Category Archives: Divrei Torah (Weekly Sermons)

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October 2, 2025

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Too Much Truth, Not Enough Peace – Yom Kippur 5786

Yom Kippur is not about being right. It is about being honest — with God, with each other, and with ourselves. And one of the Talmud’s most famous, well-known, and haunting stories shows what happens when we confuse truth with righteousness.

HaTanur shel Aknai — “The Oven of Aknai,”[i] — is a story that, somehow, in more than 18 years as a Rabbi, I have never once taught, even though it is often cited as a foundational text for Conservative Judaism. 

This is not just a story about rabbis long ago. It is about how we wound one another in the name of righteousness — and Yom Kippur is the one day when we cannot hide from that truth.

The two major figures in this story are Rabbi Eliezer ben Hyrcanus and Rabbi Yehoshua. Rabbi Eliezer was the greatest of Yohanan ben Zakkai’s students. Rabbi Yehoshua was considered the second most prominent. Together, the two of them smuggled their teacher out of Jerusalem in a coffin during the Roman siege, shortly before the destruction of the Second Temple in 70 CE.

Rabbi Eliezer is married to Imma Shalom, the sister of Rabban Gamliel II, who is the Nasi, the leader of the Sanhedrin. Their son is Hyrcanus.

Rabbi Akiva, who looks to both of them as his teachers, will also enter our story.

Our tale opens with the Rabbis debating the kashrut of a particular kind of oven called an Akhnai, which means “snake.”  It is called that because it is formed by a bunch of pieces of pottery arranged in a coiling shape around an open cavity. Something impure has been found inside this oven, perhaps a dead snake. Now they have to determine the oven’s status.

The legal question is whether such an oven can become ritually impure.  If it is an oven, then it can, and it is impure. If it is a broken vessel, then it cannot, and it is pure. To be clear, there is no practical implication, as the need to maintain ritual purity was destroyed along with the Temple.

Rabbi Eliezer rules that it is a “broken vessel,” and thus, pure.  The Ḥakhamim, the Sages, take the opposite viewpoint, determining it to be an intact oven, and thus impure.

During the deliberations, Rabbi Eliezer answers every possible answer in the world (kol teshuvot she’ba’olam), but the Sages reject every single one.

Departing from logic, Eliezer turns to the supernatural. “If the law is in accordance with my opinion, let this carob tree prove it.” Suddenly, the carob tree bursts from the ground and flies hundreds of feet through the air.

“We don’t accept proof from a carob tree,” object the Sages.

“Well then,” Rabbi Eliezer exclaims, “let this stream prove it!” Suddenly, the stream reverses course and begins to run uphill. 

“We don’t accept proof from a stream,” object the Sages.

Moving further to the absurd, Rabbi Eliezer announces, “If I am right, let the walls of the study house prove it.” The walls begin to shake, about to crush the entire Sanhedrin.

Rabbi Yehoshua steps in and issues a brusque order, “If Torah scholars are contending with each other over the law, what is it to you.”

The walls stop moving, frozen in place at an angle, unwilling to fall out of deference to Rabbi Yehoshua, but unable to straighten out of deference to Rabbi Eliezer.

Finally, Rabbi Eliezer goes for broke. “If the law is according to me, Heaven will prove it.” A Divine Voice suddenly booms through the study hall: “Why do you argue with Rabbi Eliezer? The law is in accordance with him in every matter.”

Case closed, it would seem.

But Rabbi Yehoshua stands up and declares, quoting Torah itself, lo bashamayim hi — “It is not in heaven.”[ii]

Check out this musical video telling of the story of the Oven of Akhnai.

That would seem to end the debate, but the Sages are not finished. They collect every single thing that Rabbi Eliezer had declared pure and set them ablaze in a bonfire. Later that day, after he leaves, they vote to excommunicate him.

“Someone has to tell him,” they murmur among themselves. Rabbi Akiva steps forward. “I’ll go, lest someone tactless goes and says something to cause Eliezer to destroy the world.”

So Rabbi Akiva dresses himself in black, in an expression of mourning, goes to his teacher, and sits a distance of four cubits away (about 6 feet), the distance required from someone who has been excommunicated.

Looking up, Rabbi Eliezer asks, “Akiva, what is different about today from other days?”

“My teacher,” he responds, “it appears that your colleagues are distancing themselves from you.”

