic institutions, and sow societal distrust by fabricating tales about dark money and cabals of vengeful Shylocks.
Anti-semitism is a conspiracy theory that cycles upon itself, especially when there are consequences for anti-Semitic behavior. Journalist Yair Rosenberg explains that, “when an anti-Semite suffers consequences for falsely claiming that sinister Jews control the world, he can then point to that punishment as vindication of his views. For Jews, this is a no-win scenario: If they stay silent, the anti-Semitism continues unabated; if they speak up, and their assailant is penalized by non-Jewish society, anti-Semites feel affirmed. Heads, the bigots win; tails, Jews lose. This is the cruel paradox that has perpetuated anti-Semitism for centuries.”
And what about the murky swamp at the intersection of anti-Semitism and anti-Zionism? JCPA gives us the honest deal: “Post-October 7th, antisemitic conspiracy theories have surged. Lies about “Jewish” or “Zionist” control have proliferated, continuing to animate broader hate and reinforce democratic erosion.”
JCPA then creates an important distinction: “While critique of Israeli policy is not only fair but important to our democratic discourse, holding Jews collectively responsible for the actions of the Israeli government is antisemitism – period.”
As I see it, DEI initiatives and justice spaces are not inherently anti-Semitic, but people can be ignorant of how they sometimes operate that way.
This isn't the only quagmire, though. The rise in anti-Semitism is also attributed to the scourge of White Christian Nationalism, which unabashedly hates Jews. This is a group that is feeling emboldened in their campaign for American dominance.
This is where we need to be particularly vigilant about a related danger that’s lurking. I’m speaking specifically about the curtailing of civil liberties or the dismantling of DEI that is done, ostensibly, in the name of protecting the Jewish community and/or Israel. Using Jews as the scapegoat does little to save us from anti-Semitism. In fact, it just feeds into the vicious anti-Semitic feedback loop.
This is what keeps me up at night. I worry about Jewish safety. I worry about the moral fabric of America. I worry that sometimes those two things seem at odds with one another.
Which leads to a larger, core question to consider: can we financially support, advocate alongside, and/or collaborate with individuals and groups with whom we share some values yet profoundly disagree with on others? What does allyship, partnership, coming into coalition, mean in these fraught times?
Allyship and partnership cannot mean perfect agreement or unconditional loyalty. Rather, they mean careful discernment — knowing when shared goals justify collaboration, and the clarity about setting boundaries when our dignity or safety is compromised.
Deliberate decisions are vital, because if we rush to run into the arms of one group or another, or tout a particular candidate as “for or against” the Jews, we risk compromising our integrity and/or our security.
Classic Jewish texts grapple with similar issues. For most of history, being a Jew meant being a minority trying to succeed among the majority. Sometimes the governments were favorable, more often they weren’t. Our sages therefore instituted laws to keep us safe - dividing lines that kept us apart and under the radar. Yet they also understood that we had to work with others to ensure our success.
Avot d’Rabbi Natan embodies this point: “Do not trust in the ruling power, for they draw one close only for their own needs; but nonetheless, seek their welfare, for without them people would swallow each other alive.”
The sages knew from experience that rulers often welcome Jews when it suits their political agenda, but their embrace is self-interested and temporary. Be vigilant, the sages say, but don’t disengage entirely. Work pragmatically for the health of the society, because that is the only way to guarantee the safety of our people.
Jewish texts clearly prioritize taking care of our fellow Jews first, but our tradition also urges us to look outside of our own community, seeking the welfare of all citizens as not just a way to stay safe, but as part of fulfilling our greater moral obligations as Jews.
The mishna teaches (Gittin 61a) that we should allow the poor of all nations access to the corners of our fields, just as we are commanded to do for our own community. The sages similarly taught that, “One sustains poor gentiles along with poor Jews, and one visits sick gentiles along with sick Jews, and one buries dead gentiles along with dead Jews.” All this is done on account of the ways of peace,” that is, to foster peaceful societal relations. This is known as “darkei shalom.”
“Darkei Shalom” is a halachic principle that refers to good relations among neighbors. It is conflict avoidant at the same time it provides a proactive recipe for a harmonious society. Jews are obligated to not only work with power players, but to also create systems of compassion and equality within our society, which is, in fact, the Jewish mission at its core.
I still can’t tell you who’s Avner and who is Yitzchak. If anything, they represent the false binary of who or what “is good or bad for the Jews.” As I preached on Rosh HaShanah, now is not the time for absolutism. Now is the time for thoughtful engagement. As you consider political candidates, as you involve yourself in local government and town initiatives, as you consider school budgets and workplace policies, weigh the values and needs of the broader community along with your own.
This isn’t about choosing the side that flatters us most or frightens us the least. It’s about who wants to build the same future we want to build. It’s about true friendship, which demands honesty and compromise.
Not every partner will be perfect. Not every coalition will be easy. Yet if we cultivate darkei shalom—if we insist on peaceful coalitions built on justice and mutual responsbility—then we will not only protect ourselves, but help stitch a fabric of society strong enough to shelter us all.
Ken Y’hi Ratzon, may these words be worthy of coming true.
Closing
On this Yom Kippur, as we speak the Ashamnu from A to Z, we admit that even if each of us did not commit every wrong, together our community has carried them all. So too, the work of repair cannot rest on one voice alone, but on all of us, standing side by side.
May this day sharpen our discernment, recognizing allies who seek true partnership, resisting those who would use our fears for their gain. Let’s keep our eye on the prize though, showing sincere effort to join with others in building a society where justice and peace shelter us all.
Amen.
Thursday, September 25, 2025
The Sword and the Plowshare - Rosh Hashanah 2025/5786
Hillel and Shammai were known to disagree. Tradition considers their disputes to be controversies “for the sake of Heaven” (Pirkei Avot 5:17). But even Heaven has a limit.
