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).

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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.

Nitzavim in Elul

Call it Moses’ last stand. In parshat Nitzavim, Moses reminds Israel of the covenant they forged with God. It’s not just one community connecting to one God, though, but an affirmation of each individual’s relationship to the Divine and Divine law.

It begins with, “You stand this day, all of you, before your God יהוה —your tribal heads, your elders, and your officials, every householder in Israel, your children, your wives, even the stranger within your camp, from woodchopper to waterdrawer—to enter into the covenant of your God יהוה, which your God יהוה is concluding with you this day, with its sanctions”

In this list, Moses moves down the social hierarchy in order of social influence. Up top: Tribal heads, elders, officials, householders (that’s free men!), their children, their wives, then the strangers (those are the non-Jews who have come along for the desert journey).

Ranking in at the bottom: woodchoppers and waterdrawers. Based on knowledge of social roles in the ancient near east, biblical scholars agree that the woodchoppers were likely the male servants and the waterdrawers were the female ones.

Moses’ descending order is a hermaneutical tool. While it acknowledges the stratification of power, it ultimately delivers a message of equality. Everyone, no matter where they appear on the pyramid, has direct access to God and just as much obligation when it comes to fulfilling God’s commandments.

Reading this in the month of Elul, the month leading up the High Holy Days, drives home the feeling of intimacy that these days aim to evoke. The Lubuvacher rebbe, drawing on rabbinic tradition, explains that “the king's usual place is in the capital city, in the royal palace. Anyone wishing to approach the king must go through the appropriate channels in the palace bureaucracy and gain the approval of a succession of secretaries and ministers. He must journey to the capital and pass through the many gates, corridors and antechambers that lead to the throne room. His presentation must be meticulously prepared, and he must adhere to an exacting code of dress, speech and mannerism upon entering into the royal presence.

However, there are times when the king comes out to the fields outside the city. At such times, anyone can approach him; the king receives them all with a smiling face and a radiant countenance. The peasant behind his plow has access to the king in a manner unavailable to the highest ranking minister in the royal court when the king is in the palace. The month of Elul, says Rabbi Schneur Zalman, is when the king is in the field.”

Everyone matters and everyone has access, no matter how big or small, no matter their station in our community or our society.

There is one other way to look at woodchoppers and waterdrawers that I want to give to you as a pre-Rosh HaShanah gift.

Rabbi Bradley Artson offers some metaphors for how to read “woodcutter” and “waterdrawer” in the coming year. It has to do with how we treat others:

Woodcutters: I understand this term to be a metaphor for possible abuse in interpersonal relationships. How often do we see the person across from us, or beside us, as an object to cut down, prove wrong, or shape in the image we think they ought to be? This can happen within our families, synagogues and temples and places of business. Instead of chipping away at the edges to see what is truly beneath a person's exterior, we (often by accident) cut too much, creating scraps that are difficult to reassemble.

This pertains to our relationship with God as well. While our illustrious tradition certainly demands that we question (with passion!) God and other spiritual matters, do we sometimes go too far? Is it possible to dig so deep into that relationship and expect so much from that relationship, so that when no immediate gratification arrives, the relationship is tarnished?

Water Drawers: I understand this designation to be a metaphor for how we can see others as wells of inspiration, waiting for us to engage them, learn from them, be nourished and satiated by them, and to ultimately compliment one another. This suggests that our relationships go two ways. We give, and we receive (and the two are not always equal). There are limits, though. A well can dry up if one draws too much without replenishing it, offering something in return. But finding that balance is not so simple.

He asks us to consider: when are we woodchoppers? When are we water drawers? Each are actually quite powerful. In the coming year, we should be mindful of how we wield our axes and our buckets.

No matter the approach you take to this week’s Torah portion, the steady theme seems to be how powerful each of us is.

Elul, and soon enough, the High Holy Days, will propel us into 5785 with a sense of agency as well as accountability.

As we approach this sacred time, and perhaps the sacred presence of God that resides within it, may we be mindful of our words, constructive in our actions, and empowered to know the holiness already in our midst: it resides in our own hearts and minds and in those of our neighbors.

Ken y’hi ratzon.

