Shabbat Yom HaShoah 2025

Greenburgh town supervisor and Woodlands Member Paul Feiner has a unique knack for getting people involved. A few months ago, he told me about this series he had started in which he interviewed the children of Holocaust survivors. He asked me if I’d like to take over. It turned out to be a little bit more work than I thought, but I didn’t know that when I entered the TV studio in Greenburgh Town Hall, I’d be walking into a sanctuary of sorts.

Hearing these survivors’ stories, particularly from the mouths and hearts of their adult children is like a whisper from history, an uttering of a prayer of remembrance with every word. Hearing these stories, and how the next generation has wrestled with them, forces you to reflect on your own spiritual strength. When you engage with these stories, you can not NOT be compelled to live differently and to approach our modern world with a sharpened lens.

Consider for example, Freddy Hagouel. I first became familiar with Freddy’s story when I officiated at his funeral in 2019. He left behind a beautiful family - close and joyful. Over the years, I’ve heard more about his story from his daughter, our member Bette. Bette even came to speak to our 7th graders this year.

For me, the most moving part of Freddy’s story takes place in the years 1945 and 1950. Here’s why:

While imprisoned at Auschwitz, Freddy was just a number in a Nazi record book. Not a man but a number; a journal entry, a quick tally in a death diary. The Hagouel family found the record. If you look closely, you’ll see number 114994. That was Freddy - just a number, just a person marked for slave labor and death.

At liberation, Freddy and his fellow survivors had to figure out how to be human again. He traveled through Brussels to Athens. They were stateless and penniless. Haganah, the pre-Israel Jewish militia in then-Palestine, brought Freddy and his comrades on a dangerous illegal trip to Israel which was still off-limits for immigration. Through a series of illegal passports and the kindness of his last remaining family member, he was sponsored and brought to the US where Freddy soon met his wife and started over. This picture is from New Year’s eve 1951, only 5 and half years after liberation from Auschwitz.

Every time I look at this picture, my heart fills with emotion. How could it be that in just 5 years this man went from living in the mud, sleeping among the maggots, feces, and disease of a concentration camp to sitting on a plush couch, a beautiful girl in his arms, wearing a frilly, glittering paper New Years’ party hat upon his head?

It can only be through the pure determination of spirit, a resilience I could only pray to have a drop of in my blood. 

And it is not only Freddy. Whether it was the courage to stow away on a train to the border, or lying to an SS officer about a skill in order to get a better job, in every story of every survivor there is a will to live etched into their bones. These folks all heeded the ancient dictum of Deuteronomy: I put before you life and death, choose life so that you and your children may live. Never has anyone fulfilled this law more than these survivors who had to choose each day to not only live, but to thrive. We honor that tonight.

This is one theme that dominated our interviews. And as I continued to conduct them, I noticed some others emerged. Some heartening, some chilling. 

I'll start with the chilling: if you watch the videos, you’ll notice that in every interview we inadvertently stumbled into the modern day. These interviews were not meant to be political, of course, but we couldn’t help it. So often the interviewee would utter words that resonated - and we would both feel it. Things like: “One day, his friend just disappeared…,” or “they were told they were making too big of a deal out of it, to just keep their heads down,” or “she lost her job because of her political affiliation…”, or “he couldn’t get the right papers…”.

One would think that these interviews and this Yom HaShoah commemoration should be memorials of an increasingly distant past, an effort to create archival memory. And yet recently in the US, executive orders were ordered to increase domestic military use. A muzzle slowly tightens around the free press. Lawful residents of our country are being abducted off of the street and denied due process. People with disabilities are being dehumanized and targeted. There is public shaming, propaganda and lies being spread about minority groups, particularly the trans community. Immigrants are scared to leave their homes.

Let’s be clear: systematically curbing individual rights, targeting specific groups, limiting access to education and health care, consolidating power and instilling fear that leads to compliance, is what every single Holocaust memorial, museum and survivor will describe as the beginning of a tragedy - moral or otherwise.