The Babylonian Talmud (Shabbat 17a) relays a time that Hillel and Shammai argued over the purity of pressed oil and pressed wine. As the story goes, the debate turned contentious. A brawl broke out. The fight broiled over with shouts and threats. At the climax of the fray, a sword was thrust into the threshold of the study hall. A proclamation went out: “All who wish to enter the debate may enter, but whoever desires to leave may not leave!” Violence, as it were, stood waiting at the doorway. The attendees were trapped, indefinitely, in the vicious debate.
To lower the temperature in the study house, Hillel submitted. His students witnessed him bowed and seated below Shammai. Shammai’s ruling on the issue thus won the day.
Yet, the community outside the study hall was disgusted by the unbecoming process by which the law was determined. Talmud states, “that day was as grievous as the day the Golden Calf was forged.”
As we know, Jewish tradition venerates debate, sees it as healthy and essential for the future vitality of our people and the world. Yet the sages were also keen observers of human psychology and understood how vicious we could be to one another, especially when our convictions cross from reasonable opinion to iron-clad principles.
To be so sure of oneself, to be locked into position and to be willing to “fight to the death,” as it were, is akin to idolatry. In the Jewish mind, idolatry traffics in ultimatums and platitudes; it indulges in self-righteousness. It is a shallow understanding of God's nature disguised as piety and devotion.
The sages’ anxiety around this weaponization of conviction is so extreme that the Talmudic story of Hillel, Shammai, and the sword additionally appears in the Jerusalem Talmud, a cousin to the more definitive Babylonian Talmud. The Jerusalem Talmud’s story mirrors the Bavli’s, albeit with an even more tragic ending.
In the Yerushalmi's telling, the sword appears not just as the specter of violence, but a call to it. In the alternate telling, the students of Shammai, energized by their master’s win, and fueled by self-righteousness, take up arms and massacre the students of Hillel.
The story of Hillel and Shammai exposes that while this is not a new problem, it is a dire one. This is today’s political reality. The sword waits at the doors of our communities, our workspaces, our families and even our own hearts. The stakes feel alarmingly high and the pain is devastatingly real. And just when we think we’re being hyperbolic about the current state of affairs, we see a bloody rise in political violence and the violent study hall comes into focus again.
The pain we feel is compounded by the fact that the sword at the entrance - the entrance to our institutions and to our own hearts - is not just a dividing line but also a trap. We can try to declare certain topics off limits, or turn off our phones in the name of self-care, and yet it still feels impossible to leave the conversation. To walk out or shut down can feel like capitulation, the internal monologue being: “Well, if I stop fighting, the other side wins.”
Or the concern may be more self-critical: “How dare I turn my back when other people are suffering more than I am?” There is no emergency exit, no backdoor to sneak out of. We have been thrust into this moment of discord and division. The sword stands at the doorway and it has already drawn blood.
We can speak about this globally and nationally, but where it hurts the most this Rosh HaShanah is within the Jewish community itself. Rabbi Benjamin Berger explains that: “The mood is tense, the lines are drawn…Across American Jewish life, we are facing crises of belonging and trust. Institutions that once held diverse constituencies together are straining under the weight of polarization. Generational, ideological, and communal divides are widening [in Jewish spaces]…”
He then becomes more pointed in just what debates he’s addressing:
“Disagreements over what kinds of criticism of Israel are legitimate; how much attention should be given to Palestinian suffering; how best to confront antisemitism; or whether government actions, like those of the Trump administration’s punishment of universities, have deepened our divides. These are not abstract debates; they cut to the core of identity, values, and belonging. And in the current climate, they too easily turn disagreements into ruptures.”
So I will begin today with words of gratitude. Gratitude to you, my community. By and large, Woodlands Community Temple has weathered society’s turmoil. Our community has endeavored, quite counter-culturally I may add, to be humble enough, to be open-minded enough, to be able hold many truths at the same time - particularly on issues having to do with Israel, Palestine and anti-semitism. We have aspired to give one another space to feel and hold many emotions at one time, knowing that just because we grieve over one group of people, does not mean that we do not have compassion for another.
In many ways, we have resembled the ancient study hall as the rabbis intended it: filled with the sweat and tears of struggle that lead to a diverse community deeply committed to one another.
This tent we sit in today is not just a physical space to accommodate our numbers. It represents the ethos we strive for in this very special community of ours: at our best, we are an open tent of ideas and experiences. Know that while you may be unique in your opinion, you are not alone in your struggle.
Do not mistake my appreciation for naivete, though. Our tent walls are porous and messaging comes from other places - Jewish and not. We are impacted by politicians and media, and by our own family and friends. The storm of opinion and debate may lead you to question your place, at our synagogue, in the Jewish community, in the global Jewish family.
So many of you have come forward expressing shame - lamenting the violence being “done in our name,” wondering if your struggles and doubts take you outside of the Jewish tent.
I also hear the anger you feel, astounded by others’ indifference to the violence inflicted upon the Jewish people. We need to be louder, you suggest. If we don’t stand up for ourselves, who will?
Both of these perspectives make sense to me. The problem of this moment, though, is not the perspectives, but how trapped in them we are.
A few weeks ago, I was deeply moved by the words of Etger Keret. Keret is a well-respected modern Israeli writer. He recently wrote of his experience protesting the war in Gaza while living in his native Tel Aviv:
“Most Saturday evenings, my wife and I join a silent vigil in Tel Aviv where each participant holds a photograph of a Gazan child killed in recent IDF attacks…
Some passers-by stop to look at the pictures and read the children’s names; others throw out a curse and keep walking…
On a recent Saturday, the vigil was more charged than usual. Hamas had just released a monstrous video showing the skeletal Israeli hostage Evyatar David digging his own grave upon his captors’ orders. A few people stopped as they walked past us. A man wearing swim shorts stared at me and asked me if I had seen the video: “He’s your people. It’s his picture you should be holding.” [We entered into a heated argument.]
