Diamonds and Democracy - MLK Shabbat and Inauguration Weekend

The Maggid of Dubnov told a story* about a king who owned the most beautiful diamond

in the world. Every night the king carefully took the gem from its storage case to gaze

at it lovingly. But one night, disaster struck: the diamond slipped from his hands and

fell to the floor. The king picked it up quickly. But when he examined the stone, he saw

right away that there was now a thin crack running down its length. His diamond was

ruined.

In a panic, the king called every jeweler in his realm. But each expert responded that

once there's a crack in a diamond, there's no way to fix it. The desperate king sent out

word that anyone who could repair his broken diamond would be richly rewarded. A few

days later, a jeweler from a distant province arrived at the palace. After examining the

diamond, he promised the king he would fix everything, not to worry. He took the

diamond and promised to return with it in a few months.

The despondent king couldn't wait to see his diamond as good as new. When the day

arrived, the jeweler presented a beautiful box. The king shook with excitement and

opened it quickly. But when the king looked inside, his face turned red and he shook

with fury. The same thin crack still ran down the center of his precious diamond. "What

have you done?" he screamed. "You promised you would fix it!”

"Please, your majesty, wait!" said the old man. "Just turn the stone over." And when

the king did so, he saw the jeweler had carved the petals of a flower at the top of the

diamond. So now the crack running through the stone appeared to be the stem of a

flower, and the diamond was more beautiful than ever.

The irony of telling a story about a king on a night about democracy is not lost on me. And yet, it is important to know that in hasidic story telling, parables about kings are usually lessons about God. In this case, many things can be compared to God’s precious gem, but tonight, it feels democracy is the most fitting.

Consensus has it that American democracy is fractured. Bifurcated, more precisely, between left and right. Legislative chamber aisles are cavernous and while many pay lip service to “my friends across the aisle,” we know that words get lost in the cracks’ crevices, lost to the shadows of mistrust.

We know that fear, anxiety, and hate thrive in those shadows.

And yet the presence of a crack does not mean that the gem is irrevocably ruined. In 1967, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. clarified: "Democracy is not a fragile thing, it is not a weak thing…It is a precious thing." 

Our US democracy is strong. Even with the attacks and perversions, it prevails. But while not weak, it is precious. Precious things need to be guarded, tended, maintained through special attention. Otherwise they fall into disrepair, or are stolen. Our democracy, a precious thing, must be monitored and protected.

And…we must be careful. Sometimes precious things are made accessible only to a privileged few under the guise of protection. Whether through cronyism or restricting voting rights, or in the spread of misinformation or limiting of the press; whether through elitism and buying access, or in scapegoating and vilification, we see our precious democracy cracking before us. Every American, under every administration, is obligated to catch the crack, and instead of rending it further apart, find a way to shape it back to beauty.

At his speech at the March on Washington in 1963, Dr. King reminded us that "the great problem facing our nation is not just the past, but the future.” “How will we meet the challenges ahead,” he asked. “It’s not enough to just love democracy in theory,” he replied, “we must live it every day." This means lifting up the voices of the oppressed and asking which voices are still missing. Democracy thrives on multivocality and a determined assertion that every living soul matters equally.

To live by King’s words, protecting our democracy, does not mean watering down our convictions or softening our values. No, in fact we heed his words when we hone and refine them. We apply them creatively as tools of democratic artistry. In his Letter from a Birmingham Jail (1963), King wrote: "The question is not whether we will be extremists, but what kind of extremists we will be. Will we be extremists for hate or for love? Will we be extremists for the preservation of injustice or for the extension of justice?"

What would it look like to be extremist for love? I imagine it is about love through action, committing ourselves to our fellow humans; creating a ripple effect of positivity that begins in our own hearts and extends out to others, even when challenged.

The Maggid of Dubrov, like MLK, embodied this courage to dream and persevere. The Maggid famously shared, "When a person is in trouble and turns to God, they should not ask to be saved from their problems, but rather to be given the strength to endure and to learn from the experience." May we have the strength to endure and grow in the adversity we see and the adversity inevitably to come. May we be artisans of justice and believers in democratic beauty.

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*Note, the telling of the Maggid of Dubrov story is as told by Rabbi Marc Margolius - https://westendsynagogue.org/sites/default/files/site_images/cracks%20in%20the%20diamond%20-%20KN%205777_1.pdf

The End of 2024, the Beginning of 2025

It is our family tradition to spend New Year's Eve with a gang of rabbis and their families. We’ve essentially all raised our children together. Once upon a time, we would put the babies to bed, spend some quality time together and then hit the sack well before midnight. But now, we’re in a terrible in-between where we, an exhausted gaggle of parents at the end of a nearly 2 week school break, just want to go to bed but the demanding horde of 5-12 year olds are determined to stay awake until midnight to watch the ball drop in real time. We oblige and quickly turn in after the confetti flies.

It’s not my favorite thing, this staying up to midnight business. But even I have to admit, it might just be worth it in order to watch the ecstatic cheer of my kids and give them their first kisses of 2025. In that stroke of midnight, something primal takes over. It's a magical moment, no matter how culturally contrived or sleep-deprived.

My teacher Larry Hoffman recently wrote one of his “Open Letters to My Students,” where he waxed poetic on the cross-cultural fascination, and celebration, of the New Year:

“Most cultures have some sort of new year’s bash,” he observed, “The rationale behind it all is unclear. History of Religion expert Mircea Eliade considered it an outgrowth of ancient peoples’ desire to take refuge in a primeval moment when the connection between ourselves and the gods was patent…”.

His point, I believe, is that cultural and religious moments of marking time are not just about logically organizing our days. Sometimes, for reasons that aren’t exactly logical, the moment and our souls meet. And even if it is just a moment, sometimes it is much more than a wistful, passing kiss of earthly and Divine. One minute of connection can be enough for a soul rejuvenation. It’s like a dry watercolor palette. When you apply even a small drop of water, the color reactivates. You can paint again. Might that be what happens at midnight on January 1st.

But then we have to wonder what happens between those potent moments? Our beginnings are not always magically sparked by tons of confetti and loving embraces. As Rabbi Hoffman points out, “Judaism famously warns that ‘All beginnings are difficult’ (Mekhilta to Exodus 19:5).” “Google ‘Beginnings are hard,’” he says, “and you find a ton of people in agreement. All sorts of examples come to mind: moving to a new school; starting a new job; embarking on a new relationship; undertaking a new project; writing that first line of a school essay.”

He has a point. It’s one thing to say “New Year, New You!” and it’s another to actually jumpstart the process of self-improvement. That’s why Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish new year, is really just the start of a 10 day turning project that culminates in the drama of Yom Kippur.

But then Rabbi Hoffman adds a wrinkle. He muses that while beginnings are hard “...endings are usually harder. Making new friends, though difficult, is easier than saying goodbye to old ones. Starting your first job is easier than retiring. Declaring a war is nothing compared to ending it. Moving in with (you hope) the love of your life may have its uncertainties, but the pain is in moving out. I know nothing about what it feels like to be born into the world, but I suspect that dying is harder.”

We know this truth too. “Old habits die hard,” they say. With enough motivation, you can begin a new project or pick up a paintbrush and paint with gusto. Endings take motivation too, but often motivation might not be enough. You can be motivated to stop smoking, for example, but actually doing it is a bear of a battle. Starting 2025 with a new set of resolutions is likely easier than quitting the bad habits of 2024. We learned a lot about ourselves and our neighbors in 2024 and those insights are going to follow us into 2025 where they will no longer be theoretical, but consequential.

Will 2025 bring further descent into our baser proclivities or will it be the beginning of personal and national redemption? It’s a question that hovers menacingly, like the drones over New Jersey. Are we on the precipice of good or further evil? Many would say the latter.

Enter our forefather Judah. On the surface, last weeks’ Torah portion and this week’s parsha seem to be all about the Joseph narrative. But if you look closely, you’ll see his brother Judah’s story running parallel, with lessons for this looming New Year.