Hersh

With all the horror going on in Israel, Gaza, and the West Bank, why did this week hurt more than other weeks?

Perhaps it was the truly dramatic tragedy of the thing: that the six young Israelis, stuffed away in a terror tunnel, were murdered just 48 hrs before they could be rescued. Perhaps it is the maniacal heinousness of Hamas. Perhaps it is the obstinate guilt of Netanyahu. Maybe it’s the fact that these six lives, and the tens of thousands that have perished these last 10 months, are all pawns in a twisted game that has barrelled out of control. The helplessness has hit a new low.

I stand with the thousands of Israelis imploring their government to strike a deal. Bring them home now. Save the lives of the hostages, the innocent Palestinians, the IDF soldiers and all those who just want to be home, safe, in the arms of their families.

This week, Rachel Goldberg-Polin, Hersh’s mom, eulogized her son. In the political hotbed of war, she stood before the world as a mom who wanted to hug her son again.

“It is not that Hersh was perfect,” she said, “But, he was the perfect son for me. And I am so grateful to G-d, and I want to do hakarat hatov and thank G-d right now, for giving me this magnificent present of my Hersh…For 23 years I was privileged to have this most stunning treasure, to be Hersh’s Mama. I’ll take it and say thank you. I just wish it had been for longer.”

I was astounded by her ability to even utter the word “gratitude” in such a thankless, heartbreaking circumstance when the world had failed her.

Listening to her speech while meditating over the faces of the six murdered young people, I saw the thousands of others behind them - the faces of all the children whose lives have been ended by this abhorrent violence. I saw their mothers’ tears in Rachel Goldberg-Polin’s eyes. I felt their mothers’ cries in my own lungs.

2000 years ago, the prophet Jeremiah invoked another mother-Rachel’s tears. As he surveyed the destruction of Jerusalem, in chapter 31 of his prophesy, Jeremiah cried, “A voice is heard, lamentation and bitter weeping: Rachel is weeping for her children and refuses to be comforted for her children, because they are gone.” (Jeremiah 31:15).

Jeremiah and our sages consider Rachel imaneu - our foremother Rachel, wife of Jacob - to be the personification of a weeping Israel; a mother who suffers as her children have been carted off into enemy territory and whose lives have been shattered.

Jeremiah continues: “And God will answer her: Restrain your voice from weeping, and your eyes from tears; for your work will be rewarded, says God, and they will return from the land of the enemy. There is hope for your future…that your children will return to their own borders.’”

How are we to read this part of Jeremiah’s prophecy? Your work will be rewarded, they will return to their own borders. Rachel Goldberg-Polin has spent a year using her every waking moment to bring her son home and for nothing.

Can we read Jeremiah’s words with any credibility? If I’m being generous, they can give us hope. But I’m not feeling generous. I’m feeling betrayed. These days it feels like insisting on hope is to insist on vapor - empty wisps of human goodness that seem to flee every time we grab at them.

So sometimes we need to look elsewhere for inspiration.

My colleague Rabbi Josh Whinston wrote that he heard Rachel Goldberg-Polin speak this summer: “She said that when Hersh left for the Nova festival, he left his copy of The Art of Happiness by the Dalai Lama at home since he only expected to be gone for a night or two. He was on the sixth chapter.”

Rabbi Whinston suggested we finish reading it in his honor. Perhaps you would like to take up the suggestion. I got a copy and began to look it over:

In Chapter 5, words Hersh had just read, the Dalai Lama shares:

Sometimes when I meet old friends, it reminds me how quickly time passes. And it makes me wonder if we've utilized our time properly or not. Proper utilization of time is so important. While we have this body, and especially this amazing human brain, I think every minute is something precious. Our day-to-day existence is very much alive with hope, although there is no guarantee of our future. There is no guarantee that tomorrow at this time we will be here. But we are working for that purely on the basis of hope. So, we need to make the best use of our time.”

In other words, hope gives us purpose. Cherishing life means knowing it might end, and while we may want to ignore that fact, it is the key to finding meaning.