All of a sudden the whole scenario seemed less like a political dispute and more like a modern Tower of Babel, where God made everyone speak different languages to stop their effort to build endlessly upward, a check on human arrogance. It’s a story in which we are all living in a building, trying to reach the clouds. It keeps growing and growing, and we keep climbing up with it, higher and higher: with more knowledge, more confidence, more purpose, yet somewhere along the way — and not just because of arrogance — we lose our fundamental ability to communicate. Each of us is trapped in our separate feeds, our separate languages, with different facts and different conclusions, which grow only more and more solid…
…At the end of the biblical story, the people abandon their project to build the tower. Many stories in the Bible end badly, and ours seems to be heading that way, too. That is, unless we can manage — me, the guy in the swim shorts and everyone else — to find a common language again…”
Keret's words cut to the heart of our moment and they bring us back to the story of Hillel and Shammai. Hillel, being a peacemaker, allows Shammai the win. But the people protest, knowing that a verdict reached by authoritarian violence cannot hold in the long run. In a profound turn of events, the Talmudic story continues to say that while Hillel submitted to Shammai, the people outside the study hall refused Shammai’s decision. The people demanded that the sages re-engage in the debate and bring forward a fairly adjudicated verdict.
The re-engagement is not just the story’s conclusion, it's the moral. Hillel’s resignation is not enough. For the sake of the community’s health, every person in that study hall had to find the humility to return to the table. The people outside the study hall demand that the students expand their horizons at the same time that they sharpen their arguments. The real world is full of complex viewpoints and the study hall should be too.
To remove the sword from the threshold, to counteract the violence and consuming meanness we show one another, we need to reflect on our character and the ethos of our society today. In my estimation, there is one main ingredient that we are lacking, personally and communally, that until we cultivate it again, we will go nowhere.
The not-so-secret ingredient is humility. It is one of the hardest human attributes to nurture, which is why it is front and center during the High Holy Days. Our job during this season is not just to repent for our sins, but to cultivate humility. We say to God- “Avinu Malkeinu, we are not so arrogant and stiff-necked as to say before You, we are perfect and have not sinned.”
But that’s just articulating an intention. The reality is that we are arrogant and stiff-necked, aren’t we? Conservatives and Liberals alike. All of us.
I’ll give you my recent “aha moment,” when I tasted my own pretentiousness. It was a small, silly moment, but no less profound. I was watching stand up comic Gianmarco Soresi, a fellow Jew and liberal. He was on a roll doing a bit when he snuck in an off-color joke. The crowd balked. Feeling the room shift, he said, “Hey, hey! I have progressive views…that doesn’t make me a good person.” Boy, did that hit home for me.
We are bloated with self-righteousness and moral superiority and, regrettably, we seek to release it by passing judgment on others.
Writer/Thinker Tim Urban warns of the dangers of what he calls ‘the Primitive Mind’: “The Primitive Mind sees [your] beliefs as a fundamental part of your identity…the last thing the Primitive Mind wants is for you to feel humble about your beliefs or interested in revising them. It wants you to treat your beliefs as sacred objects and believe them with conviction.”
Treating your beliefs as sacred objects - sounds a lot like idolatry to me. Which explains why humility is an essential character trait in Jewish tradition.
When it comes to Hillel and Shammai, why do Hillel’s rulings usually win the day? “Because,” the Talmud states, “Hillel’s students were humble - they taught their own opinions only after sharing Shammai’s first” (Eruvin 13b). The process by which the ruling came to be was more important than who uttered it and what side they stood on.
Urban observes: “For most beliefs, we’re so concerned with where people stand that we often forget the most important thing [is really] how they arrived at what they think.”
Our tradition holds that humility is not about lowering yourself. Humility is really about creating space for other people. It is the elixir to absolutism and authoritarianism. It requires grace and cultivates kindness, which in turn creates partners - not in building towers of greatness, but cities of goodness.
Today, we asked God, Avinu Malkeinu, עֲשֵׂה עִמָּֽנוּ צְדָקָה וָחֶֽסֶד, deal with us with generosity and kindness. But before we can even dare to ask this of God, we must demonstrate it with one another.
Because it seems to me that amidst all the spiritual and physical violence the thing we all have in common right now is that we are all scared and hurt. “Hurt people hurt people,” Yehuda Berger says, and we’re watching this truth unfold in real time.
The rabbis taught that the world itself rests on three things: Torah, worship, and gemilut chasadim—acts of kindness (Pirkei Avot 1:2). In other words, kindness is not just a virtue, it is a load-bearing beam of existence. If it buckles, everything around it begins to crack. But kindness towards an injured person can restore dignity. Kindness can break isolation. Kindness can plant possibility.
“But rabbi,” you might think, “humility and kindness can’t take down an evil regime. They can’t restore freedom of speech or guarantee my basic rights under the law. Debate is great until someone decides to throw a sword!”
I know, and I agree. I maintain that we must still march, strike, and advocate in order to protect our rights and make large-scale change. Engaging in debate isn’t enough, especially when we are just arrogantly trying to win, not truly trying to understand.
That said, we must also believe in the power of humility and kindness. These attributes aren’t weak, and they most certainly don’t demonstrate submission. They clear away the clutter of self-righteousness so that when we act, we act with clarity and integrity. Together, they help us to create a shared language again, shared expectations of what it means to be a citizen; what it means to be a neighbor.
Humility and kindness start in small interactions, and with enough repetition, create a ripple effect, creating communities of good-will that, if they persist, can change the jet-stream of today’s climate.
I have seen our community, the Woodlands community, endeavor to meet this fraught moral moment with humility and kindness. We’re not perfect at it, our liturgy today demonstrates that no one can be. But I challenge us to reinforce this skill over the next 10 days, culminating in the observance of Yom Kippur, our Day of Atonement. Can you make space, create an open tent within your heart? Can you then demonstrate this with others, shifting the tides here in our little corner of the world?