HIAS issued a statement recently that put it perfectly: “Much of the Holocaust was made possible through a series of legal acts that lost any grounding in a foundation of human dignity. We do not invoke that history lightly in this context, nor are we declaring that Holocaust-like events are the inevitable end of what we are witnessing today. But we know that the Holocaust did not happen overnight — it took place after years of manipulation, injustice and discrimination. And it was not just the slow erosion of norms and laws that made it possible, but their intentional manipulation.”

I could continue to preach to you of wannabe despots here and around the world who are baring their teeth. I could continue to talk about the inhumanity and the trampling of democracy and how we Jews are almost predictably being scapegoated as part of this plan…but upon reflection, I believe what I really need to preach about is “kindness.”

Kindness? Well, that was the other thread through the stories. As the interviews continued (and if you listen to any survivor story, really) there is almost always a moment of kindness that changed the story.

Consider the case of Jeff Schlossberg’s father Phillip, who found $100 in the lining of his prison clothes and used it to barter at the kitchen for extra bread. When a friend suggested a new job might be a better way to survive, Phillip asked for the $100 back from the kitchen hand. In an inexplicable act of kindness, the man gave it back to him, enabling him to negotiate for a better job, a situation that likely saved his life.

Or it was the work contacts who hid Michelle Griffenberg’s father in Frankfurt until he could get one of the last passages out of Germany.

Or in the case of Eliz, Steve Schwartz’s mother, who was assigned camp patrol. Her ability to move around the concentration camp gave her broad contact with other prisoners. They’d ask her to look for their mother or sister or other loved one. If she had information, she’d pass it on, helping to comfort and sustain their spirits. The kitchen workers would steal one or two potatoes, and give them to Eliz saying, “Give this to my mother, and I’ll give you one.” When Eliz got one of these raw potatoes, she would slice it up and share it with the six women who had become her camp “family.”

These stories of kindness - acts big and small - go on and on.

Earlier tonight we heard about the town of Chambon, the people who took in their Jewish neighbors despite great risk. The greatest kindness, it seems to me, is when, like the people of Chambon, we open our hearts and our doors and our borders to those who are most vulnerable.

Because ultimately, it was the kindness of the places that took in the Holocaust refugees - people with no money, no possessions, and tenuous health - that saved their lives and gave birth to the generations; gave birth to our neighbors and friends who now tell the story.

The ability to “get out” or to “be welcomed in” was the determination of life or death, not just of the survivors themselves, but of the Jewish people. This is also Yom HaShoah’s lesson. I’m sure we can all find a way to apply it personally, nationally, globally.

Tonight, let us take these stories not only as history, but as instruction. The lives of the survivors - and the lessons, love and resilience passed down through their children - are not relics to be admired from afar. They are urgent calls to live with courage, to resist with conscience, and above all, to practice kindness.

This is the legacy we all inherit: to choose life for ourselves, our neighbors, our country, and all the world. May we heed the call and find strength in its ability to sustain the generations of the past and, God-willing, those of the future. Amen.

Matzah Brei

It started when Michele Montague asked at our most recent staff meeting: what’s your favorite Passover food? Matzah brei quickly won the most votes.

Matzah brei is, at its most basic, matzah cooked with egg. Yet the variations on this are infinite - you either like it as a scramble or a frittata. Or fried crisp. Or more like french toast. The cooking methods are innumerable as well - do you rinse the matzah in water? How long? Soak it in eggs? Then there’s the toppings - do you take it with syrup or just some salt and pepper? Are you so bold to use sour cream?

The WCT staff discussed this all in healthy debate. As you can imagine, we came to no consensus. After all, matzah brei has been around since the 1800’s, probably earlier, and there’s still no definitive recipe.

A few days later, Sarah Goldstein, our communications associate, said, “Hey, you know our matzah brei conversation? Well, there’s a really fascinating one going on in the NYTimes Cooking section online.” She forwarded me a link to the NYTimes recipe for “Classic Matzah Brei.” Penned by Melissa Clark, it was posted about 7 years ago. It has since accumulated 332 comments, the most recent one going up just a day ago. Just like traditional Jewish texts, this multivocal discussion transcends time and space and reflects on how ancient tradition meets modern human practice.