The Dalai Lama then anticipates our question: how do we make the best use of our time? He continues: “I believe that the proper utilization of time is this: if you can, serve other people, other sentient beings. If not, at least refrain from harming them. I think that is the whole basis of my philosophy.”

It seems basic enough. And yet we’re failing at the “refrain from harm” part. To even put it that way is a depressing understatement.

But in honor of Hersh, we’ll trudge forward into Chapter 6. Given our drive to harm one another, how do we begin to curb our brutal inclinations?

The Dalai Lama answers: “Love and compassion are necessities, not luxuries. Without them, humanity cannot survive.”

Love and compassion are necessities, not luxuries. We must insist upon love, even creating it from the chaotic ugliness of loss. Rachel Goldberg-Polin taught this as she addressed Hersh’s spirit: “As we transform our hope into grief and this new unknown brand of pain, I beg of you, please do what you can to have your light shine down on me, Dada, Leebie and Orly. Help shower us with healing and resilience. Help us to rise again. I know it will take a long time, but please may G-d bless us that one day, one fine day, Dada, Leebie, Orly and I will hear laughter, and we will turn around and see… that it’s us. And that we are ok. You will always be with us as a force of love and vitality, you will become our superpower.”

I am so grateful for these words. The darkness of this war has shaken us down to the depths of our souls. But can we acknowledge that we are feeling so deeply sad because we love, because we are capable of compassion? To see a world where love and compassion are lacking damages our hearts. So to survive, we must insist upon them. Like Rachel, our grief will represent our love and that will be our superpower.

This is what I see in the Israelis who have taken to the streets and continue to advocate on behalf of the hostages. Yes, it is anger, but it is also love. Love of their fellow citizens, love of their country. Love of all humanity.

Love is where it all begins and ends, at least according to Jeremiah. Because chapter 31:3 also states: “With everlasting love - a love from the beginning of the world - I have loved you.”

May we find the courage to love with an everlasting love, forged from the foundations, with the power to shatter hate. May we express gratitude, even when the word feels foreign, and may we insist on reuniting as many loved ones as possible, helping to dry the tears of every Rachel, to finally end the suffering.

Dog Days of Summer

In the Northern Hemisphere, July and August are particularly hot and humid. The Old Farmer’s Almanac calls these days “the Dog Days of Summer.” Why “dog” days? I always thought it had something to do with how we start to pant like dogs in the sun, but turns out it has to do with the star Sirius and its connected constellation - the dog.

Sirius is the brightest star in the sky this time of year - a time of extreme weather patterns that impact a harvest’s yield. Throughout history, people have understood the star’s rising as ominous - signaling storms, drought, and other dangers. The Old Farmer’s Almanac warns:

Dog Days bright and clear
Indicate a happy year;
But when accompanied by rain,
For better times, our hopes are vain.

While the lilt is light, these are words of warning and worry. They’re filled with vulnerability and the memory of knowing hunger and hardship in prior seasons.

Judaism has its own form of “dog days,” as well as a poetic expression of our suffering. We’re in the dog days of the Jewish calendar right now: the 17th of Tammuz through the 9th of Av. The 17th of Tammuz (last Tues, July 23) remembers the breach of Jerusalem’s walls just before the destruction of the Second Temple in 70 CE. These three weeks are known as “bein hametzarim,” within the narrow straits.

For the next three weeks, here in the heat of the summer, we pace the hot sands of grief, culminating in the 9th of Av, the day of destruction. It is the day that mourns the ravage of Jerusalem with the fire of war and hate, culminating in the ruin of both its temples (in 586 BCE and 70 CE, respectively).

On Tisha b’Av, we read the Book of Lamentations, our scroll of memory and anguish:

From above [came] a fire
Down into my bones…
[God] has left me forlorn,
In constant misery… (Lamentations 1:13)

Tisha b’Av has come to mourn all the calamities that have befallen our people over time and space. That said, it is most deeply rooted in one geographical location - Jerusalem and the Land of Israel.

Lamentations often speaks from the perspective of Zion, the birthplace of our people and the cradle of many civilizations. She is the contested homeland for her many children and their fighting has rendered her battered and destitute. The poet is explicit about the impact of this violence against her:

Zion spreads out her hands,
She has no one to comfort her…
Jerusalem has become among them
A thing unclean. (Lamentations 1:17)

Lamentations expresses isolation and abandonment. It wonders if God has left forever. It looks around at the destruction and wonders if it is possible to survive all the pain.