On these most auspicious days, let us endeavor to remove the sword in our heart’s doorway. May we seek the open tent, where our many perspectives can be held in compassion.
May we be humble enough to welcome one another inside, and kind enough to make space for God’s presence to dwell among us. In that shared space, may we write a different ending than the one in Hillel and Shammai’s day, one marked not by the sword but by kindness. May we be remembered not for the swords we brandished, but for plowshares we pushed, turning up fertile ground. I believe healing and progress are possible, we just have to be bold enough to make space for it.
Closing words
Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel was known to have said, “When I was young, I admired cleverness. Now that I am old, I find I admire kindness.”
So may it be for us, too. As we enter this new year, may arrogance give way to compassion, argument give way to listening, and fear give way to understanding. May the swords at our heart’s thresholds transform into plowshares, creating fertile ground yet again. May our open tent be filled with humility, kindness, and God’s abiding presence.
Ken Yehi Ratzon. May this be God’s will. Shanah Tovah!
The Babylonian Talmud (Shabbat 17a) relays a time that Hillel and Shammai argued over the purity of pressed oil and pressed wine. As the story goes, the debate turned contentious. A brawl broke out. The fight broiled over with shouts and threats. At the climax of the fray, a sword was thrust into the threshold of the study hall. A proclamation went out: “All who wish to enter the debate may enter, but whoever desires to leave may not leave!” Violence, as it were, stood waiting at the doorway. The attendees were trapped, indefinitely, in the vicious debate.
To lower the temperature in the study house, Hillel submitted. His students witnessed him bowed and seated below Shammai. Shammai’s ruling on the issue thus won the day.
Yet, the community outside the study hall was disgusted by the unbecoming process by which the law was determined. Talmud states, “that day was as grievous as the day the Golden Calf was forged.”
As we know, Jewish tradition venerates debate, sees it as healthy and essential for the future vitality of our people and the world. Yet the sages were also keen observers of human psychology and understood how vicious we could be to one another, especially when our convictions cross from reasonable opinion to iron-clad principles.
To be so sure of oneself, to be locked into position and to be willing to “fight to the death,” as it were, is akin to idolatry. In the Jewish mind, idolatry traffics in ultimatums and platitudes; it indulges in self-righteousness. It is a shallow understanding of God's nature disguised as piety and devotion.
The sages’ anxiety around this weaponization of conviction is so extreme that the Talmudic story of Hillel, Shammai, and the sword additionally appears in the Jerusalem Talmud, a cousin to the more definitive Babylonian Talmud. The Jerusalem Talmud’s story mirrors the Bavli’s, albeit with an even more tragic ending.
In the Yerushalmi's telling, the sword appears not just as the specter of violence, but a call to it. In the alternate telling, the students of Shammai, energized by their master’s win, and fueled by self-righteousness, take up arms and massacre the students of Hillel.
The story of Hillel and Shammai exposes that while this is not a new problem, it is a dire one. This is today’s political reality. The sword waits at the doors of our communities, our workspaces, our families and even our own hearts. The stakes feel alarmingly high and the pain is devastatingly real. And just when we think we’re being hyperbolic about the current state of affairs, we see a bloody rise in political violence and the violent study hall comes into focus again.
The pain we feel is compounded by the fact that the sword at the entrance - the entrance to our institutions and to our own hearts - is not just a dividing line but also a trap. We can try to declare certain topics off limits, or turn off our phones in the name of self-care, and yet it still feels impossible to leave the conversation. To walk out or shut down can feel like capitulation, the internal monologue being: “Well, if I stop fighting, the other side wins.”
Or the concern may be more self-critical: “How dare I turn my back when other people are suffering more than I am?” There is no emergency exit, no backdoor to sneak out of. We have been thrust into this moment of discord and division. The sword stands at the doorway and it has already drawn blood.
We can speak about this globally and nationally, but where it hurts the most this Rosh HaShanah is within the Jewish community itself. Rabbi Benjamin Berger explains that: “The mood is tense, the lines are drawn…Across American Jewish life, we are facing crises of belonging and trust. Institutions that once held diverse constituencies together are straining under the weight of polarization. Generational, ideological, and communal divides are widening [in Jewish spaces]…”
He then becomes more pointed in just what debates he’s addressing:
“Disagreements over what kinds of criticism of Israel are legitimate; how much attention should be given to Palestinian suffering; how best to confront antisemitism; or whether government actions, like those of the Trump administration’s punishment of universities, have deepened our divides. These are not abstract debates; they cut to the core of identity, values, and belonging. And in the current climate, they too easily turn disagreements into ruptures.”
So I will begin today with words of gratitude. Gratitude to you, my community. By and large, Woodlands Community Temple has weathered society’s turmoil. Our community has endeavored, quite counter-culturally I may add, to be humble enough, to be open-minded enough, to be able hold many truths at the same time - particularly on issues having to do with Israel, Palestine and anti-semitism. We have aspired to give one another space to feel and hold many emotions at one time, knowing that just because we grieve over one group of people, does not mean that we do not have compassion for another.
In many ways, we have resembled the ancient study hall as the rabbis intended it: filled with the sweat and tears of struggle that lead to a diverse community deeply committed to one another.
This tent we sit in today is not just a physical space to accommodate our numbers. It represents the ethos we strive for in this very special community of ours: at our best, we are an open tent of ideas and experiences. Know that while you may be unique in your opinion, you are not alone in your struggle.
Do not mistake my appreciation for naivete, though. Our tent walls are porous and messaging comes from other places - Jewish and not. We are impacted by politicians and media, and by our own family and friends. The storm of opinion and debate may lead you to question your place, at our synagogue, in the Jewish community, in the global Jewish family.
So many of you have come forward expressing shame - lamenting the violence being “done in our name,” wondering if your struggles and doubts take you outside of the Jewish tent.