Understanding the euphemism, Rabbi Eliezer rends his garments, removes his shoes, and sits on the ground, mourning. As tears pour from his eyes, the Talmud relates, one third of the world’s olives, one third of its wheat, and one third of its barley are struck.  Some say that even the dough in the kneading bowls spoiled. Others relate that on that day, everywhere that Rabbi Eliezer casts his gaze burns to the ground.

At that very moment, it so happens, Rabban Gamliel is on a boat. A large wave suddenly swells up to drown him. He understands right away, “It seems that this is on account of what we did to Rabbi Eliezer ben Hyrcanus.”

He stands up and declares, “Ruler of the Universe, it is revealed and known before You that it was not for my own honor, nor for that of my father’s house that I acted. It was for Your honor, so that disputes would not proliferate in Israel.” At that, the sea calms.

Our tale returns to Rabbi Eliezer’s home, where his wife, Imma Shalom, which literally means “Mother of Peace,” places herself on watch. She does not allow her husband to lower his head to the ground in a prayer called Taḥanun, “Supplication,” out of fear that if he were to bemoan his fate, it would bring Divine punishment upon her brother. 

One day, something happens. Perhaps she miscalculated the day of the new moon, when Taḥanun is not said. Perhaps a beggar came to her door asking for bread. Whatever the cause, Imma Shalom leaves her husband alone in his prayers.

When she enters his room, she sees Eliezer with his head lowered on the ground. “Get up,” she tells him, “for you have killed my brother.” Just then, a shofar sounds from Rabban Gamliel’s home, announcing his death.

To continue the story, we must jump to another tractate of Talmud, which picks up some years later. Rabbi Eliezer has fallen ill, and so Rabbi Akiva and some of his colleagues go to visit him. It is a Friday afternoon. As they enter, they see Eliezer’s son, Hyrcanus, trying to remove the Tefillin from his father. Tefillin are not supposed to be worn on Shabbat.

Eliezer becomes angry and insults his son, who leaves the room, exasperated. As he sees Akiva and the others, Hyrcanus laments, “It appears that my father has lost his mind.”

Eliezer overhears him and shouts from the next room, “It is Hyrcanus and his mother who are crazy! How can they neglect the preparations for the Torah’s laws of Shabbat, like preparing hot food and lighting candles, which are punishable by stoning, and concern themselves with matters that are only prohibited by Rabbinic law?”

(In other words, there are more religiously important things that Hyrcanus should be worried about.)

“Yup, that sounds like Eliezer,” say Akiva and the Sages. Judging him not to be insane, they enter the room and take their seats four cubits away.

“Why are you here?” the elderly Rabbi demands.

“We have come to study Torah,” they demurred, afraid to tell him it is because he is sick.

“Why have you not come until now?”

“We did not have any spare time.”

“I would be shocked if these ones die a natural death.” Eliezer mutters, his way of predicting that they will be tortured to death by the Romans.

Then Rabbi Akiva asks, “How will I die?”

“Yours will be worse than theirs.”

Then Eliezer raises his arms and places them on his heart, crying, “Woe to you, my two arms, as they are like two Torah scrolls that are being rolled up, [never to be opened again]. I have learned much Torah, but I have not taken away from my teachers even as much as a dog lapping from the sea. I have taught much Torah, but my students have taken away from me only what a paintbrush can remove from a tube of paint.

“I can teach three hundred halakhot about a snow white leprous mark, but nobody has ever asked me about them. I can teach three hundred halakhot with regard to the planting of cucumbers, but no person has every asked me anything about them, except for Akiva ben Yosef.” Eliezer then describes the incident.

And so, chastened, the Sages ask him about the ritual purity of a number of different items that he and the Sages had once disagreed about, “What is the halakhah regarding the ritual purity of a ball of leather stuffed with rags…” and so on. They are trying to find out if he has changed his mind and is willing to defer to the majority.

“Those things can all become impure, but you can purify them by dipping them in a mikvah just as they are, without needing to unwrap them.” The Sages had held that they needed to be unwrapped. Meaning, Eliezer has not conceded. 

“Well then,” they follow up. “What about a shoe that has not yet been taken off its shoe form?  Is it a complete vessel, and therefore subject to impurity, or is it not yet complete?”

Tahor. “It is pure…” and with that final word, his soul leaves his body.

Rabbi Yehoshua stands up and declares hutar ha’neder, hutar ha’neder. “The ban is released. The ban is released.” 