Judah is the fourth of the six sons of Jacob and Leah. When Judah and his brothers throw Joseph into a pit to die, it is Judah who sees a caravan of Ishmaelites and suggests that they sell Joseph into slavery instead: “What profit is it if we slay our brother and conceal his blood? ... Let not our hand be upon him, for he is our brother, our flesh” (Gen 37:26-28).

At this point, the Torah becomes ambivalent toward Judah. He saved Joseph’s life, but didn’t go so far to rescue him. He’s not a villain, but not quite a hero either. So the text takes a detour, and in a narrative aside, we learn that Judah went to live away from his brothers, got married and had children. Long story short, Judah neglects to properly take care of his daughter-in-law, Tamar. When she calls him to task, he publicly owns up to his descent into sin. It is the first step in his story’s redemptive arc.

So then in this week’s Torah portion, Judah’s character is ultimately determined. When his brother Benjamin is taken into custody in Egypt, Judah offers his life in exchange, pleading for Benjamin’s release. With this heroic act, Judah’s redemption is complete. Once he was a wishy-washy do-gooder, then a full blown sinner, and then he became a repentant. Now he seeks not just accountability, but justice, and he is willing to put his life on the line for it.

This redemptive arc in the text is important, because Judah will one day be the progenitor of the Kingdom of Judah, the ancient country of Jewish hegemony. He has to rise to goodness in order to establish legitimacy to the throne and merit being the ancestor of the coming Messiah.

And even so, it is still significant that Judah goes through this hero’s journey. Far from perfect, he role models our own journey to being better. Sure, beginnings are hard, but Judah represents how hard it is to shake your baser inclinations, how hard it is to end the bad habits and earn a good reputation; how much effort it takes to live up to your potential.

One final insight along these lines from our tradition to take into 2025:

There are two times in the Torah that God shares a list of curses that will befall the people if they do not live according to the laws God set for leading moral lives. Basically, it’s what happens if they don’t live up to their potential.

Over time, our sages instituted rules for the public recitation of these curses: the reader utters them in a quieter voice than the blessings. Furthermore, the aliyah, the section being read, cannot end with the curses. The reader must go at least one verse past the curses before stopping.

Understanding both this practice and Judah’s story, the message from our tradition is clear: even when we have neglected to live up to our potential, we must struggle past the sin. Redemption is on the horizon if we would just strive towards it.

Perhaps this is the value of even an exhausted parent staying up to midnight on New Years Eve. We hold a haggard 2024 in our hearts and push forward into 2025. We welcome it with fanfare and joy, even when we know it too will be a struggle. We feel the earthly and Divine kiss at midnight, if even for a second, in order to renew our spirits and tell us we can be redeemed - if not today, maybe one day soon - as long as we hold fast to the God-given potential within us.

Happy 2025 everyone. Whether full of beginnings or endings, may it be a year of growth and possibility. Amen.

The Winter Solstice

The Winter Solstice will officially occur tomorrow morning at 4:21 am. It will be the shortest day of the year with daylight shining for about 9 hours and 13 minutes. The darkness will preside far longer.

The dark settles so early this time of year. Maybe this is why I love outdoor holiday lights so much. They sparkle in the black cover. I love driving around the neighborhood with my family, rating the interplay of color, installation precision and quantity. It’s not my tradition to hang them, but I certainly delight in them.

The anthropologist in me is fascinated by the way humans have determinedly inserted light into the darkest time of the year. Clearly, Christmas lights do that. Yet it is a cross-cultural phenomenon: Hindus, Jains and Sikhs have the oil-lamp-filled light festival of Diwali (celebrating the triumph of good over evil). Lunar New Year greets a new year with glowing red lanterns and Kwanzaa ignites the lights of cultural pride. 

And of course, Jews have Hanukkah. Our sages tell us to place our chanukiyot in the window of our homes to publicize the miracle. The miracle in this case is not just the oil lasting eight nights, but the miracle that even in the darkest times, a hopeful heart can spark enough courage to defeat even the most formidable foes. 

When enumerated like this, it feels like all of humanity refuses to accept the darkness and understands its purpose in helping the light to break through even the thickest shadow.

Now, if you’re a follower of the Jewish calendar, you might notice how our holidays line up with new moons and full moons. Hanukkah, interestingly enough, falls on neither. Instead, it is on the 25th of Kislev, far away from the light of the full moon and closer to the empty sky of the new moon. The date cleverly ensures a short day and a dark night, making the light of the chanukiyah even brighter in contrast. The proximity to the Winter Solstice deepens the whole experience.

On Kol Nidre, I shared a midrash about the Winter Solstice and the first human: the Sages teach that when Adam the first man saw that the days were getting shorter between the autumnal equinox and the winter solstice, he did not yet know that this is a normal phenomenon, and therefore he said: “Woe is me; perhaps because I sinned, the world is becoming dark around me and will ultimately return to the primordial state of chaos and disorder”…He therefore spent eight days in fasting and in prayer.

Once the winter solstice arrived and he observed that the days started to become progressively longer, he said: ‘Clearly, the days become shorter and then longer, and this is the natural order of the world.’ He went and observed a festival of thanksgiving for eight days. Upon the next year he commemorated both of these observances with eight days of festivities.” (Avodah Zara 8a)

Hm…8 days of festivities. What a convenient number. 8 days in which we celebrate the triumph of hope over despair. It says that while the world may have begun in chaos, disorder, and darkness, the celestial orbits and nature’s rhythms carry a message of hope and defiance. 

Similarly, Physics teaches us that nature spirals toward chaos. Among humans, those who cast a shadow - the bigger the muscle or ego - the more powerful they appear. Sometimes it is easier to spread darkness - fear and mistrust - than it is to inspire hope. But God embedded fail-safes into Creation, like the rebirth of light on the Winter Solstice. It’s all about balance.

The rabbis reflect this balance in a midrash about the Leviathan. The Leviathan, according to Jewish lore, is a giant sea monster that lives in the darkest depths of the ocean. Once a year, on the Winter Solstice, the monster Leviathan raises its head from the deep and roars, stirring up the water, creating the choppy, stormy waves we associate with the season. This roar also scares the bigger fish, who normally prey on the smaller ones. The Leviathan's roar disarms the big fish, giving the smaller fish a chance to get away. In this way, the rabbis say, the Leviathan is a tikkun, a Divine act of repair, that resets nature’s balance and allows the little fish to escape the predatory power of the big fish.

This too sounds like Hanukkah, how a small band of committed warriors drove away the powerful brutes to restore order and rededicate God’s sanctuary. With the lighting of the temple’s lamps, hope started to glow again. 

And then I start to consider, maybe this time of year is not so much about surviving the dark, but rather celebrating the rebirth of the light. We don’t have to inject light as much as we have to have trust that it is there. Much like our Hanukkah menorahs start with one little candle and grow into an eight-wicked fire, the Winter Solstice draws us into the darkest day just to turn around and start marching toward brighter ones. That’s the natural rhythm of things.

Truth be told, we travel this road every week. Every Friday night, Shabbat begins in darkness. Its first moments are ushered in with the gathering of loved ones, the swipe of a match and the lighting of two little candles. If you follow the Sabbath laws, turning off all electronics and lights, the next 24 hours are quieter and darker, yet strangely warmer. We spend it doing the things that matter with the people who matter. When the havdallah’s three-wicked candle is lit the next evening, we feel the presence, and honor the preciousness, of our inner light. 

And so as the darkest days give way to the return of the light, may we, too, find the courage to kindle our own inner flames, knowing that even in the deepest shadows, the light is never far. May strengthen our resolve to stand up for the little fish, no matter how formidable the foe and may it warm our hearts towards hope, trusting in the natural turning toward goodness.

Abraham and the Desert Sun

Abraham is, famously, the first Jew. Surrounded by pagan idol worship, miraculously, he was able to cut through the noise and perceive the Truth with a capital T…that there is only one God, the creator and sustainer of all living things.