How real these ancient words feel to the modern ear! It has been nearly a year's worth of raining fire, smoldering ruins, and death. Israeli hostages are still locked away in torture.

My eyes are spent with tears,
My heart is in tumult,
My being melts
Over the ruin of my poor people,
As babes and sucklings languish
In the squares of the city. (Lamentations 2:11)

Could it be that the ancient poet wrote this about the children of Gaza who have had their childhoods stolen by leaders who would use them as pawns in a twisted game?

How real it sounds when we call to mind the Israeli children of Majdal Shams and their broken bodies scattered over the soccer pitch!

It has been nearly a year of anguish, and yet in these dog days of summer, the heat of the mideast reality has multiplied tenfold. Like the writer of Lamentations, I could continue my litany of woes and worries - especially given the threat of all-out war with Iran and the reports of abuse in an Israeli detention center.

These 3 weeks are indeed “bein hametzarim,” within the narrow straits. We are pressed tight by grief and guilt. And even though we know this is a shared feeling, when the walls are this narrow, we inevitably feel cut off from others, alone in our grief.

I am here to tell you that you are not alone in this pain. I cannot alleviate it, but I can assure you that you are not alone. I am also not sure of what hope I can provide, but I can send you to people and organizations doing hard work not to lose hope. I’ll mention some in just a bit.

I can also point out that it is not a coincidence that on the other side of these three weeks we start to head into Elul and the High Holy Day season. Just beyond that we meet the rainy season, when rain quenches the parched fields of Israel and our hearts. It is a season of reflection, repentance, and determination and it’s just on the other side of this narrow place.

Visualize a shofar - narrow at one end, wide open at the other. Rabbi Margie Jacobs, inspired by hasidic sources, finds significance in this: “The shofar is narrow [at the bottom] and wide [at the top]. You have to blow specifically from the narrow place. If you blow from the wide part, nothing will come out. [This release from the narrow place] is the voice of truth…as it is written [in Psalm 118,] “from the narrow place I have called to [the Eternal] and have been answered in spaciousness.”

These dog days, these three weeks of what feels like impending doom, are met every year with a cry out into the expanse. Yes, it is a call of desperation, yet it is also a call to possibility. It is a call out to hope.

After the first destruction of Jerusalem, the prophet Jeremiah wrote to the priests, prophets, elders, and populace of the exiled Jewish community. They were helpless, hopeless and on the brink of annihilation as a people. He encouraged them: “Build houses and live in them, plant gardens and eat their fruit. Build families and increase the generations…seek the welfare of the place where you find yourself, for in its prosperity, you will prosper” (Jeremiah 29: 5-8).

His message is simple: in the face of destruction, be a builder. In the blistering heat of a world on fire, channel your grief into constructive action.

I suggest getting involved with ARZA and the IMPJ - progressive, Zionist voices speaking out for a democratic, compassionate Israel and an end to this war. Send your support to organizations that promote a shared society in Israel like the Hand in Hand School Network and others.

Remember, the shofar's narrow end, the place of our deepest pain, is also where our most profound transformation begins.

הֲשִׁיבֵ֨נוּ יְהֹוָ֤ה ׀ אֵלֶ֙יךָ֙ וְֽנָשׁ֔וּבָה חַדֵּ֥שׁ יָמֵ֖ינוּ כְּקֶֽדֶם׃

Take us back, O Eternal, to Yourself,
And let us come back; Renew our days as of old! (Lamentations 5:21)

May we merit a return to this place of bounty and goodness. May we renew our pledge of peace and begin to live in Oneness with you, Eternal God, as in days of old. Amen.