I also hear the anger you feel, astounded by others’ indifference to the violence inflicted upon the Jewish people. We need to be louder, you suggest. If we don’t stand up for ourselves, who will?
Both of these perspectives make sense to me. The problem of this moment, though, is not the perspectives, but how trapped in them we are.
A few weeks ago, I was deeply moved by the words of Etger Keret. Keret is a well-respected modern Israeli writer. He recently wrote of his experience protesting the war in Gaza while living in his native Tel Aviv:
“Most Saturday evenings, my wife and I join a silent vigil in Tel Aviv where each participant holds a photograph of a Gazan child killed in recent IDF attacks…
Some passers-by stop to look at the pictures and read the children’s names; others throw out a curse and keep walking…
On a recent Saturday, the vigil was more charged than usual. Hamas had just released a monstrous video showing the skeletal Israeli hostage Evyatar David digging his own grave upon his captors’ orders. A few people stopped as they walked past us. A man wearing swim shorts stared at me and asked me if I had seen the video: “He’s your people. It’s his picture you should be holding.” [We entered into a heated argument.]
All of a sudden the whole scenario seemed less like a political dispute and more like a modern Tower of Babel, where God made everyone speak different languages to stop their effort to build endlessly upward, a check on human arrogance. It’s a story in which we are all living in a building, trying to reach the clouds. It keeps growing and growing, and we keep climbing up with it, higher and higher: with more knowledge, more confidence, more purpose, yet somewhere along the way — and not just because of arrogance — we lose our fundamental ability to communicate. Each of us is trapped in our separate feeds, our separate languages, with different facts and different conclusions, which grow only more and more solid…
…At the end of the biblical story, the people abandon their project to build the tower. Many stories in the Bible end badly, and ours seems to be heading that way, too. That is, unless we can manage — me, the guy in the swim shorts and everyone else — to find a common language again…”
Keret's words cut to the heart of our moment and they bring us back to the story of Hillel and Shammai. Hillel, being a peacemaker, allows Shammai the win. But the people protest, knowing that a verdict reached by authoritarian violence cannot hold in the long run. In a profound turn of events, the Talmudic story continues to say that while Hillel submitted to Shammai, the people outside the study hall refused Shammai’s decision. The people demanded that the sages re-engage in the debate and bring forward a fairly adjudicated verdict.
The re-engagement is not just the story’s conclusion, it's the moral. Hillel’s resignation is not enough. For the sake of the community’s health, every person in that study hall had to find the humility to return to the table. The people outside the study hall demand that the students expand their horizons at the same time that they sharpen their arguments. The real world is full of complex viewpoints and the study hall should be too.
To remove the sword from the threshold, to counteract the violence and consuming meanness we show one another, we need to reflect on our character and the ethos of our society today. In my estimation, there is one main ingredient that we are lacking, personally and communally, that until we cultivate it again, we will go nowhere.
The not-so-secret ingredient is humility. It is one of the hardest human attributes to nurture, which is why it is front and center during the High Holy Days. Our job during this season is not just to repent for our sins, but to cultivate humility. We say to God- “Avinu Malkeinu, we are not so arrogant and stiff-necked as to say before You, we are perfect and have not sinned.”
But that’s just articulating an intention. The reality is that we are arrogant and stiff-necked, aren’t we? Conservatives and Liberals alike. All of us.
I’ll give you my recent “aha moment,” when I tasted my own pretentiousness. It was a small, silly moment, but no less profound. I was watching stand up comic Gianmarco Soresi, a fellow Jew and liberal. He was on a roll doing a bit when he snuck in an off-color joke. The crowd balked. Feeling the room shift, he said, “Hey, hey! I have progressive views…that doesn’t make me a good person.” Boy, did that hit home for me.
We are bloated with self-righteousness and moral superiority and, regrettably, we seek to release it by passing judgment on others.
Writer/Thinker Tim Urban warns of the dangers of what he calls ‘the Primitive Mind’: “The Primitive Mind sees [your] beliefs as a fundamental part of your identity…the last thing the Primitive Mind wants is for you to feel humble about your beliefs or interested in revising them. It wants you to treat your beliefs as sacred objects and believe them with conviction.”
Treating your beliefs as sacred objects - sounds a lot like idolatry to me. Which explains why humility is an essential character trait in Jewish tradition.
When it comes to Hillel and Shammai, why do Hillel’s rulings usually win the day? “Because,” the Talmud states, “Hillel’s students were humble - they taught their own opinions only after sharing Shammai’s first” (Eruvin 13b). The process by which the ruling came to be was more important than who uttered it and what side they stood on.
Urban observes: “For most beliefs, we’re so concerned with where people stand that we often forget the most important thing [is really] how they arrived at what they think.”
Our tradition holds that humility is not about lowering yourself. Humility is really about creating space for other people. It is the elixir to absolutism and authoritarianism. It requires grace and cultivates kindness, which in turn creates partners - not in building towers of greatness, but cities of goodness.
Today, we asked God, Avinu Malkeinu, עֲשֵׂה עִמָּֽנוּ צְדָקָה וָחֶֽסֶד, deal with us with generosity and kindness. But before we can even dare to ask this of God, we must demonstrate it with one another.
Because it seems to me that amidst all the spiritual and physical violence the thing we all have in common right now is that we are all scared and hurt. “Hurt people hurt people,” Yehuda Berger says, and we’re watching this truth unfold in real time.
The rabbis taught that the world itself rests on three things: Torah, worship, and gemilut chasadim—acts of kindness (Pirkei Avot 1:2). In other words, kindness is not just a virtue, it is a load-bearing beam of existence. If it buckles, everything around it begins to crack. But kindness towards an injured person can restore dignity. Kindness can break isolation. Kindness can plant possibility.
“But rabbi,” you might think, “humility and kindness can’t take down an evil regime. They can’t restore freedom of speech or guarantee my basic rights under the law. Debate is great until someone decides to throw a sword!”