The 332 comments were generally nice, except for a few outliers who rather pout, more than collaborate. Those killjoys claimed the author wasn’t Jewish (she is) and that she was ruining something they were expert in. Forget those trolls. They pale in comparison to the beautiful snapshots of nostalgia and love that followed…

Not to mention the evidence of how our modern traditions morph as our community changes and evolves…

It was a pleasure to see some Jewish humor creep in…

And then to realize that others had the same heart-warming response I had…

This comment, simple and succinct really hit home for me…

This one in particular sums it all up for me. So many of the comments started with, “I make it the way my father made it,” “My grandmother always started by doing this,” “my mother would do that.” Or, “growing up I remember,” “our family tradition is to,” and so on. 

It’s obvious but I’ll say it…it’s not really about the matzah brei, but the story that goes with it. Every single one of us has a food like this - whether it's a Passover food, or any holiday food (Jewish or not). Passover is particularly visceral because it deals in nostalgic food even more than the other holidays.

On Passover, the food is the experience. The saltwater is the tears, the wine drops are our plague remorse. The matzah, most notably, is the bread of affliction, and all who are hungry should come eat it! How powerful is that? It is the most modest bread one can consume and we nonetheless share it with all who need sustenance. The matzah is our conscience and we are hungry - hungry for redemption, hungry for justice.

And not only do we share our matzah with those who are hungry here and now, but we notably offer the matzah to the next generation. We are instilling our hunger in the next generation - a hunger that will only be satiated when all have enough to eat and when the last oppressed person is liberated. We inundate the seder with questions in order to engender curiosity.

The children will even go hunt for the afikoman, the hidden matzah. We play the game in order to encourage a lifelong, spirited hunt for redemption. Our parents searched for it, our grandparents searched, and their grandparents searched. So we, the Jewish community of today will search and the children of our community will search too.

All who are hungry, come and eat…the key is to always stay a little hungry. Hungry, but never hangry. Angry comments, or comments that create distance, or comments that cut down creativity, will never get us where we want to go. Only by adding productively to the ancient conversation do we draw closer to a more just tomorrow. That’s the Wicked child’s sin - what does this whole thing mean to you? You…and not us…he has taken himself out of the hunt, and therefore brings us no closer to redemption.

This Passover, this season of redemption, no matter our feelings on matzah brei, or the other polarizing nostalgic foods (here’s looking at you, gefilte fish) may we find unity in our commitment to carrying the story, to reinventing it for the future. May we continue to seek liberation for ourselves and others, praying that next year we may all find ourselves in a place of peace and wellbeing. Amen.

Shabbat and the Tabernacle

The Young family is notoriously bad at waiting. I could blame this on the fact that my children’s formative years, the years where they would have learned the skills of waiting in lines or for food at restaurants, were the Covid years, and therefore they were not in those spaces to learn those life skills. Or I could blame it on Amazon and Netflix and our on-demand, instant gratification culture.

Or, I could just call it what it is: we’re a naturally impatient bunch. But we’re not without solutions. This is why we always travel with a pack of cards, especially to restaurants. If you’ve seen us out, you’ll see that Mark and I have given our children some very solid gambling skills. The kids are particularly adept at blackjack and 5 card poker. Maybe you’ll even be generous and say we have simply swapped out one life skill for another.

The proverb “all things come to those who wait” originated from a poem by Lady Mary Montgomerie Currie, who used to write under her pseudonym, Violet Fane. The poem reads:

All hoped-for things will come to you
Who have the strength to watch and wait,
Our longings spur the steeds of Fate,
This has been said by one who knew.

‘Ah, all things come to those who wait,’
(I say these words to make me glad),
But something answers soft and sad,
‘They come, but often come too late.’

All things come to those who wait…while Currie feels empowered by the sentiment, the final couplet expresses her true feelings: but something answers soft and sad…they come, but often come too late.