The rabbis wonder, though, what was it about Abraham that made God choose him? Torah is oddly silent on what it is about Abraham that made him most equipped to see with clarity the way of the Eternal. How did God know Abraham would have the ingenuity and courage to do something never done before: forge a direct covenant with God? Remember, not only was this a spiritual bond, but a physical one too - Abraham goes so far to mark this lasting relationship on his body, circumcising himself and his household, a tradition that continues to today.

The sages of the midrash imagine what it might have been like:

“When Abraham was born, the ruler of the world was Nimrod, mentioned earlier in Genesis as a mighty hunter. Nimrod’s astrologers tell him of a baby born who will overthrow his kingdom, and so Nimrod orders all the babies killed. To protect his son, Abraham’s father, Terach, hides him in a desert cave. In the shelter of the cave, Abraham was shielded not only from harm, but from the natural ways of the world as well.

At the age of three, Abraham wandered out of the cave and, being a most precocious child, asked what could hardly be considered a typical question for a three-year-old: “Who created the heavens and the earth – and me?”  He looked up at the sun and, imagining that it was the creative force, he worshiped it all day. That night when the moon came out, he thought it must be stronger than the sun, having supplanted it in the sky. So he worshiped the moon all night. When in the morning the sun came out again, 3 year old Abraham reasoned that there was some sort of natural cycle afoot and that there must be a God more powerful than both the sun and the moon who is responsible for all of creation. So, according to this story, Abraham – at a very young age – chose God, which helps explain why God chose him.”

This week’s Torah portion, Vayera, is an even deeper dive into Abraham’s character. We see how he forges alliances, manages family conflict and advocates on behalf of his fellow humans. And yet if we keep the camera focused on Abraham alone, we’ll miss other important characters in these chapters. I’m not talking about his nephew Lot or Sarah or Hagar even, but the sun and the desert themselves.

As the midrash alluded, Abraham’s environment is very much a part of his story. Plus, the hot desert setting is not just where the idea of Judaism is born, but it will be where the Jewish people come into their own while wandering for 40 years. The desert, by Torah’s standards, is not a barren wasteland, but a fertile womb where great danger mixes with great possibility.

At the beginning of our Torah portion, Abraham is sitting at the entrance of his tent near the “elonei Mamre.” This is often translated as the oaks of Mamre (Mamre being a place name), but scholars go with “terebinths of Mamre.”  A terebinth tree is related to the cashew and pistachio trees. It’s short and shrubby but provides good enough shade in the desert heat. He’s recovering from the circumcision he just performed on himself. Who can blame him for needing a day or two out of the sun?

And yet Torah reports that Abraham sat there k’chom hayom, in the heat of the day. We know the desert is hot, but highlighting the heat of the day is oddly specific and therefore an important detail. Even with the shade of the trees, this particular day was hotter than most. We ask: why was it so hot and why was Abraham, in his weakened state, sitting out in this heat?

Before we answer, we need to understand how the rabbis viewed the sun. According to the rabbis, the sun is considered in the 2nd firmament - one level removed from our world. Today, we know this buffer zone as the sun being behind Earth’s atmosphere and the light years of distance through space. Even without the scientific language though, it is clear that the rabbis understood there is some sort of spiritual and physical distance from the sun. This distance, this pocket of protection, exists, they say, so that we are not burned up by the sun’s heat. In the future, they say, God will draw forth the sun from its sheath and the wicked will be consumed by its intense heat.

On Abraham’s recovery day, God allowed the sun to come closer and blaze hotter so that Abraham might not be troubled by travelers. But God should have known Abraham better. Even in his weakened state, Abraham, ever the hospitable host, was stationed anyway at the opening to his tent and was sad that no travelers were coming by. Sensing Abraham’s adorable disappointment, God decided to send some visitors.

3 figures come along in the desert heat. Abraham runs to greet them and provide food and drink. This is no ordinary visit though. They tell Abraham that by this time next year, Sarah will have a son, heir to Abraham’s faith. Abraham’s circumcision and the enunciation of Isaac’s birth are evidence of the covenant forged between the Jewish people and God. It is God making good on the promise that if Abraham shows loyalty to God, God will make of him a great people. 

The desert setting and its intense heat are an important backdrop, though. To me, they symbolize how we do not easily obtain the future’s potential promises. Prosperity and well-being only come to us through the effort of hard work, or even in the crucible of adversity. “When the going gets tough, the tough get going,” seems applicable here.

Abraham demonstrates strong convictions and God respects those convictions. Abraham, no matter how precociously righteous, has to show effort, even some struggle, to live by those convictions. Even when the sun was blazing his hottest, Abraham showed generosity and compassion. Weakened, he still rose to the challenge of living his deepest values.

One last teaching on the sun that feels relevant to our Torah portion: 

The rabbis engage in a Talmudic debate (in Bava Batra 84a): what is the natural color of the sun? One holds that the sun is red, appearing in its most natural state at sunrise and sunset. It is white during the day, they say, because its powerful rays affect human sight and we can’t view it fully. If you’ve ever looked directly at the sun, you know what they mean.

Yet another side argues that the sun is actually white. It appears red in the morning because it passes through and reflects the red roses of the Garden of Eden. It appears red in the evening, they say, when it passes through and reflects the fires of Gehinnom - the valley where children are sacrificed to false gods…hell on earth, if you will.

What a trajectory - the rabbis imagine the sun travels in a day from Eden - heaven - to Gehinnom - hell. When is it most hot? When it is directly between the two.

As our Torah portion opens, Abraham is sitting in the heat of the day, somewhere between heaven and hell. That is when the 3 angels approach. Will they be harbingers of destruction or will they herald a prosperous future? Abraham has no way of knowing. But why God sent them doesn’t matter as much as how Abraham receives them. The choice is his. As it turns out, he meets them with generosity and optimism, and his future grows bright. After their visit with him, though, the 3 angels turn to go to Sodom and Gemorrah, where the citizens meet them with violence and mistrust. Accordingly, the cities are destroyed.

I’d be remiss if I didn’t connect this lesson to our nation’s southern border. Having just returned from the Arizona/Mexico border with our teens, I’m wrestling with what it means to receive visitors in the desert - the ways we welcome them with opportunity and the ways we receive them with violence. We saw first hand how beautiful the desert is and how terrifying the sun’s rays are on the migrant’s desert passage - the only way to freedom available to some of them. But you’ll hear much more about that next week during services when our teens tell you firsthand of their experiences.

No matter our story, though, each of us here has a time in our lives where we feel like we are sitting in the desert heat of the day, somewhere between Eden and Gehinnom. Like the cycles of nature, there is much we cannot control. And yet, like Abraham, we have a choice of how we will meet those moments. In the midst of struggle may we respond like Abraham: with generosity, with faith, and with trust that even in the hardest of days, we can bring light into the world.

Praying for the Welfare of Our Country - Yom Kippur Morning 5785

Imagine a crown beset with 12,000 diamonds and a banquet for 2,000 people. You could have both on July 19, 1821 when George IV was crowned king of England. His coronation was considered one of the most expensive in British history, as George reportedly wanted his service to rival that of Napoleon. It was hot out, though. Westminster Abbey reports that the “king sweltered in his suit [and] thick velvet coronation robes, a long curled wig and plumed hat, and he used no fewer than nineteen handkerchiefs to mop his heavily perspiring brow! Meanwhile, outside the Abbey, his estranged wife, Caroline of Brunswick, was desperately trying to get into the church to be crowned [queen] consort. George IV, adamant she would not be crowned, ordered those guarding the entrances to the Abbey to refuse her entry. Despite trying every door into the church, Caroline finally accepted defeat and left.”

One can hardly read this historical account without chuckling. For an event that was supposed to be so heavenly, it was, in fact, very human.