I know, and I agree. I maintain that we must still march, strike, and advocate in order to protect our rights and make large-scale change. Engaging in debate isn’t enough, especially when we are just arrogantly trying to win, not truly trying to understand.
That said, we must also believe in the power of humility and kindness. These attributes aren’t weak, and they most certainly don’t demonstrate submission. They clear away the clutter of self-righteousness so that when we act, we act with clarity and integrity. Together, they help us to create a shared language again, shared expectations of what it means to be a citizen; what it means to be a neighbor.
Humility and kindness start in small interactions, and with enough repetition, create a ripple effect, creating communities of good-will that, if they persist, can change the jet-stream of today’s climate.
I have seen our community, the Woodlands community, endeavor to meet this fraught moral moment with humility and kindness. We’re not perfect at it, our liturgy today demonstrates that no one can be. But I challenge us to reinforce this skill over the next 10 days, culminating in the observance of Yom Kippur, our Day of Atonement. Can you make space, create an open tent within your heart? Can you then demonstrate this with others, shifting the tides here in our little corner of the world?
On these most auspicious days, let us endeavor to remove the sword in our heart’s doorway. May we seek the open tent, where our many perspectives can be held in compassion.
May we be humble enough to welcome one another inside, and kind enough to make space for God’s presence to dwell among us. In that shared space, may we write a different ending than the one in Hillel and Shammai’s day, one marked not by the sword but by kindness. May we be remembered not for the swords we brandished, but for plowshares we pushed, turning up fertile ground. I believe healing and progress are possible, we just have to be bold enough to make space for it.
Closing words
Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel was known to have said, “When I was young, I admired cleverness. Now that I am old, I find I admire kindness.”
So may it be for us, too. As we enter this new year, may arrogance give way to compassion, argument give way to listening, and fear give way to understanding. May the swords at our heart’s thresholds transform into plowshares, creating fertile ground yet again. May our open tent be filled with humility, kindness, and God’s abiding presence.
Ken Yehi Ratzon. May this be God’s will. Shanah Tovah!
Friday, April 25, 2025
Shabbat Yom HaShoah 2025
Greenburgh town supervisor and Woodlands Member Paul Feiner has a unique knack for getting people involved. A few months ago, he told me about this series he had started in which he interviewed the children of Holocaust survivors. He asked me if I’d like to take over. It turned out to be a little bit more work than I thought, but I didn’t know that when I entered the TV studio in Greenburgh Town Hall, I’d be walking into a sanctuary of sorts.
Hearing these survivors’ stories, particularly from the mouths and hearts of their adult children is like a whisper from history, an uttering of a prayer of remembrance with every word. Hearing these stories, and how the next generation has wrestled with them, forces you to reflect on your own spiritual strength. When you engage with these stories, you can not NOT be compelled to live differently and to approach our modern world with a sharpened lens.
Consider for example, Freddy Hagouel. I first became familiar with Freddy’s story when I officiated at his funeral in 2019. He left behind a beautiful family - close and joyful. Over the years, I’ve heard more about his story from his daughter, our member Bette. Bette even came to speak to our 7th graders this year.
For me, the most moving part of Freddy’s story takes place in the years 1945 and 1950. Here’s why:
At liberation, Freddy and his fellow survivors had to figure out how to be human again. He traveled through Brussels to Athens. They were stateless and penniless. Haganah, the pre-Israel Jewish militia in then-Palestine, brought Freddy and his comrades on a dangerous illegal trip to Israel which was still off-limits for immigration. Through a series of illegal passports and the kindness of his last remaining family member, he was sponsored and brought to the US where Freddy soon met his wife and started over. This picture is from New Year’s eve 1951, only 5 and half years after liberation from Auschwitz.
Every time I look at this picture, my heart fills with emotion. How could it be that in just 5 years this man went from living in the mud, sleeping among the maggots, feces, and disease of a concentration camp to sitting on a plush couch, a beautiful girl in his arms, wearing a frilly, glittering paper New Years’ party hat upon his head?
It can only be through the pure determination of spirit, a resilience I could only pray to have a drop of in my blood.
And it is not only Freddy. Whether it was the courage to stow away on a train to the border, or lying to an SS officer about a skill in order to get a better job, in every story of every survivor there is a will to live etched into their bones. These folks all heeded the ancient dictum of Deuteronomy: I put before you life and death, choose life so that you and your children may live. Never has anyone fulfilled this law more than these survivors who had to choose each day to not only live, but to thrive. We honor that tonight.
This is one theme that dominated our interviews. And as I continued to conduct them, I noticed some others emerged. Some heartening, some chilling.
I'll start with the chilling: if you watch the videos, you’ll notice that in every interview we inadvertently stumbled into the modern day. These interviews were not meant to be political, of course, but we couldn’t help it. So often the interviewee would utter words that resonated - and we would both feel it. Things like: “One day, his friend just disappeared…,” or “they were told they were making too big of a deal out of it, to just keep their heads down,” or “she lost her job because of her political affiliation…”, or “he couldn’t get the right papers…”.
One would think that these interviews and this Yom HaShoah commemoration should be memorials of an increasingly distant past, an effort to create archival memory. And yet recently in the US, executive orders were ordered to increase domestic military use. A muzzle slowly tightens around the free press. Lawful residents of our country are being abducted off of the street and denied due process. People with disabilities are being dehumanized and targeted. There is public shaming, propaganda and lies being spread about minority groups, particularly the trans community. Immigrants are scared to leave their homes.
Let’s be clear: systematically curbing individual rights, targeting specific groups, limiting access to education and health care, consolidating power and instilling fear that leads to compliance, is what every single Holocaust memorial, museum and survivor will describe as the beginning of a tragedy - moral or otherwise.