After Shabbat, Rabbi Akiva comes upon the funeral procession. Striking his flesh until his blood flows to the earth, he declares, “My father, my father, the chariot of Israel and its horsemen” (II Kings 2:12). I have many coins, but I do not have a money changer to whom to give them.” In other words, “I have so many questions, but after your death, I have no one who can answer them.”

And here our tragic story ends.

Who is to blame? Let’s start with the Sages. They refuse to hear any of Eliezer’s logical proofs. Is it just that they are not convinced or that they have better arguments? Or, could it be personal? Does the mere fact that Eliezer holds a position automatically disqualify it?

The Sages rightly uphold the principle of majority rule, but then they go overboard. They humiliate their colleague in public, and then socially ostracize him for the rest of his life, this man who was the greatest scholar of the generation. They want to punish him. Rabban Gamliel justifies it in the name of order. Then they wait until it is too late to lift the ban.

What about Rabbi Eliezer? He is stubborn to the extreme. He refuses to acknowledge the authority of the democratic process, which holds that the law is determined by majority vote.

He holds on to grudges dearly. He lashes out at his colleagues, and the world in general, to express his rage and frustration. What hurts him more, that nobody will acknowledge he is right, or that his colleagues cannot stand him?

Eliezer is so committed to the truth of Torah, as only he knows it to be, that he cannot see the humanity of anyone around him. He even takes it out on his poor son, Hyrcanus, who is just trying to help. Eliezer is literally right, with Heaven on his side, all the time.  But what does that get him? 

When the Sages, including his lifelong colleague Yehoshua and beloved student Akiva, show up at the end of Eliezer’s life, they give him a chance to back down, to accept the majority ruling of the Sages on what are really a series of fairly inconsequential cases. His need to be right in all things persists to the very end.

His final word is not forgiveness, not blessing, not love — but purity. Tahor. What a devastating way for a great life to end. It begs the question: What word do I want to leave behind when my time comes

This story, set in the opening decades of the Rabbinic project, is a warning. The Rabbis, as scholars who are attempting to rebuild a Judaism that can function without a Temple and a priesthood, are a very small group. They do not have any power or authority at this point. Even the process by which they reach decisions is still up for grabs.

What do we learn from this story? Does it demand that one forego one’s personal convictions to follow the majority? Is it a warning about the potential tyranny of majority rule? Is it about inflated egos? Is it about revenge? Is this a story about broken friendships and family schisms?

Is this a story about politics, or law, or social cohesion, or visiting the sick? Is it about truth, or purity?

Many in this room are worried about the current state of the world, of the politics and social divisions that seem increasingly out of control and even violent. No doubt, we look at those on the other side and see their flaws. We see their smug certainty, their hypocrisy, their vengefulness, their stubborn refusal to compromise. 

But today is Yom Kippur. Today is not a day when we blame others. It is a day when we look inward at our own souls. It is a day not only for identifying the specific things we have done wrong, our “sins,” as it were, but also for digging deeper and probing our motivations. 

At the opening of Yom Kippur, before Kol Nidrei even, we recite a formula three times: bishivah shel ma’alah, uvishivah shel matah. “By the heavenly court, and by the earthly court. With the consent of the Almighty and the consent of the congregation, we hereby give permission to pray with the sinners.”

The Talmudic origin of this prayer[iii] insists that, on a fast day, even those who are deserving of excommunication — the Rabbi Eliezers of the world — must be present with us in worship. Because without them, our prayers cannot rise. That is a radical Yom Kippur message: we do not get to decide who is too flawed to be in this room. If they are excluded, so are we.

So I look around, “Oh that guy, he’s a big sinner. Her over there. Oh boy.” Of course, they are looking around at me too, thinking the same thing. On Yom Kippur especially, it is not our job, our task, or even our right, to list the sins that others have committed. Only God sits on the throne of judgment.

My job is to look at myself. And to do it in community, surrounded by all of the other sinners who I trust are doing the same. 

Are there people I’ve harmed, relationships I’ve damaged, feelings I’ve hurt, not out of malice, but out of righteousness? Have I cut myself off from others out of a sense of moral “purity?” Have I stood in the way of reconciliation?

On this Day of Atonement, may we not cling to being right at the expense of being kind. May our pursuit of truth never cost us compassion. And may the final word of our lives not be tahor — but shalom.