Indeed, there can be tremendous payoff at the end of a wait, but a delay can be its own difficult experience that colors the outcome. We certainly learned this lesson in last week’s Torah portion; how Moses was delayed on the mountain and because the people did not know where he went, or when he’d return, the anxiety of waiting got the hold of them. They built and worshiped the golden calf - idolatry at its most egregious.

Something answers soft and sad…Moses returns, but only after the orgiastic frenzy has taken over. The sad reality of the Israelites’ destructive impatience becomes a burden not just for the desert generation, but a warning to modern humans as well.

The Hebrew word for patience is “savlanut.” It shares its linguistic root with sevel which means “suffering” and sabal which means “a porter” - as in someone who carries a load. This all indicates that savlanut, patience, is not just about waiting, but being able to endure the heaviness of that wait.

The next time Moses goes up the mountain, he comes back to a repentant people and two new tablets to place beside the broken ones in the holy ark. The lesson is clear: we can learn the skill of waiting.

This week’s Torah portion then opens with what feels like aside: God repeats the law regarding keeping Shabbat. “On six days work may be done, but on the seventh day you shall have a sabbath of complete rest, holy to יהוה; whoever does any work on it shall be put to death.

You shall kindle no fire throughout your settlements on the sabbath day.” After this rather vehement reiteration of the commandment, the text launches into the details of constructing the Tabernacle.

We have to wonder why the sabbath is singled out for repetition when, certainly, if you were picking one of the 10 commandments to reiterate it would have made sense to zero in on idolatry, right?

The rabbis wonder the same and, oddly enough, the midrashic answer leans uber-practical. They say that Torah reiterates Shabbat because the Israelites are about to begin a large building project. It is important that they know that the work on the Tabernacle, as holy as it is, pauses on Shabbat. While the construction of the Tabernacle is important, Shabbat supercedes and points to God’s spiritual blueprint that exists outside of and above these earthly matters. The Tabernacle honors holy space, but Shabbat honors holy time. As Abraham Joshua Heschel shares in his famous work, The Sabbath:

“To gain control of the world of space is certainly one of our tasks [as humans]. The danger begins when in gaining power in the realm of space we forfeit all aspirations in the realm of time. There is a realm of time where the goal is not to have but to be, not to own but to give, not to control but to share, not to subdue but to be in accord. Life goes wrong when the control of space, the acquisition of things of space, becomes our sole concern.”

Hence, the Sabbath reminder of this week’s parsha. Don’t get so sidetracked by holy space that you lose sense of holy time.

As a concept, it’s powerful, but as a modern, assimilated Jew, I struggle with how to incorporate Shabbat into my own life. I will even admit that sometimes Shabbat feels like a test of my savlanut, having to endure the pause of normal activity just because tradition says so. But the sages encourage us to consider that it's really the opposite way around: we are in fact bearing the burden of the whole week, exercising the patience to make it to Shabbat, which is the time of exhale and delight.

And yet it would be foolish of us to simply consider the workweek to be a transitory, burdensome bore. Shabbat is but one day among seven. The other six need to count in some way.

Perhaps the Tabernacle then represents the holy capacity of the workweek; that we can still be building something special with the emotional and physical burdens of regular life. The tabernacle, afterall, is built of precious stones and metals, tapestries exquisitely woven by rainbow threads. The description of this labor intensive project is really quite moving:

“Men and women, all whose hearts moved them, all who would make an elevation offering of gold to יהוה, came bringing brooches, earrings, rings, and pendants —gold objects of all kinds. And everyone who possessed blue, purple, and crimson yarns, fine linen, goats’ hair, tanned ram skins…And all the skilled women spun with their own hands, and brought what they had spun, in blue, purple, and crimson yarns, and in fine linen…And the chieftains brought lapis lazuli and other stones for setting, for the ephod and for the breastpiece; and spices and oil for lighting, for the anointing oil, and for the aromatic incense.” (Ex 35:20-28)

All things come to those who wait, but in the waiting, there can be gifts. In the waiting space, your heart can be moved, whether by delight or by challenge. Could it even be that there is something precious about waiting? That “ patience is a virtue” not because the poets painted it that way but that we might actually reap benefits from its discomforts, discovering new strengths within ourselves?