HIAS issued a statement recently that put it perfectly: “Much of the Holocaust was made possible through a series of legal acts that lost any grounding in a foundation of human dignity. We do not invoke that history lightly in this context, nor are we declaring that Holocaust-like events are the inevitable end of what we are witnessing today. But we know that the Holocaust did not happen overnight — it took place after years of manipulation, injustice and discrimination. And it was not just the slow erosion of norms and laws that made it possible, but their intentional manipulation.”
I could continue to preach to you of wannabe despots here and around the world who are baring their teeth. I could continue to talk about the inhumanity and the trampling of democracy and how we Jews are almost predictably being scapegoated as part of this plan…but upon reflection, I believe what I really need to preach about is “kindness.”
Kindness? Well, that was the other thread through the stories. As the interviews continued (and if you listen to any survivor story, really) there is almost always a moment of kindness that changed the story.
Consider the case of Jeff Schlossberg’s father Phillip, who found $100 in the lining of his prison clothes and used it to barter at the kitchen for extra bread. When a friend suggested a new job might be a better way to survive, Phillip asked for the $100 back from the kitchen hand. In an inexplicable act of kindness, the man gave it back to him, enabling him to negotiate for a better job, a situation that likely saved his life.
Or it was the work contacts who hid Michelle Griffenberg’s father in Frankfurt until he could get one of the last passages out of Germany.
Or in the case of Eliz, Steve Schwartz’s mother, who was assigned camp patrol. Her ability to move around the concentration camp gave her broad contact with other prisoners. They’d ask her to look for their mother or sister or other loved one. If she had information, she’d pass it on, helping to comfort and sustain their spirits. The kitchen workers would steal one or two potatoes, and give them to Eliz saying, “Give this to my mother, and I’ll give you one.” When Eliz got one of these raw potatoes, she would slice it up and share it with the six women who had become her camp “family.”
These stories of kindness - acts big and small - go on and on.
Earlier tonight we heard about the town of Chambon, the people who took in their Jewish neighbors despite great risk. The greatest kindness, it seems to me, is when, like the people of Chambon, we open our hearts and our doors and our borders to those who are most vulnerable.
Because ultimately, it was the kindness of the places that took in the Holocaust refugees - people with no money, no possessions, and tenuous health - that saved their lives and gave birth to the generations; gave birth to our neighbors and friends who now tell the story.
The ability to “get out” or to “be welcomed in” was the determination of life or death, not just of the survivors themselves, but of the Jewish people. This is also Yom HaShoah’s lesson. I’m sure we can all find a way to apply it personally, nationally, globally.
Tonight, let us take these stories not only as history, but as instruction. The lives of the survivors - and the lessons, love and resilience passed down through their children - are not relics to be admired from afar. They are urgent calls to live with courage, to resist with conscience, and above all, to practice kindness.
This is the legacy we all inherit: to choose life for ourselves, our neighbors, our country, and all the world. May we heed the call and find strength in its ability to sustain the generations of the past and, God-willing, those of the future. Amen.
Or it was the work contacts who hid Michelle Griffenberg’s father in Frankfurt until he could get one of the last passages out of Germany.
Or in the case of Eliz, Steve Schwartz’s mother, who was assigned camp patrol. Her ability to move around the concentration camp gave her broad contact with other prisoners. They’d ask her to look for their mother or sister or other loved one. If she had information, she’d pass it on, helping to comfort and sustain their spirits. The kitchen workers would steal one or two potatoes, and give them to Eliz saying, “Give this to my mother, and I’ll give you one.” When Eliz got one of these raw potatoes, she would slice it up and share it with the six women who had become her camp “family.”
These stories of kindness - acts big and small - go on and on.
Earlier tonight we heard about the town of Chambon, the people who took in their Jewish neighbors despite great risk. The greatest kindness, it seems to me, is when, like the people of Chambon, we open our hearts and our doors and our borders to those who are most vulnerable.
Because ultimately, it was the kindness of the places that took in the Holocaust refugees - people with no money, no possessions, and tenuous health - that saved their lives and gave birth to the generations; gave birth to our neighbors and friends who now tell the story.
The ability to “get out” or to “be welcomed in” was the determination of life or death, not just of the survivors themselves, but of the Jewish people. This is also Yom HaShoah’s lesson. I’m sure we can all find a way to apply it personally, nationally, globally.
Tonight, let us take these stories not only as history, but as instruction. The lives of the survivors - and the lessons, love and resilience passed down through their children - are not relics to be admired from afar. They are urgent calls to live with courage, to resist with conscience, and above all, to practice kindness.
This is the legacy we all inherit: to choose life for ourselves, our neighbors, our country, and all the world. May we heed the call and find strength in its ability to sustain the generations of the past and, God-willing, those of the future. Amen.
Friday, April 11, 2025
Matzah Brei
It started when Michele Montague asked at our most recent staff meeting: what’s your favorite Passover food? Matzah brei quickly won the most votes.
Matzah brei is, at its most basic, matzah cooked with egg. Yet the variations on this are infinite - you either like it as a scramble or a frittata. Or fried crisp. Or more like french toast. The cooking methods are innumerable as well - do you rinse the matzah in water? How long? Soak it in eggs? Then there’s the toppings - do you take it with syrup or just some salt and pepper? Are you so bold to use sour cream?
The WCT staff discussed this all in healthy debate. As you can imagine, we came to no consensus. After all, matzah brei has been around since the 1800’s, probably earlier, and there’s still no definitive recipe.
A few days later, Sarah Goldstein, our communications associate, said, “Hey, you know our matzah brei conversation? Well, there’s a really fascinating one going on in the NYTimes Cooking section online.” She forwarded me a link to the NYTimes recipe for “Classic Matzah Brei.” Penned by Melissa Clark, it was posted about 7 years ago. It has since accumulated 332 comments, the most recent one going up just a day ago. Just like traditional Jewish texts, this multivocal discussion transcends time and space and reflects on how ancient tradition meets modern human practice.