[i] BT Bava Metzia 59b and Sanhedrin 68a

[ii] At this point, the Talmud digresses into an Amoraic discussion about the significance of Rabbi Yehoshua’s citation of “It’s not in heaven.” It is not part of the story itself, and it changes its emphasis and significance, so I left it out of my telling. This is the discussion from the Steinsaltz edition of the Talmud (explanatory text in non-bold):

The Gemara asks: What is the relevance of the phrase “It is not in heaven” in this context? Rabbi Yirmeya says: Since the Torah was already given at Mount Sinai, we do not regard a Divine Voice, as You already wrote at Mount Sinai, in the Torah: “After a majority to incline” (Exodus 23:2). Since the majority of Rabbis disagreed with Rabbi Eliezer’s opinion, the halakha is not ruled in accordance with his opinion. The Gemara relates: Years after, Rabbi Natan encountered Elijah the prophet and said to him: What did the Holy One, Blessed be He, do at that time, when Rabbi Yehoshua issued his declaration? Elijah said to him: The Holy One, Blessed be He, smiled and said: My children have triumphed over Me; My children have triumphed over Me.

[iii] BT Keritut 6b

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September 24, 2025

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Divrei Torah (Weekly Sermons), High Holidays

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The Highs and Lows of Jewish Identity – Rosh Hashanah 5786

On Sunday mornings and Tuesday afternoons the last few weeks, this place has been hopping. I am really thrilled to share that there are more children coming to learn in our religious school than ever before. It is wonderful, but it carries with it a tremendous responsibility.

I ask myself constantly, “what we are doing to build a sense of Jewish identity and peoplehood in our kids?”

These are some of the questions I have been discussing with our staff: How would someone who has just celebrated becoming B’nei Mitzvah explain what it means to be Jewish? How would they describe what belonging to the Jewish people feels like, and the responsibilities that come along with it? Could they offer a simple definition of Zionism and discuss how the existence of the State of Israel plays a role in Jewish identity?

With everything that has been happening in the world these past few years, these questions seem particularly relevant.  In this environment, what are we doing to help the next generation, our children, form strong Jewish identities?

To explore that question, we must look inward. All of us here made a choice to gather with our community to celebrate Rosh Hashanah. Many of us had to take off a day of work or school to do so.

That speaks to me of a strong commitment. Every one of us here has core memories that anchor our Jewish identities. Past moments for which the sights, sounds and emotions are most vivid. Core memories form the narratives of who we are. They define my essential self, affect how I view the world, and guide how I interpret new experiences. 

One of my core memories goes all the way back to when I was five or six years old. My family has recently joined a synagogue for the first time. We are attending Friday night services. The congregation is welcoming new members to the community, and my family is being honored.

A few details stand out. A warm light suffuses the sanctuary. The room is packed with people, and we are sitting on the right side of the room. There seems to be a lot of attention placed on a large piece of furniture up on the stage, but I don’t know why, or what is inside of it. It is mysterious.

Everyone stands up, and my parents, my baby brother, and I are invited to come to the front. There, we are presented with a basket. I think that there is probably a siddur, challah, and candles, and I know for sure that there is definitely a bottle of Manischewitz wine. That I remember distinctly. I feel really proud of my family in that moment.

When I think back, I still feel the warmth, mystery, and belonging. I suspect that the journey leading to my becoming a Rabbi began in that moment.

I invite us to take a few moments to turn to someone sitting next to, in front of, or behind us, introduce yourselves, wish them a “Shanah Tovah,” and in just one minute each, share a Jewish memory that still makes you smile. It could be something from childhood or adulthood, with family or strangers, at home, in synagogue, in Israel, or anywhere in the world. 

Let’s come back together. You’ve just named some of the moments that anchor us, the kinds of memories that remind us:  this is who I am as a Jew.” But if we are honest, not all of our core memories feel good. Some come out of pain, doubt, or disconnection, and those too shape us. 

Perhaps it was facing antisemitism or harassment. Maybe it was a feeling of exhaustion for being “different.” For some, moments of alienation come as a crisis of faith, the result of a deep personal loss or tragedy. Maybe it was the actions of other Jews, or (dare I say) the Israeli government, that led to such a moment.

For me, I stopped keeping strictly kosher for a while while I was in college. Specifically, it was the junior year that I spent in Israel studying at the Hebrew University in Jerusalem. That year, and a little bit afterwards, is the only time that I have eaten non-kosher meat since I was twelve years old.

While I had lots of wonderful, life-changing adventures that year, I was surprised to find myself feeling religiously alienated. The American Judaism that I knew was built around Jews living in a secular society actively choosing to gather together with other Jews for social and religious experiences. I had gone to day school, was active in my synagogue and USY, worked at Camp Ramah, was a leader in Hillel. When I got to Israel, I found myself disoriented. The Judaism I encountered there felt very different from the Judaism I knew in America — and in my confusion, I let go of a practice that had long anchored me.