Kay Ryan, former US poet laureate wrote this of kind of waiting:

Who would
have guessed
it possible
that waiting
is sustainable—
a place with
its own harvests.

Or that in
time’s fullness
the diamonds
of patience
couldn’t be
Distinguished
from the genuine
in brilliance
or hardness.

Now, this isn’t to say that every test of patience is a gift from God. If you are experiencing illness, or going through treatment of some sort, or waiting on social change, we should not be so cruel to say “well, it’s just making you stronger.” I believe that is why Ryan offers two types of diamonds - the genuine ones that come with the desired, long-waited-for outcome and the lab-grown ones, the ones that are fabricated from the harsh waiting environment. Both are brilliant and hard, but they are brilliant and hard in different ways.

The reality of the human condition is that things take time. Sometimes we are impatient, and justified in that impatience. Our tradition therefore comes to equip us with the skills to endure in that difficult space. Savlanut is not so much a character trait as it is a skill.

Patience is not about being docile, passive or uncomplaining. Patience is survival. Patience is continuing to exist without devolving into self-destruction.

Patience therefore requires feeling validated and seen by oneself and by others. It means we must know when to move closer and help shoulder the burden and when to separate and allow space and time.

It means looking for the Sabbaths - not just the calendar based ones - but the sacred pausing that can refresh the spirit and body of the laborer, the person waiting or suffering. Whether it's checking in by phone, or insisting on lunch together, or a small gift that elicits a smile. We tend to lose patience with other people’s waiting, so let us take a note from our tradition this week: seek the balance. Honor the work and honor the rest. Muster the strength and know when to put down the load. Seek the gifts of your loved ones and community, know when you need to be alone.

The Good, the Bad and the Ugly

I went looking for the origins of the phrase - “the good, the bad and the ugly.” The internet seems pretty definitive that it comes from the 1966 epic spaghetti western film of the same name, which starred Clint Eastwood.

As a “spaghetti western,” it was an Italian film dubbed into English. The title speaks to the underlying mores of each of the main characters. In Italian, it was “the good, the ugly, the bad,” but Hollywood felt the cadence of “the good, the bad and the ugly” worked better in English.

I’m not actually going to talk about that film - I’ve never seen it - but I do think its title applies nicely to another epic adventure - that of the Israelites in this week’s Torah portion.

We’re in Parshat Yitro. The Israelites are nearly 50 days past the Exodus from Egypt. They’re just starting to get their sea-legs, or desert-legs if you will. A lot happens in this portion, and it follows this schema - the good, the bad, and the ugly.

First, the good.

The portion is named for Yitro - or Jethro - Moses’s father-in-law. Yitro is a tremendous character. Firstly, he’s not an Israelite - he’s a midianite priest whom the Torah holds in very high regard. In this portion, Moses reunites with his beloved father-in-law and tells him everything that happened to this point - from the plagues to the Red Sea to now living as a free people.

The text says that Yitro yichad - from chadah - he rejoiced over everything God had done. “Blessed be יהוה,” Jethro said, “who delivered you from the Egyptians and from Pharaoh, and who delivered the people from under the hand of the Egyptians!”

This is Yitro’s first lesson: start with the good; start with gratitude. It sets the tone for every interaction; it even sets the tone for the challenges ahead.

So with that, we move to the bad. Torah relays that the very next day, the day after their reunion, Yitro observes Moses at work. He sees Moses standing before the people weighing in on their interpersonal disputes and questions from sunrise to sunset.

לֹא־טוֹב֙ הַדָּבָ֔ר אֲשֶׁ֥ר אַתָּ֖ה עֹשֶֽׂה He says to Moses. “This thing you’re doing is lo tov, it’s not good! You will surely wear yourself out, and these people as well. The task is too heavy for you; you cannot do it alone!” He then suggests a system of judges, wise people appointed as Moses’ deputies to attend to the people’s problems.

This is Yitro’s second lesson: pace yourself. You are doing holy work. If you burn out, if we lose you. When we lose you, we lose an important changemaker, and whatever you were trying to fix will continue to be broken.