Judaism has always been wary of human kings. Somewhere around the 11th century BCE, the prophet Samuel anointed Israel’s first king, Saul, at the request of the people. According to I Samuel, the people expressed displeasure with the judges Samuel had previously anointed and demanded: “appoint a king for us, to govern us like all other nations!” (8:5). Samuel had misgivings, but took the request to God anyway. God responded, “Heed the demand of the people in everything they say to you. For it is not you that they have rejected; it is Me they have rejected as their king, doing as they usually do, forsaking me and choosing idols,” (I Samuel 8:7), “Heed their demand,” God reiterated, “but warn them solemnly of the dangers of the kingship, and be sure to report on the practices of any king who will rule over them.” (I Samuel 8:8).

Over time, as kings rose and fell, we learned our lesson. We would realize that the only true authority in this world is God. One human cannot possess power even close to the Divine. To assert that, our liturgy is full of references to God as king. Every time we say “Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu MELECH ha-olam,” blessed are you God, KING of the universe, we assert God’s supremacy. As antiquated and gendered as the word “king” reads, it serves to remind us, in nearly every prayer, of our human limitations. The headline is clear: there is no Divine authority but God. Our human governments are just that…human.

Ironically, the story of Israel’s first king also highlights the democratic spirit of the Jewish people. Afterall, Samuel appointed that first king at the request of the people. Even God concedes to their desire. Rabbi Yitzchak of the 3rd century reiterated, “One may only appoint a leader over a community if they consult with the community.” (Berakhot 55a)

The Jewish support for democracy and respect for the power of the people hardly comes as a surprise to us. We are not a particularly hierarchical religion. We believe in literacy and accessibility when it comes to Jewish life and learning, and yes, the government.

It is not just the democratic spirit that drives us, though, but the understanding of government’s importance as well. Talmud explains, “just as in the case of the fish of the sea, any fish that is bigger than another will swallow the smaller. So too in the case of people, were it not for the fear of the ruling government, anyone who is bigger than another would swallow the smaller” (Avodah Zarah 4a). For our own protection and that of others, we must establish and recognize the authority of a local government

The early sage Rabbi Ḥanina even takes it one step further. Not only should a government be established by the will of the people but he urges: “One should pray for the continued welfare of the government” (Avodah Zarah 4a).

What exactly is Rabbi Hanina suggesting when he tells us to “pray for the government”? Are we beseeching God to make our government the most powerful around? Or is it to steady our leaders’ decision making? Are we asking God to sway them in our favor?

Given our tradition, I’m skeptical, even fearful, of mixing “God’s blessing” with governmental affairs. To connect religion and state takes us back to when Pharaohs and Kings considered themselves divine or conduits of God’s will. It’s a slippery slope where you can begin to name a particular policy or a candidate the manifestation of God’s will and deify them as something more than mortal.

So I imagine Rabbi Hanina is talking about something similar to the “Prayer for our Country,” which we read earlier in our service. In that prayer, we articulated the values we would like to see our government govern by and we pray for our leaders to promote those values: a love of democracy, a desire to have our actions reflect our compassionate spirits, and steady, thoughtful leadership of our officials that benefits as many people as possible. We should “pray for the welfare of the government” so the big fish can’t swallow the little ones.

Esau McCaulley, a Wheaton College professor, along with photojournalist Thalassa Raasch, ran a photo essay in the New York Times Magazine in July. They explored this question of how one “prays for the government.” Observing a great amount of prayer at a major US political party’s convention, McCaulley, who is also an Anglican minister, urged:

“…if we are speaking to God, we must be honest about the things we need from politicians to enable human flourishing. Prayers that evoke only blessings or protection are inadequate accounts of our faith. They run the danger of turning the church into a chaplain of the empires on the left or the right. The church functions best as the conscience of a nation, reminding parties of higher goods. In the Christian tradition, prayers are also supposed to remind politicians of their limits. There is someone above and beyond them who will render judgment upon their actions. Prayers ought to highlight the tremendous responsibility that comes with governing. Politicians should at times be unnerved and humbled, not simply congratulated….The most important prayers for politicians might just be the ones that nobody hears but God.”

While McCaulley speaks from a Christian perspective, I can confirm that his sentiments hold true for Judaism. Both traditions draw from the ancient prophets. Prophets like Elijah and Huldah not only advised the kings of yesterday, but rebuked them as well. When David desires Batsheva and covertly sends her husband Uriah to the frontline of battle to be killed (so David can then marry her), the prophet Nathan humbles him in a scathing rebuke: “you have flouted the command of the Eternal and displeased God! You acted in secret, [but God will punish you in the] sight of all Israel and in broad daylight!” (II Samuel 12:9-12).

King David hangs his head in shame, “I stand guilty before the Eternal!” God spares his life but David is held accountable and suffers on account of his mortal and moral sins.

To pray for our country, to pray for its leaders, means holding them to the ethical standards of our tradition. In the words of the prophet Micah: “You have been told, O Mortals, what God seeks of you: to judge justly, to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God.” (6:8).

I have always been fascinated with that last phrase: “walk humbly with your God.” It’s an intimate picture. Rashi explains that when one person embarrasses their friend and comes to apologize, the friend will typically demand that the apology be offered in front of the people who heard the original embarrassment. But the Holy One, blessed be God, desires only that the person’s apology to God be between the two of them.” 

Walking side by side, talking with compassion and humility, God trusts the true intentions of our hearts, and we trust God to know and respect our apology. That is how God had the courage to order King David’s punishment and David was able to accept it. Even in a difficult moment, there was trust between them. As flawed as David was, our tradition reveres him as a man who walked humbly with God.

We are having a harder time finding government officials, or political candidates, walking humbly with God today. By and large, “trust” is not a word one would apply to the political state of affairs in the US today.

This is hardly a surprise though. Think about the ways our government has broken trust! When Roe was repealed, women could no longer trust that their country would put their health above politics. When voting rights protections were repealed, people of color could not trust they would have a voice in their government. As more children die in elementary school classrooms and no new gun sense laws are passed, parents can not trust that their babies will return home at the end of the day.

And then there are the conspiracy theories. Doubting election results is common practice. Media reports are biased and social media is rife with lies. Candidates pander and debates are just spectacles. Voters are not empowered, they are manipulated.

This lack of trust can have a very real impact in this year’s election. There is tremendous concern that voter disillusionment will lead to low turnout. Most disturbingly, we worry about what the results of November 5 will bring in terms of our very own physical safety. Once upon a time it would have been extreme to think that here in the US there could be civil unrest or violence in response to democratic elections, but this year the idea is not so far-fetched, as we saw it happen once already on January 6, 2021.

Writer Yuval Noah Harari explains: “People feel bound by democratic elections only when they share a basic bond with most other voters. If the experience of other voters is alien to me, and if I believe they don't understand my feelings and don't care about my vital interests, then even if I am outvoted by a hundred to one I have absolutely no reason to accept the verdict. Democratic elections usually work only within populations that have some prior common bond…They are a method to settle disagreements among people who already agree on the basics" (Harari, Yuval Noah. Homo Deus).

We are a long way from agreeing on the basics. We all know how fractured our country is. Embedded in our trenches, no-man’s land lies between us and the other side. At best, our democracy is at a standstill. More accurately, it feels more like we are one step away from setting off a bomb.

As Jews, this election is particularly consequential. Yes, the democratic spirit of our tradition runs deep and that would be enough to drive us to the polls, but this year especially, our lives are on the line. With Israel dominating the news cycle, Jews are a wedge issue. Yet again the anti-semitic trope of “dirty Jewish money” swaying the election has entered the scene. This is exacerbated by dangerous accusations from various candidates in all political parties about the nefarious influence of the Jewish people.

Amy Spitalnick, CEO of the Jewish Council for Public Affairs said it succinctly: “Treating Jews and Israel as political footballs makes Jews, Israel, and all of us less safe. Dividing Jews into ‘good’ and ‘bad’ camps, engaging in dual loyalty tropes, and scapegoating Jews for…a potential loss only further normalizes antisemitism. It needs to stop, and anyone who cares about Jewish safety should call it out. This is not partisan politics — it’s about the fundamental safety of the Jewish community.”