Ironic, isn’t it? I go to Israel and stop keeping kosher. 

When Dana (my wife) and I were speaking about this last week, she shared a similar experience. She showed up at Brandeis University, ready to be immersed in Jewish life. Within a month and a half, she had disenrolled from the kosher dining plan, stopped going to Hillel, backed off on her Shabbat observance, and found herself avoiding the East coast Jews in favor of the international students.

In the course of a person’s life, it is impossible to predict those moments that are going to be significant. But it is both the high and the low points that contribute to our journeys. Each of us can point to moments when Judaism felt far away, when community or practice felt alien, when being Jewish was complicated.  In fact, it is sometimes the case that the low points create opportunities for positive transformation.

The Haftarah that we read today gives us a striking example of this dynamic in the life of Ḥannah. She is someone whose deepest religious experience begins with humiliation and rejection.

Ḥannah is one of the two wives of Elkanah.  She is the beloved, but it is the other wife, Peninah, who has children. Every year, the entire household travels to the shrine at Shiloh to offer sacrifices. Every year, Peninah goes out of her way to taunt Ḥannah, making fun of her barrenness. Ḥannah takes it to heart, weeping and refusing to eat. 

At least Elkanah notices, “Ḥannah, why are you crying and why aren’t you eating? Why are you so sad? Am I not better to you than ten sons?” The commentaries give him credit for trying, but a modern reader might see Elkanah’s attempt to tell her not to feel what she feels as gaslighting. In any event, he does not make her feel any better.

One year, during the annual pilgrimage, Ḥannah gets up to spend some time alone. She begins to pray silently, with only her lips moving. Eli,the priest in charge, sees her, and immediately jumps to conclusions. “How long will you make a drunken spectacle of yourself? Sober up!”

This surely must have been a low point in Ḥannah’s life, forming a negative core memory. Her household has rejected her, and her husband has failed to bring comfort. Now the priest, that is to say, the religious establishment, has compounded the injury. There is no safe place for Ḥannah.

To her credit, she stands up for herself against the most revered religious leader of the day. She objects that she is not drunk, but has been “pouring out her heart to the Lord” out of her “great anguish and distress.” Eli, unaware of what, specifically, Ḥannah has been praying for, wishes for God to grant her request.

The household returns home, and we are told that God remembers Ḥannah.  She conceives, a baby is born, and Ḥannah names him Shmuel, meaning “I asked the Lord for him.” In fulfillment of the vow she had made, she dedicates him to God as a Nazir. She turns Shmuel over to the very institution that had once rejected her.

He goes on to transform it, just as, in rabbinic tradition, she herself transforms prayer itself. Ḥannah’s turning to God in her lowest moment is held up as the ideal model for prayer. Out of her despair, she creates a new model for religious life: one that is intimate, vulnerable, and honest.

Ḥannah’s story of humiliation and transformation has a surprising parallel in modern times. Franz Rosenzweig was born in 1886 into a thoroughly assimilated German Jewish family. Although culturally Jewish,he was increasingly drawn to philosophy and the promise of universal redemption offered by Christianity. 

Particularist Judaism, in contrast, was like a fossil, valuable as an ethnic heritage perhaps, but not as a living faith. Rosenzweig later wrote that he saw Judaism at that time as “merely a stubborn survival, a religion without life.” In his mid-twenties, Rosenzweig decided that he would convert to Christianity. His friend, Eugen Rosenstock-Huessy, issued a challenge, if Rosenzweig was going to convert to Christianity, he should do so “as a Jew,” like the first Christians — entering the new faith through Judaism.

On September 13, 1913, Franz Rosenzweig entered a Berlin synagogue on Yom Kippur evening, intending it to be his last time as a Jew. This would be his final farewell to his ancestral faith.

Something happened to him that night, something he never described in detail. Was it the haunting melody of Kol Nidrei? The poetic beauty of the piyyutim? The experience of standing with a congregation dressed in white?

Whatever it was, he emerged transformed. Conversion to Christianity was no longer possible. He referred to that service as a wendung, a “turning point” in his life, the moment he entered “the gates” of Judaism. From then on, Judaism became a living religion to him. The Jewish people, by following their covenantal traditions, modeled for the world the ultimate redemption for humanity as a whole. 