And then the ugly. Well, maybe not ugly, but certainly there is a terrifying and awe-inspiring sight in this week’s Torah portion. The parshah ends with the Israelites standing at the base of Mount Sinai. We’re told that Mount Sinai was all in smoke, “for יהוה had come down upon it in fire; the smoke rose like the smoke of a kiln, and the whole mountain trembled violently.” The Israelites are told to not approach the mountain, to not dare to touch it. If they do, they will be consumed, killed, by God’s power.

Yet from within this violent picture, God speaks to the people and dictates the Ten Commandments - the ten building blocks to an ethical society.

We go from terror to opportunity; from uncertainty to empowerment. Yitro ends with a way forward.

I find I’m using this “good, bad, ugly” framework and the parsha’s insights to carry me through these most dramatic weeks in Israel and the US. I find I need a methodology to survive the relentless heartbreak and worry that has taken hold and that Torah this week offers me one.

Start with the good, start with gratitude. It sets the tone for every interaction, it even sets the tone for the challenges ahead.

The good: there has been an immense amount of interfaith activity in the Rivertowns in the last few weeks. Two weeks ago Woodlands hosted interfaith clergy from around the Rivertowns to figure out how we may deepen our relationships to one another: minister to rabbi, priest to pandit. Then more emails flew back and forth, from the social action committees in local churches and synagogues offering help in combating antisemitism, interacting with ICE, providing food, health care and funding where the government is stripping away rights or providing roadblocks to care.

My good: I am grateful for a network of caring neighbors who look past lines of difference to protect the most vulnerable among us and assert love in the face of hate.

The bad: it would seem that we are going to go into every Friday night with stomachs in our chests as we await the release of more hostages from Gaza. This week, the ceasefire and hostage exchange seemed more tenuous than ever and the emaciated appearance of the last three hostages has us even more worried for the state and fate of those who remain. The psychological and physical terror knows no bounds. Hamas’ depravity, and the dangerous escalation by politicians, has us begging: please, please value life.

I think we could all argue that at this point I’ve already ventured from “the bad” to the “ugly,” unfortunately. When it comes to Israel/Palestine, when it comes to civil liberties, when it comes to attacks on American democracy through abuses of power, we want to do everything we can, immediately, to offer protection, but let’s be honest, many of us feel paralyzed by the enormity of the situation.

So here we must grab onto Yitro’s teachings yet again: pace yourself. You are doing holy work. If you burn out, if we lose you. When we lose you, we lose an important changemaker, and whatever you were trying to fix will continue to be broken.

This is yet another Sinai moment, friends. Yet, instead of a mountain on fire, it is our world that is on fire. Each person must stand at attention, listen and do as our hearts command us, but we must also be mindful of how to draw closer without feeling consumed and depleted.

Here are the base of the mountain on fire, we ask what change can we make right here in our small corner of the world? How can we transform this moment from terror to opportunity; from uncertainty to empowerment?

Again, the wisdom lies in the parsha. The first words God proclaims from Sinai are, “I יהוה am your God who brought you out of the land of Egypt, the house of bondage: You shall have no other gods besides Me…I will incur guilt on those who reject me, but I will show kindness to the thousandth generation of those who love Me and keep My commandments.”

Showing kindness to those who love me. Not revere, not obey, but LOVE. Our God deals not in fear but in love, the most binding, eternal emotion we have. This permeates the Torah, teaching us that love is the guiding force and the way to God. Hasidic wisdom teaches us that “only after we come to love people, can we come to love God.” Love is here at the base of the mountain.

The work ahead is not easy, but if we ground ourselves in gratitude and love, we will find the strength to move forward. Just as the Israelites stood at Sinai in the face of both terror and hope, we too can transform our fears into actions of healing and compassion. May we always choose to love, to protect, and to empower one another in this sacred work. Amen.

Diamonds and Democracy - MLK Shabbat and Inauguration Weekend

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

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

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

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

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

ruined.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

flower, and the diamond was more beautiful than ever.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The End of 2024, the Beginning of 2025

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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