I will reiterate, it is not just about one candidate, but many - both Democrat and Republican - who are exploiting the Jewish community for their gain. We have watched as nearly every politician and media outlet has used a very real and dire situation in the Middle East to create chaos, gain clout and further their political or economic ambitions.

Spitalnick urges: “instead of leaning into [the] increasingly siloed ways we are treating hate, we need to break out of it. We need to understand that the only way we are going to effectively fight anti-semitism is to take on the broader anti-democratic extremism and the other hate it is deeply interconnected with…”

When we go to the polls this November, we must have “upholding our democracy” at the forefront of our minds. Jews have long understood that as a minority community, we are safer and freer when all people are safer and freer. Even in the 6th century BCE, the prophet Jeremiah preached: “seek the peace of the city where you have been carried away captive, and pray to the Eternal for it; for in the peace thereof shall you have peace” (29:7).

Jeremiah knew: only in a peaceful society, can Jews live peacefully. In every age and country in crisis, anti-semitism rises with the political heat. We therefore must insist on the path of peace; pursuing justice and demanding safety for ourselves and our fellow citizens! Our fates are intertwined. Our allies are those who open doors and conversations, not those who slam them shut.

Yom Kippur is the day that asserts the power of covenant and conversation. The Talmud states: “for transgressions against God, the Yom Kippur atones. But for the sins of one human being to another, the Day of Atonement does not atone until they have made peace with one another” (Yoma 85b).

Now, I’m not so pollyannaish to say, “Let’s all get along! Have an open mind when you see your neighbor’s lawn sign for the candidate you detest. Engage them in a conversation!” This is a nearly impossible request, especially considering the amount of hurt all partisans have caused one another. And yet the health of our democracy demands that we find paths to partnership.

Jedediah Britton-Purdy, a Duke law professor, says that leaning into mistrust is like “quiet quitting for civic life.” He continues: “We need to shake off the idea that democracy should come naturally. This is a superstition of the enlightened, and it serves us very badly in a time of democratic crisis. As perceptive observers have always understood, democracy is extremely demanding. It requires the qualities of mind and character that sustain a healthy and balanced political trust, such as the willingness to listen to others and to doubt one’s own side. It also requires the commitment to build a world of citizens, not just consumers or spectators or even protesters, but people who expect to exercise power and responsibility together.”

Just like there is no Divine sovereignty but God’s, we cannot believe the place where we stand is Divinely right.

So does that mean we aren’t supposed to advocate for our candidate or policy of choice? No. It means we should choose and advocate for our side in ways that safeguards our rights and the rights of others. It means serving as poll workers and writing postcards to get out the vote. It means working at the grassroots to bring communities together across lines of difference when it is NOT a major election year. And yes, it means exerting effort to listen to others with an open heart.

“Seek the peace of the city where you have been carried away captive, and pray to the Eternal for it; for in the peace thereof shall you have peace.” We Jews are not held captive here in the US, but we certainly find ourselves in a tenuous situation. Let us not give into the narrative that one candidate or another is the “true friend of Israel” or the “true friend of the Jews.” Rather, praying for the peace of our nation means accepting that all candidates are flawed. Knowing that, it is our God-given responsibility to promote a government that will establish trust locally and globally.

It means that when our government officials behave badly, we will hold them accountable. It means having a healthy skepticism and a free press so that we can live by God’s words: “warn them solemnly of the dangers of kingship, and be sure to report on the practices of any king who will rule over them.”

I know it feels hard this year. Trust feels all but gone. But I believe each of us can find the strength within to protect our democracy before, during, and after this election; to judge justly, to love kindness, and to walk humbly with our God…and each other.

Ken y’hi ratzon…may it be God’s will.

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CLOSING THOUGHT:

There are two things you can do today to strengthen our democracy:

1) At the door to the tent, on your way out, Roberta et al will be handing out postcarding kits. The postcards urge support of NYS Equal Rights Amendment which would establish a NYS constitutional protection of reproductive rights as well as constitutional protections against discrimination based on gender, age, disability, nationality and ethnicity. Folks have until Oct 20 to write cards and mail to friends, family and other NY voters. Don't forget to flip the ballot and vote YES to solidifying personal rights when you go to vote.

2) There are bags, shopping lists, and QR codes to the shopping list to fill our food van. Promoting democracy does not only mean polls and votes, but simply opening your heart to the needs of others. Let’s fill our van to the brim.

True Immortality - Kol Nidre 5785

I know it’s Yom Kippur, but I want to talk about Hanukkah. Forget fasting and repenting, let’s talk about presents and candles and 8 days of parties!

There’s a theory, explained by Talmud scholar Joshua Kulp, that Hanukkah’s eight day observance may be connected to the winter solstice and the days-long revelry the ancient Greeks observed around it. But such an idea is almost blasphemous: are we really to think that a pagan festival inspired our decidedly anti-pagan festival?

We shouldn’t be so surprised, especially considering how aware our sages were of Greek and Roman culture. These holidays were relevant to our ancient ancestors’ lives, much like Halloween, Valentines Day and Christmas are relevant to us today. They affected business dealings and town service schedules. The Mishnah, redacted in the 2nd century CE, even names the major pagan festivals: “these are the festivals of the gentiles: “Kalenda, Saturnalia, and Kratesis, along with the festivals regarding their kings…” (Avodah Zara 8a).

Saturnalia in particular was a popular Roman holiday. It was celebrated on the 17th of December, near the winter solstice. It included lighting candles, brightening the darkest time of year.

As much as this historical connection raises an eyebrow when it comes to our observance of Hanukkah, I’m not too bothered by it. My ease comes from the Gemara on the subject, the rabbi’s explanation of the Mishnah:

“With regard to the dates of these festivals, the Sages taught that when Adam the first man saw that the days were getting shorter between the autumnal equinox and the winter solstice, he did not yet know that this is a normal phenomenon, and therefore he said: “Woe is me; perhaps because I sinned, the world is becoming dark around me and will ultimately return to the primordial state of chaos and disorder”…He spent eight days in fasting and in prayer.

Once the winter solstice arrived and he observed that the days became progressively longer, he said: ‘Clearly, the days become shorter and then longer, and this is the natural order of the world.’ He went and observed a festival of thanksgiving for eight days. Upon the next year he commemorated both of these observances with eight days of festivities.” (Avodah Zara 8a)

But the rabbis take the story a step further and round it off with a zinger: “He, Adam, established these festivals for the sake of Heaven, but they, the Greeks and Romans of later generations, established them for the sake of idol worship.”

You have to appreciate how they don’t miss the opportunity to take a jab at the Romans, basically saying, “Your celebrations are vapid and vain; they’re just an excuse to eat and drink in excess. Our celebrations, on the other hand, reflect the beauty of God’s creation.” 

Throughout their writings, the sages are particularly harsh on the pagan practices of the ancient Greeks and early Romans. No doubt this is because both of those civilizations caused great pain for our ancestors through bitter persecution. 

Our forebears regarded these gluttonous ancient empires as idolatry’s acme, the most extreme transgressors of God’s second commandment: “You shall have no other gods beside Me. You shall not make for yourself any graven image, nor any manner of likeness…”. In contrast, Hellenistic culture heavily promoted these images and erected statues to their gods everywhere. Our ancestors were highly judgmental of this. 

Our ancestors were clear: our God does not reside on Olympus. Quite the contrary - Psalm 121 describes how when, “we lift our eyes to the mountains,” instead of our protector physically residing on the peak, we call upon, “the One who made heaven and earth…a guardian who neither slumbers nor sleeps.” The mountains are a mere symbol of God’s greatness, not God’s home. Our God is limitless and to make God anything smaller is heresy.

So hopefully our ancestors will forgive me, because when I was on sabbatical, I inadvertently found myself interacting a lot with Greek and Roman mythology. I read Circe by Madeline Miller, watched the new Percy Jackson and the Olympians series with my children, and studied the mythological statues at the MET. 