Rosenzweig dedicated the rest of his life to Judaism. While serving on the Balkan front as a soldier in the German army during World War One, he wrote a series of postcards home to his mother that formed the outline of his grand philosophy of Judaism, the Star of Redemption, which he completed in 1919. He translated the Hebrew Bible into German with his friend, Martin Buber. He founded the Lehrhaus, a school of advanced Jewish studies for adults in Frankfurt. 

Rosenzweig died in 1929 of ALS at only 43 years of age. By the end of his life, he was unable to speak or move. He and his wife Edith developed a system whereby he would blink his eyes to indicate letters and words, which she would type. Using this technique, he composed his final communication:

“And now it comes, the point of all points, which the Lord has truly revealed to me in my sleep, the point of all points for which there—”

Just then the doctor walked in for a conversation. Rosenzweig never returned to finish his final sentence. Perhaps that is fitting. His life’s work passes the task to us: to continue the story, with our own Jewish memories, commitments, and transformations.

Like Ḥannah thousands of years earlier, Rosenzweig’s experience of alienation from Judaism led to his transformation and growth. It is the high and low points of their lives that led to such growth and bequeathed such important legacies to us.  Like Ḥannah, like Rosenzweig, we carry both joy and pain, pride and disappointment, acceptance and rejection, in our Jewish lives. The question is not whether we have these experiences, but what we do with them, how we shape them into the core memories that define who we are.

As I think about the next generation, I try to keep in mind that it is impossible to know which Jewish experiences will form core memories, positive or negative. My own children continue to surprise me. All that we can do is provide rich communal experiences in which we express our own pride and love of Judaism and the Jewish people. 

On this Rosh Hashanah, may we treasure the joyous moments, learn from the hard ones, and open ourselves to the possibility of new core memories — ones that connect us more deeply to Judaism, each other, Israel, and the world.

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August 21, 2025

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Deuteronomy (דברים), Divrei Torah (Weekly Sermons)

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Saying Thank You Is Not Enough – Ekev 5785

Moses is speaking to the Israelites from the Eastern side of the Jordan River. He is preparing them to enter the Promised Land without him. Throughout the book of Deuteronomy, he worries about the new challenges that the people will face as they transition from wandering in the desert to settling in the Promised Land. So he tries to set them up for success.

Moses reiterates how, during the past forty years, God has provided for all of their needs. They ate manna from heaven. Their clothes never wore out, and their feet did not swell. God’s providence was immediate and direct. As a result, the people were constantly aware of their dependence on God for daily survival.

All of this will change when they cross the Jordan.  First, the good news. The land is “a good land, a land with streams and springs and fountains issuing from plain and hill; a land of wheat and barley, of vines, figs, and pomegranates, a land of olive trees and honey, a land where you may eat food without stint, where you will lack nothing; a land whose rocks are iron and from whose hills you can mine copper.”

In other words, the Israelites will no longer need to rely on God’s miraculous daily beneficence. Their prosperity will now come from the land itself. And so Moses instructs them: “When you have eaten your fill, give thanks to the Lord your God for the good land which He has given you.” V’achalta v’sava’ta u’verachta. This is the basis of the obligation to recite Birkat Hamazon – the grace after meals. It is a reminder, recited multiple times a day, that one of the most mundane activities of which we take part, eating, is a manifestation of Divine grace. 

But Moses knows that this will be insufficient. In the very next verse, he offers a warning against what will inevitably follow success and prosperity. Hishamer L’kha – “Take care.”  Literally, “Guard yourselves, lest you forget the Lord your God and fail to keep His commandments, His rules and His laws, which I command you today.”

Moses predicts that when the Israelites become wealthy and successful, they will forget all about God who brought them out of Egypt and sustained them through the wilderness.  Their hearts will become haughty, and they will say to themselves, “My own power and the might of my own hand have won this wealth for me.” This attitude will ultimately lead to their downfall. They will suffer the same fate as the Canaanite nations who dwelt there beforehand.

In these brief verses, Moses expresses two opposite views of human character. In the first, he sets a perfectly reasonable expectation on the Israelites to give thanks to God when we eat. To acknowledge and praise the ultimate source of blessing in our lives. It seems to me that this is a fairly easy commandment to follow. Observant Jews do not seem to have too much difficulty reciting brachot over food. We’ll be doing exactly that for kiddush in a few minutes. 

But then, immediately afterwards, Moses all but admits that it is not going to work. Either we are going to forget to express our gratitude altogether. Or, our expressions of gratitude will not matter, and we will succumb to hubris, crediting all of our success to our own efforts and hard work.

