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.
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