Because even though worshiping them has gone out of style, we’re still fascinated by the heroic stories of the ancient Greeks and Romans. Their gods don’t hold any authority, but they do capture our imagination. They lend themselves to marble statues and Hollywood blockbusters where they play out our greatest fantasies and attack our greatest fears. They are essentially human, but “upgraded” in heroic ways.

The only difference between the mythological gods and humans is immortality, but we are working on that. I have been reading Yuval Noah Harari’s Homo Deus, a provocative treatise on the human desire to overcome our animal limitations and our efforts to turn ourselves immortal. Human ingenuity and modern technology have brought us closer than ever before: we communicate in seconds with people across the world. We travel to the moon. Modern medicine has expanded our lifespans. If the ancients were to visit us today, they might regard us as gods.

However, as more sophisticated technology like artificial intelligence integrates into our lives and we continue to find ways to postpone death, it behooves us to make sure our use of technology and our longer lives are governed by eternal values and not greediness for eternity.

Because when it comes to the Hellenistic gods, their immortality seems to be more of a curse to them than anything.

Circe, the protagonist of Miller’s novel, explains: “I thought once that gods are the opposite of death, but I see now they are more dead than anything, for they are unchanging, and can hold nothing in their hands.”

The more you learn about them, the more you realize that the Greek gods are bored. This is why they start wars, drink and feast, sleep with mortals and make all kinds of morally questionable decisions. When the rabbis say that Adam established the festivals for the sake of Heaven, but the Greeks and Romans established them for the sake of idol worship, they are telling a cautionary tale.

We see this elsewhere in our tradition. In Genesis chapter 6, just before the famous Flood, Torah gives us a snapshot of the Nephilim, a kind of superhuman race not unlike the ancient gods of Greece: “The Nephilim were in the earth in those days, when Divine, god-like beings mated with humans, and the resulting children were the mighty heroes of old.” The name “Nephilim” comes from the root of the word “to fall.” They were called this, says Rashi, “because the heart of man fell in fear of them.” Their mythological power, the sages imply, did not come from divinity, but from their ability to instill fear. They were full of pride and did not hold themselves accountable to God. They were incapable of teshuvah, repentance. Because of this, humanity was overrun by wickedness. Every plan they devised would consume nature and one another. They did this without remorse. Eventually the only good guy left was Noah.

Turns out, when God finally decided to start over by flooding the earth, there was very little left to destroy. These superhumans had done it all already. God just dealt the final blow.

It is clear to me that in the creation stories like the flood and even the Tower of Babel, God’s fear is not that we will overrun God, but that we will lose what makes us human - our mortality and our knowledge of it. Sure, we can be big and powerful, but once we think we can manipulate life and nature in such a way that we don’t fear death, or feel regret, or mourn the consequences of our actions, our lives become a lot less sacred and our treatment of one another a lot more callous. We also risk ruining the very earth we were told to protect.

Now, before we get too curmudgeonly about the ways in which technology may turn us into egomaniacal god-wannabes, we have to acknowledge the ways in which we have applied the human desire for immortality in tremendously positive ways: vaccines have eradicated diseases that were once a death sentence. The internet has connected, educated and empowered people who once were relegated to the fringes of society. Just this week, we saw how artificial intelligence can predict hurricane storm paths and save lives.

Judaism welcomes all these advancements. They are the proper application of the creative spirit God entrusted us with at the dawn of our species. We are b’tzelem elohim, made in God’s image. Just like God created the world, we are expected to create and maintain life. The first humans are told to “Be fertile and increase, fill the earth and master it; rule the fish of the sea, the birds of the sky, and all the living things that creep on earth” (Genesis 1:28). God encourages humanity to advance for the sake of future generations. We are the protectors of creation, encouraged to be creators ourselves.

However, if we are going to live longer and welcome these life-saving advancements in our lives, then we need to make some moral adjustments. We are beginning to resemble the Nephilim and the Greek gods. For example, we start needless fights online that rip apart communities. Social media is causing a mental health crisis in our young people. To build our electronic devices, we are mining precious metals out of the earth and rotting the planet with waste. Famine and disease are increasingly man-made. Our concern for the life of our planet and the lives of our fellow humans, is dwindling.

Tomorrow morning we will read from the Book of Deuteronomy: “See, today, I set before you this day life and prosperity, death and adversity…if your heart turns away and you give no heed, and are lured into the worship and service of other gods, I declare to you this day that you shall certainly perish…” (30:15-20). Here at the start of Yom Kippur, the message of our tradition is clear: we have to show remorse for our sins. We need to choose life, and not just in the way that prolongs our years. We have to turn away from our modern day idolatry.

So what does that look like in 5785? Well, here are just a few examples:

First, we have to choose life for our planet. We have ravaged the earth in our pursuit of cheap and disposable goods, as well as cheap and disposable human labor. We are so “godlike” and mighty that we have altered the temperature of our atmosphere. Like Possidon, we have helped create storm surges that wipe out all sorts of life. Our tradition is clear: we were not given this earth to manipulate it. We were set on it to be its protector. Midrash states: Do not destroy My world, for if you do, there will be nobody after you to make it right again (Midrash Ecclesiastes Rabbah 7:13). Jewish tradition teaches that we show our greatness in our restraint, not in our might.

Second, we need to be proactive about how we use technology, particularly artificial intelligence. In the AI Bill of Rights, the Biden administration explained, “Among the great challenges posed to democracy today is the use of technology, data, and automated systems in ways that threaten the rights of the American public. Too often, these tools are used to limit our opportunities and prevent our access to critical resources or services.” These AI systems can be biased, overreaching and misleading. They give too much unregulated power to businesses and people who have no regrets exploiting it. It can underestimate the power of human interaction, creativity, and compassion. The concept of “covenant” is central to Jewish thinking. Being in covenant means being accountable to one another. AI has the power to become modern day Nephilim - a powerful, divine hybrid; lacking soul. Regulations and moral considerations must be instituted.

My final example is a bit different from the first two. It has to do with our elders. As more people live longer lives, we must learn to not just respect our elders, but to value them. Older folks report to me all the time about how they feel invisible or forgotten. American society has no blueprint for what to do when you are no longer working or producing children. Jewish tradition preaches the opposite when it comes to our elders, with text after text reminding us to value the wisdom of older generations. Honoring folks as they age means more affordable health care, combating age bias, and changing our definitions of what makes a person “productive” to society. Pirkei Avot stresses that a person should continue teaching and learning Torah well into their old age, as it says in Ecclesiastes, “In the morning sow your seed, and in the evening let your hand not rest” (1:1).

***

When I was in high school, I took Latin. They promised it would help me on my SATs. I’m not sure it did, but I turned out ok. The best part about Latin class was reading the Aeneid and watching Clash of the Titans, getting lost in the epic stories. We even had a yearly Saturnalia celebration. It was cupcakes and juice; an excuse to goof off for 40 minutes.

In my civics class and at religious school, however, I learned about ethics. I learned about social and spiritual contracts. They didn’t give me superhuman strength, but they did empower me. I carry no magical sword on a hilt, but I do have a moral compass that developed over the years.

I hope to live a long life. Considering the age I’ve been born into, my chances are pretty good. But more than extending my years, I hope to extend my impact; to not grow bored or callous or indifferent to the world around me.

According to the rabbis, the first human held a celebration in honor of the world’s natural rhythms. I pray that whether our days are longer or shorter, we will find the opportunity to cherish them.

May we always express gratitude for that which is truly immortal: the Divine presence of God which unites all living things, the Divine love we are meant to share with one another and with our planet. May we choose life in all the practical and spiritual ways available to us.

Tomorrow morning we will read: “I call heaven and earth to witness against you this day: I have put before you life and death, blessing and curse. Choose life—if you and your offspring would live—by loving the Eternal you God, heeding God’s commands, and holding fast to [God]. For thereby you shall have life and shall long endure…” (Deut 30:19-20).