The commentator Nachmanides explains Moses’ warning. The Israelites will forget about what it was like when they were enslaved in Egypt, when they did not have power and wealth. Back then, it was much more obvious that basic survival depended on God. But when they become successful, they will forget about those former times when they had no power. They won’t realize that the strength that enabled them to prosper came from God as well.

Moses’ predictions are born out in the biblical history of ancient Israel. It seems to me that they are pretty accurate depictions of basic human tendencies as well. We tend to relate to our material success as something we earned. Either because I worked really hard for it, or because I am just a really great person who deserves what I have, or because I am too lazy to really think about how I got to where I am. Moses warns that saying “Thank you” to God is not enough.

When kids are really young, we try to teach them to say thank you. I hand a treat to a toddler, and their parent says “What do you say?”  Don’t get me wrong, it is a valuable lesson, and an important habit to inculcate.

And, if I do something nice for someone, and they do not acknowledge it, it can feel pretty bad.  Like I have been taken for granted. 

Something I have learned in my house is that saying “thank you” by itself doesn’t really matter. Thanks are expressed through actions.

My spouse makes a beautiful meal. After enjoying it, I look deep into her eyes, utter a most heartfelt “thank you for that wonderful dinner. I especially loved how you slow roasted the brussels sprouts.” And then I walk over to the couch and start watching TV while the dirty dishes are all over the kitchen.

This is all purely hypothetical, of course. 

Moses’ instructions to the Israelites are also quite simple.  Gratitude is expressed through actions. This is a theme that Moses returns to over and over again. The way for the Israelites to express their gratitude for the blessings they enjoy is by following God’s commandments. But not only that.

Later on in the parashah, in another one of Moses’s warnings, he tells us to “cut away the thickening about your hearts and stiffen your necks no more. For the Lord your God is God supreme and Lord supreme, the great, the mighty, and the awesome God, who shows no favor and takes no bribe, but upholds the cause of the fatherless and the widow, and befriends the stranger, providing food and clothing.—You too must befriend the stranger, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.”

Here, the counter to stubbornness and haughtiness is caring for the stranger. This is what the all-powerful God of the universe wants from us.

Moses draws the contrast between an attitude of self-importance, stubborness, and entitlement on the one hand – and gratitude, observance of the commandments, and caring for the weak and powerless on the other.

Almost three and a half thousand years later, not much has changed. 

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August 3, 2025

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Shabbat Chazon 5785 – My Fear This Tisha B’Av

As Tisha B’Av approaches this year, I find myself feeling particularly anxious. I want to be open with you about what I am struggling with, with what I am feeling in this moment.

First, I’ll say something about the day itself.

Originally, Tisha B’Av, the ninth day of the month of Av marked the destruction of the First Temple by the Babylonians in 586 BCE. It is described by the Prophet Zechariah as one of four fast days that will be transformed into days of celebration when the Temple is rebuilt. For Zechariah, that prophecy was fulfilled by the establishment of the Second Temple.

When the Romans brutally crushed the Judean revolt, they destroyed the Second Temple on the same date in 70 CE.

Now twice cursed, the ninth of Av became the day into which all national suffering and tragedies of the Jewish people would be folded.

The second-century Rabbis of the Mishnah looked back and attributed to Tisha B’Av the sin of the spies in the wilderness, who brought back news to the Israelites that the Promised Land was inhabited by giants whom they stood no chance of defeating. Their lack of faith in God’s plan doomed this day for eternity, says the Mishnah.

That is why, they explain, God selected that day to destroy both Temples. They add, further, that Bar Kochba’s last holdout at Betar fell on this same day in 135 CE. One year later, Hadrian plowed over the city, built a pagan Temple on the site, and banned Jews from entering, except for one day a year.

To rub in their suffering, Jews would be allowed, for a fee, to visit the Temple Mount on the ninth of Av, where two statues of the Emperor Hadrian greeted them amidst the ruins.

For two thousand years, our observance of the fast of Tisha B’Ab centered on the mournful chanting of Megillat Eichah, the Book of Lamentations. Eichah depicts, in tearful detail, the suffering of our ancestors during the Babylonians’ destruction of Jerusalem. While chronicling a specific historical event, Eichah’s description of human misery applies to countless tragedies through the ages.

Added to this, over the centuries, were the addition of Kinot, mournful elegies. These poems describe other tragedies that befell our people, whether or not they occurred on this specific tragic day.