The 332 comments were generally nice, except for a few outliers who rather pout, more than collaborate. Those killjoys claimed the author wasn’t Jewish (she is) and that she was ruining something they were expert in. Forget those trolls. They pale in comparison to the beautiful snapshots of nostalgia and love that followed…
Not to mention the evidence of how our modern traditions morph as our community changes and evolves…
It was a pleasure to see some Jewish humor creep in…
And then to realize that others had the same heart-warming response I had…
This comment, simple and succinct really hit home for me…
It’s obvious but I’ll say it…it’s not really about the matzah brei, but the story that goes with it. Every single one of us has a food like this - whether it's a Passover food, or any holiday food (Jewish or not). Passover is particularly visceral because it deals in nostalgic food even more than the other holidays.
On Passover, the food is the experience. The saltwater is the tears, the wine drops are our plague remorse. The matzah, most notably, is the bread of affliction, and all who are hungry should come eat it! How powerful is that? It is the most modest bread one can consume and we nonetheless share it with all who need sustenance. The matzah is our conscience and we are hungry - hungry for redemption, hungry for justice.
And not only do we share our matzah with those who are hungry here and now, but we notably offer the matzah to the next generation. We are instilling our hunger in the next generation - a hunger that will only be satiated when all have enough to eat and when the last oppressed person is liberated. We inundate the seder with questions in order to engender curiosity.
The children will even go hunt for the afikoman, the hidden matzah. We play the game in order to encourage a lifelong, spirited hunt for redemption. Our parents searched for it, our grandparents searched, and their grandparents searched. So we, the Jewish community of today will search and the children of our community will search too.
All who are hungry, come and eat…the key is to always stay a little hungry. Hungry, but never hangry. Angry comments, or comments that create distance, or comments that cut down creativity, will never get us where we want to go. Only by adding productively to the ancient conversation do we draw closer to a more just tomorrow. That’s the Wicked child’s sin - what does this whole thing mean to you? You…and not us…he has taken himself out of the hunt, and therefore brings us no closer to redemption.
This Passover, this season of redemption, no matter our feelings on matzah brei, or the other polarizing nostalgic foods (here’s looking at you, gefilte fish) may we find unity in our commitment to carrying the story, to reinventing it for the future. May we continue to seek liberation for ourselves and others, praying that next year we may all find ourselves in a place of peace and wellbeing. Amen.
Matzah brei is, at its most basic, matzah cooked with egg. Yet the variations on this are infinite - you either like it as a scramble or a frittata. Or fried crisp. Or more like french toast. The cooking methods are innumerable as well - do you rinse the matzah in water? How long? Soak it in eggs? Then there’s the toppings - do you take it with syrup or just some salt and pepper? Are you so bold to use sour cream?
The WCT staff discussed this all in healthy debate. As you can imagine, we came to no consensus. After all, matzah brei has been around since the 1800’s, probably earlier, and there’s still no definitive recipe.
A few days later, Sarah Goldstein, our communications associate, said, “Hey, you know our matzah brei conversation? Well, there’s a really fascinating one going on in the NYTimes Cooking section online.” She forwarded me a link to the NYTimes recipe for “Classic Matzah Brei.” Penned by Melissa Clark, it was posted about 7 years ago. It has since accumulated 332 comments, the most recent one going up just a day ago. Just like traditional Jewish texts, this multivocal discussion transcends time and space and reflects on how ancient tradition meets modern human practice.
The 332 comments were generally nice, except for a few outliers who rather pout, more than collaborate. Those killjoys claimed the author wasn’t Jewish (she is) and that she was ruining something they were expert in. Forget those trolls. They pale in comparison to the beautiful snapshots of nostalgia and love that followed…
Not to mention the evidence of how our modern traditions morph as our community changes and evolves…
It was a pleasure to see some Jewish humor creep in…
This one in particular sums it all up for me. So many of the comments started with, “I make it the way my father made it,” “My grandmother always started by doing this,” “my mother would do that.” Or, “growing up I remember,” “our family tradition is to,” and so on.
It’s obvious but I’ll say it…it’s not really about the matzah brei, but the story that goes with it. Every single one of us has a food like this - whether it's a Passover food, or any holiday food (Jewish or not). Passover is particularly visceral because it deals in nostalgic food even more than the other holidays.
On Passover, the food is the experience. The saltwater is the tears, the wine drops are our plague remorse. The matzah, most notably, is the bread of affliction, and all who are hungry should come eat it! How powerful is that? It is the most modest bread one can consume and we nonetheless share it with all who need sustenance. The matzah is our conscience and we are hungry - hungry for redemption, hungry for justice.
And not only do we share our matzah with those who are hungry here and now, but we notably offer the matzah to the next generation. We are instilling our hunger in the next generation - a hunger that will only be satiated when all have enough to eat and when the last oppressed person is liberated. We inundate the seder with questions in order to engender curiosity.
The children will even go hunt for the afikoman, the hidden matzah. We play the game in order to encourage a lifelong, spirited hunt for redemption. Our parents searched for it, our grandparents searched, and their grandparents searched. So we, the Jewish community of today will search and the children of our community will search too.
All who are hungry, come and eat…the key is to always stay a little hungry. Hungry, but never hangry. Angry comments, or comments that create distance, or comments that cut down creativity, will never get us where we want to go. Only by adding productively to the ancient conversation do we draw closer to a more just tomorrow. That’s the Wicked child’s sin - what does this whole thing mean to you? You…and not us…he has taken himself out of the hunt, and therefore brings us no closer to redemption.
This Passover, this season of redemption, no matter our feelings on matzah brei, or the other polarizing nostalgic foods (here’s looking at you, gefilte fish) may we find unity in our commitment to carrying the story, to reinventing it for the future. May we continue to seek liberation for ourselves and others, praying that next year we may all find ourselves in a place of peace and wellbeing. Amen.
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