Ken yhi ratzon, may it be God’s will.

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CLOSING THOUGHTS

In “The Human Comedy,” William Saroyan reflects on death:

“Try to remember that a good [person] can never die. You will see [them] many times. You will see [them] in the streets. You will see [them] in the houses, in all the places of the town. In the vineyards and orchards, in the rivers and clouds, in all the things here that make this a world for us to live in. You will feel [them] in all things that are here out of love, and for love — all the things that are abundant, all the things that grow. The [body of a person] may leave — or be taken away — but the best part of a good [person] stays. It stays forever. Love is immortal and makes all things immortal.”

As we embark upon these next 24 hours of teshuva, we will have ample opportunity to meditate on our mortality. Let us use this most sacred day to appreciate how fragile our bodies are and how prone we are to sin. Knowing this, let’s turn our attention to that which matters most: the sacred bonds we have with one another, the earth and with God. Tzom kal…may it be a meaningful fast.

Leaning on One Another - Rosh Hashanah 5785

Ludwig Pfeuffer was born to an orthodox German Jewish family in 1924. In 1935, sensing the danger of the Nazi party, his family moved to the British Mandate of Palestine. He served in a Jewish defense militia and about a decade later, the defense forces of the newly-born Israel. In 1946 he changed his name to Yehuda Amichai - a move that was typical of early Israelis; shedding the secular or Yiddish names of the old world and taking on the strong, hopeful, names of modern Hebrew. Amichai became a master of that language and is considered one of the greatest Israeli poets of the modern age.

Bucking the orthodoxy of his youth, Amichai was a secular Jew who tackled the oxymoron of that very phrase - a secular Jew. He struggled with what it meant to be a modern thinker and a member of the Jewish people - one of the most ancient civilizations on earth. His work exposes the bond that unites Jews through time and space - an invisible thread from antiquity that ventures forward into an unknown shared destiny.

Amichai’s poem, “The Jews,” reads:

The Jews are like photographs displayed in a shop window
All of them together in different heights, living and dead,
Grooms and brides and Bar Mitzvah boys with babies.
And there are pictures restored from old yellowing photographs.
And sometimes people come and break the window
And burn the pictures.
And then they begin
To photo anew and develop anew
And display them again aching and smiling.
Rembrandt painted them wearing Turkish Turbans with beautiful burnished gold.
Chagall painted them hovering in the air,
And I paint them like my father and my mother.
The Jews are an eternal forest preserve
Where the trees stand dense, and even the dead cannot lie down.
They stand upright, leaning on the living,
And you cannot tell them apart.
Just that fire burns the dead faster…
…A Jewish man remembers the sukkah in his grandfather’s home.
And the sukkah remembers for him
The wandering in the desert that remembers
The grace of youth and the Tablets of the Ten Commandments
And the gold of the Golden Calf and the thirst and the hunger that remembers Egypt.

It is nearly impossible to sum up the 4000 years of Jewish civilization on this earth, but I think Amichai made a good go at it.

We are an eternal forest preserve where the dead trees sometimes never hit the ground. They lean on the living ones, burdening them, perhaps, with trauma and unreachable expectations. But the dead trees also nourish the new ones - that’s us! - as we draw from the nutrient-rich roots the elders left behind.

It’s a good metaphor. Even more poignant, I believe, are the old photographs in the shop window. They’re not just in the windows, they’re on our mantels, in museums, and in books. We stop to look. The faces feel familiar, they’re family afterall. We know their careers and recipes. We know when they came to America and what Hebrew words they uttered on Shabbat. We name our children after them.

Of course, we don’t know them intimately. We don’t know how they took their coffee or what their laugh sounded like. But they’re family. They feel close to us, even if we aren’t connected by blood.

And yes, as Amichai described, “sometimes people come and break the window and burn the pictures.”

For as long as there have been Jews, there have been people who hate Jews. What Amichai’s family experienced in the 1930’s, was experienced in tsarist Russia, was experienced in 1820’s Baghdad, feudal Europe, ancient Rome, and…you get the point.

Sometimes people come and break the window and burn the pictures.

Oct 7, 2023 was one such day. A day of broken glass and blown out homes; broken bodies and souls. It was a day that shattered illusions and sent shrapnel into our hearts. And, now, one year later, it has all but broken our spirits.

The pogram of Oct 7 would have been terrible enough, but just hours after the attack, people were indifferent, even joyful at the death of Jews. And it wasn’t just our classic enemies cheering this time. In just weeks it turned out to be our neighbors, friends and our classmates. It is one thing to be supportive of the plight of the Palestinian people - I know I am - but cheering on the capture, torture and murder of Israeli babies is unforgiveable.

For many Israelis and many of us, it is still October 7, 2023. Nearly a year has passed, but it still hurts like the day of the attack…especially while the fate of the Israeli hostages still remains unknown and the world doesn’t care. Especially as war in Lebanon looms on the northern border. Especially as Iran bombards Israel with indiscriminate rocket fire. We are stuck in a cycle of violence.

And, as frozen in time as we feel, we are reminded daily that time has trudged on and history has unfolded in terrible, heart-wrenching ways. From the depths of grief, a gruesome war began. Our already broken hearts were ripped to shreds as more innocent lives were taken, now on the Palestinian side of the border.

Adding insult to injury, an impossible binary was thrust upon us. We were forced to choose: are you Pro-Israel or Pro-Palestine?! This binary ignores the difference between a Hamas terrorist and a Palestinian civilian. A Hezbollah terrorist and a Lebanese child. It ignores the difference between a xenophobic politician and the parent of an Israeli hostage. The world is kaleidoscopic, with every decision and shift adjusting the view.

This artificial binary has started to tear us apart individually and communally. It is a nefarious ruse, a delusion we have created that the world is made of good guys and bad guys, right and wrong, good and evil. This is a tragic tug-of-war where you must choose a side and defend it to the death.

This lie has terrible consequences. It means those who are innocent get forgotten. It means that lines of difference become the new bloodlines and we are separated from those we once considered friends or family.

I know many of you have struggled to connect with your children, parents and other loved ones. In this difficult moment, the Jewish community feels stressed at the seams, even unraveled. Say the wrong thing, you are a safe-hating Jew. Say the other wrong thing, and you lack compassion for the afflicted.

But we know in our hearts that it is not that simple. When a window breaks, it never shatters into two perfect halves. A window shatters in a burst, with so many jagged edges, that no matter which way you turn, you’re bound to draw blood.

What do you do when this happens? You freeze. Don’t move! Anywhere you step or touch means pain.

It is another reason we feel frozen in time.

We have spent a year grieving together. I grappled deeply with what needed to be said today, just four days ahead of October 7. As a rabbi, I am aware that almost anything I say on this topic will hurt or offend someone. It’s probably already happened this morning. I beg you to please listen with an open heart, because as much as I want to come to you with answers this morning, I only have my impressions and my own grieving to share.

October 7 and its aftermath have taken the world by storm. And yet as a Jewish community, this conflict has hit deeper than almost any other in our lifetimes.

Of course, there is the basic human factor of the thing: war is devastation and this war is no exception. Rape, murder, hunger. Devastation on all levels. As people with hearts and souls, we cannot witness the October 7 tragedy and the resulting war without wanting to sob.

In addition to that, our sense of safety has been shattered. Not just safety in Israel, but safety as Jews in America. Anti-Jewish hate crimes are up by at least 63%. I hear reports daily of our young people feeling threatened in their schools and college campuses. Shops have been graffitied and individuals have been stalked, just because they were Jewish.

Let us say clearly: these are not expressions of political difference. The bad actors don’t know the Jewish person’s stance on Israeli politics. Jewish people are being targeted for being Jewish. This is ancient anti-semitism finding its newest scapegoat.

But it’s not just this rise in anti-semitism that draws our hearts to the news. This war waged across the world feels like it is happening to us personally.

If you’ve always considered yourself Zionist, or if you have family and friends in Israel, the reason why seems clear.