Waiting and Changing - Juneteenth

I recently read a piece by Tali Puterman, the director of Racial Equity, Diversity, Inclusion and Justice Organizing at Temple Israel in Boston. For Puterman, Juneteenth’s proximity to the Jewish holiday of Shavuot is thematically significant. Seven weeks after the exodus from slavery, Shavuot honors the transmission of Torah - all its laws and morals - at Mt. Sinai. Juneteenth also commemorates emancipation from slavery and the anticipation of full rights and recognition. And yet she shares these vignettes from her imagination, which also represent those watershed moments:

An impatient Israelite stands at Mount Sinai, waiting for the overdue arrival of Moses and the promise of a new way of life.

An enslaved person sighs with frustration. Years after the Emancipation Proclamation, the law is not enforced.

A modern Black American is angered that even now - hundreds of years after a promise of freedom - she experiences systemic racism in the only country her family has known for generations.

These three vignettes are separated by hundreds, if not thousands of years, and yet they are linked in experience. The ancient Israelites were newly freed from slavery, waiting for their new life at the base of Sinai with anticipation. And yet, what was taking so long? Where was the proof of their covenant with God? Was it all a dream? Had God abandoned them in the wilderness? Would God really continue to guarantee their well-being and prosperity?

Similarly, Juneteenth celebrates emancipation, but highlights the gap between the Emancipation Proclamation and when the law was implemented.

Cut forward to today, we know that Black people in America still await the realization of true freedom and a covenant with our country that ensures safety and prosperity for all. In many ways, we remain in the wilderness.

Puterman shares that Dr. Leah Ben-Ami inspired these thoughts: “Dr. Ben-Ami shared the significance of celebrating these holidays. She expressed that, due to living in a society that privileges certain historic narratives over others, it was not until later in life that she became aware of Juneteenth. She wondered how her enslaved ancestors heard the news of their freedom and compared it to the experience of the Israelites at Mount Sinai as they were waiting to receive the Torah.”

I think it is important to highlight Dr. Ben-Ami’s point that we live in a society that privileges certain historic narratives over others. It has been a long haul for Black Americans to have their story told - how our country was built on the backs of their ancestors. It has been a long haul, we have made progress, and we have more work to do.

Juneteenth reminds us, even mandates us, to tell the stories. It’s a crucial federal holiday for this reason. I knew nothing of Juneteenth as a child. As I look back on my knowledge of the Civil War and slavery, it is a woefully reductive story. But ask Noah and Asher and they can both give you an articulate, well-informed primer on Juneteenth, including the fact that there was a gap between the Emancipation Proclamation and when enslaved people knew their status had changed or could do anything about it. They will also tell you that the end of slavery was not the end of their struggle.

They know from me and Mark, and they know from school, that racism still pervades our society. We make a concerted effort in our home to teach about white privilege and what they can do to be part of restorative solutions. We also teach them about anti-semitism and the ways it is similar to and different from racism.

Is it easy to have these conversations with an 11 and 8 year old? No.

Is it taking too long for the dream to become reality? Yes.

And despite the discomfort and frustration, each generation is obligated to listen to the stories they’ve been told, dig up the ones that weren’t shared, and pass forward as much Torah as they can to bring us closer to the dream God has for us.

As Rabbi Tarfon famously said: “It is not your duty to finish the work, but neither are you at liberty to neglect it.” Translated literally: you are NOT FREE to neglect the work of justice. We abolish slavery because the only chain that binds us is the moral connection between us and the rest of God’s creation. You are free to do everything except ignore your moral responsibilities to others.

Also, did you know there’s more attached to Rabbi Tarfon’s famous saying? The quote is much longer than “It is not your duty to finish the work, but neither are you at liberty to neglect it.”

It continues…first with, “If you have studied much Torah, you shall be given much reward.” I interpret this as, “the more we discover our history and our values, the more we will thrive as a society.”

Then: “Faithful is your employer to pay you the reward of your labor…” Our God does not enslave us, our God sets us free and compensates us for our hard work!

And then concludes: “...And know that the reward given to the righteous is in the age to come.” That is, true freedom may still be ahead of us, but we need not wait quietly for it to come.

“It is not your duty to finish the work, but neither are you at liberty to neglect it; If you have studied much Torah, you shall be given much reward. Faithful is your employer to pay you the reward of your labor; And know that the reward given to the righteous is in the age to come.”

L’dor vador, from generation to generation, indeed.