But for folks who were only somewhat connected or even ambivalent about Israel or their Judaism, you may be surprised at how deeply this has impacted you.

It can be that you have discovered “an unconscious tribal connection,” (Rabbi Lauren Ben-Shoshan and Dr. Betsy Stone, CCAR Journal, Spring/Summer 2024) a love you maybe didn’t know you had. Maybe it is the pangs of intergenerational trauma coming to the surface. Perhaps it’s that experience of having looked at the photographs of Jews from generations ago and feeling, “I know them.”

Social scientists and rabbinic sages have tried to name it. We’ve called it “Klal Yisrael,” “Yiddishkeit,” and “peoplehood.”

The Talmud has a specific phrase for it: “kol Yisrael aravim zeh ba zeh.” All members of the Jewish people are responsible for one another.

Colloquially, the phrase conveys the familial bond we have with other Jews. It’s that feeling you get when you play Jewish geography, or that feeling that makes you give to Jewish charities. Or when a Jewish athlete medals in the Olympics. It’s that communal pride.

It is also that feeling you get when you see the names Epstein, Madoff and Weinstein in the news. It’s the same pit in your stomach when someone behaves badly and you think “please don’t let them be Jewish.”

It’s that feeling of communal guilt that, it turns out, that is more closely aligned to the phrase’s origins.

Talmud tractate Shavuot, daf 39a: The rabbis engage in an existential and practical question: when a Jewish person transgresses God’s law, who does it impact in addition to the transgressor? The rabbis agree that it affects the person’s family because they are responsible for the transgressor.

But then the rabbis remember: we are a network of extended families, who all stood together at Mt. Sinai. All of Jewry, past, present and future, made the covenant with God at Mt. Sinai. At that moment, all Jews became guarantors for one another. We are not just bound by love, but we are legally responsible for one another’s actions.

This is the concept also known as arevut - protecting and defending our people, as well as helping to atone for the sins of our fellow Jews.

Which brings us back today. October 7 triggered these precise feelings within us. The brutal terror on October 7 and the twelve months the hostages have been held in tunnels and chains should break any human heart, but as Jews, we feel it most deeply. We have a religious and moral obligation to rescue those taken captive and to secure Israel so that our family - blood and not - can live freely and safely. Kol Yisrael aravim zeh b’zeh, all the Jewish people are responsible for one another.

We should also invoke the phrase when it comes to the resulting war - a war we did not ask for but a war we wage nonetheless. The human toll the war has taken and the fact that the hostages are not yet home is unconscionable. The dictum of “kol Yisrael aravim zeh ba zeh” demands that we hold our own people accountable where warranted. Tens of thousands of Israelis have been in the streets demanding accountability for their government and we can too.

This is not for or against. There is no binary here. We can advocate for our people while also holding them accountable. That is the heavy responsibility of being family.

Anna Kislanski, the CEO of the Israel Movement for Reform and Progressive Judaism wrote: “Throughout the year, we have all felt the profound need for a comforting, embracing, and inclusive community. You, our friends and partners from around the world, have stood with us, supported us, volunteered with us and joined us in numerous missions all along.

In times of turmoil, a people are not only measured by their ability to endure adversity but also by their capacity to act and rebuild amidst differences. It is evident that our strength lies in our collective commitment to both one another and to a socially resilient Israel that is reflective of the values we hold dear.”

For me, Kislanki’s words embody kol Yisrael aravim zeh b’zeh: we are responsible to care for one another and we are responsible to correct one another. Both demonstrate our love for one another.

Why has this year hurt so much? It’s the swirling whirlpool of grief that bores into our hearts and the knowledge that we cannot turn away from it. Every Jew has been impacted by this moment whether you thought it would affect you or not.

Now is the moment for unity. When I say unity, that does not mean sameness. Our thoughts, feelings and assessments of the situation will remain varied. Rather, this means activating our arevut, our guarantorship, of one another.

In Exodus 17, the Israelites quarrel with one another and with Moses: “There isn’t enough water here in the wilderness.” An exasperated Moses goes to God, who shows him the way to get water. The issue is resolved but it's not the finest moment of Israelite unity.

Yet immediately after this, we learn that Amalekites, vicious, merciless warmongers, come and wage war against the Israelites. The Israelites rally together. Moses goes on top of a hill. Torah reports that whenever he raised his hands up, the Israelites would prevail. If his hands faltered, the Israelites fell behind. As Moses’ body grew tired, Aaron and Hur placed a rock underneath him. Moses sat on the rock while Aaron and Hur supported his hands, keeping him steady until nightfall. The Israelites ultimately prevailed.

The rabbis use this story to teach (in Taanit 11a): “Moses is an example of how a person should be distressed together with the community.” Because, they ask themselves, “[Why] was Moses forced to sit on a rock? Couldn’t he have at least had a pillow or a cushion to sit upon?” He sat on a rock, they say, “because Moses insisted: ‘Since the Jewish people are immersed in suffering, I too will suffer, as much as I am able, even though I myself am not participating in the fighting.’”

Moses’ solidarity guaranteed the safety of his people. It didn’t change the fact that they had their differences. In fact, after this incident, the people will continue to grumble against one another and Moses will take many opportunities to rebuke and correct them. But he remains committed to his people to his dying day.

And Amalek? He and his kind were not fully destroyed that day they made war with the Israelites. Tradition teaches that his brutal descendents persist through the ages and will appear in every age to try to destroy the Jewish people. Our resilience as Jews will come from our commitment to one another. It will be our coming together despite our lines of difference. When we feel one another’s pain, we deny Amalek victory. When we protect one another and even when we rebuke one another, we strengthen our hands and our spirits.

The Jews are like photographs displayed in a shop window…
…pictures restored from old yellowing photographs.

And sometimes people come and break the window and burn the pictures.

And then they begin
To photo and develop anew
And display them again aching and smiling.

Our people are unburnable…and they have tried to burn us! They have set fire to our reputations, our synagogues, our scrolls, and our bodies, and yet we have not been consumed. From the darkroom of history, the next generation slowly develops from what seems to be a barren page. At first we glimpse a shadow, but with patience and an open heart, we slowly, slowly, perceive a focused image, aching, but smiling with Jewish joy.

Like the tragedies before it, we will carry October 7 with us into the future. We cannot freeze here, just like our ancestors before us would not delay in the wilderness.

It is Rosh Hashanah, the dawn of the new year. Even when we thought time had stopped, the shofar blast announces the first day of Tishrei. Its sound pierces our malaise with determination. With each shofar blast, we announce triumphantly that we have made it to this new year. It is 5785 and the Jewish people still live!

Today, we not only celebrate our survival, but we also pledge to strengthen our holy bond of love. It is a most sacred obligation. Where others would seek to tear us apart, we will embrace. Where political differences would attempt to drive a wedge, we will insist on dialogue.

Like the trees in a forest we lean on one another.

Kol Yisrael aravim zeh bazeh…we hold each other up, so we may never fall permanently into the depths of despair.

Kol Yisrael aravim zeh bazeh…we lean on another, so we may never sink to moral lows.

Kol Yisrael aravim zeh bazeh…may 5785, a year that begins with grief, end with consolation. May the bonds which once were ruptured, find reconciliation and healing, for us, the Jewish people, and all the nations. Amen.

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Closing Words:

We begin 5785 with pain and desperation. How grateful we are for this opportunity of the new year - our tradition’s call to turning it around. In the words of the psalmist (Psalm 126): Those who sow in tears will reap in joy, and though we go along weeping, carrying the seed-bag, we shall return with songs of joy, arms full of sheaves.”

I cannot promise peace, but I can pray, with my whole being, that enough hearts turn from vengeance to healing, from pain to reconciliation, to tip the scales. I pray that we muster the courage, as a Jewish people, as a global community, to work towards lasting peace and a return home for every hostage, every soldier, every displaced child, every heart adrift in woe. I have never wanted it more: L’shanah tovah tikateivu - may we be inscribed for a GOOD year. Amen.