Many Kinot were written during the Crusades, which saw the slaughter of so many Jews and the destruction of countless thriving communities. Kinot mourn the burning of the Talmud in Paris in 1242, and the expulsion of the Jews from Spain in 1492.

Add to this the other expulsions and persecutions, the blood libels, the Chmielnicki Massacres, and the Holocaust. Tisha B’Av is the Memorial Day of the Jewish people. 

Already, and not surprisingly, the massacre of Oct. 7, 2023 is added to the list. I suspect that the plight of the hostages, for 665 days now, will also become part of our narrative of this tragic day. 

The liturgy of Tisha B’Av expresses three main ideas. The first is that the various tragedies that have befallen us are expressions of Divine anger. Punishments against the Jewish people for our sins.

The Rabbis attribute the fall of the First Temple to the sin of idolatry. Nebuchadnezzar was but a pawn, a tool wielded by God to administer judgment against our ancestors for failing to heed the message of the prophets.

The Second Temple fell as a result of the sin of Sin’at Chinam – senseless hatred of Jew against Jew.  Again, the Romans were mere instruments of Divine wrath.

This theological justification for our ancestors’ suffering leaves me feeling uncomfortable. It sounds like blaming the victim. But that is the dominant theology that the Rabbis express throughout the Talmud and midrashim, and that is picked up in the Kinot. “Oh, how these things have befallen us, we must have done something to deserve it.”

But then, we encounter another sentiment. The wailing and crying is turned against God, who surely must see our suffering and have compassion. We cry out against a God who has seemingly forgotten and abandoned us and shout, “Here we are! Don’t you see us?”

Some of the Kinot direct our rage against our oppressors, who make fun of us and mock God. They are not mere instruments of Divine wrath. It is their hatred and violence that caused our suffering. 

Finally, and importantly, Tisha B’Av contains elements of hope.  Most Kinot end on a hopeful note that God will remember us. We end our chanting of Eichah with the words: “Take us back, O Lord, to Yourself, And let us come back; Renew our days as of old.”

We sit on the floor during the evening and morning services. Then in the afternoon, the mood begins to change. We put on the Tallit and Tefillin that we neglected during Shacharit. It is said that the Messiah will be born on the ninth of Av. The seeds of redemption are sown in destruction.

The seven weeks after Tisha B’Av are referred to as Shiva D’nechemata – The seven weeks of consolation.  The Haftarot that we recite on those seven Shabbatot are filled with language of comfort, healing, and hope. 

The Talmud teaches, “Those who mourn for Jerusalem will merit to see its rejoicing…”

By concentrating all of our mourning into a single day, we make sure that it does not overwhelm us throughout the year.  During this day, we go through the three stages. First we look inward, and ask ourselves how we have gone astray. Next we look outward, to proclaim to God that our suffering is unreasonable, that it is our enemies who have wronged us. And then we look to the future, so that we can step back into the world after our mourning with hope.

This year, more than any in my lifetime, I find myself feeling increasingly worried as Tisha B’Av nears. Hatred of Jews and Israel has become more accepted in the world than at any time I can remember.

At the moment we find ourselves in, Israel, home to half of the world’s Jews, is becoming a pariah state. 

The images of starving children in Gaza, and the daily reports of civilian deaths, regardless of who is or is not at fault, take their toll. Perceptions of Israel and of Judaism around the globe are becoming increasingly negative.  This includes among our own people, especially younger generations of Jews.

We can complain about it. We can argue about whether it is misguided or naïve. We can point out how Hamas launched the war and has been stealing the food and supplies meant for Palestinian civilians, but those arguments are not working.

Pointing out how complicated it is cannot compete with a simplistic statement like “Stop the genocide.”

Explaining how Hamas hides underground, letting their people starve, instead of releasing the hostages, simply cannot compete with photos of children crying in a mass of people, pressed up against a metal grate in front of a food distribution center.

Declaring, “What about the millions of people facing war and starvation in the Congo, or Sudan, or the persecution of the Uighyers in China, or the Rohingya, or take your pick,” will never convince anyone.

Whether or not Israel’s War in Gaza is justified, and I do believe it is, anyone with a heart cannot but be moved by the suffering that is happening right now. Suffering which, by the way, is a lot like what we will be reading later tonight. Whether or not Israel is at fault, it is responsible to do everything it can to prevent starvation. I do believe that deep in my heart.

I don’t know what is actually happening on the ground. I read all of the same articles and accounts that you do, and I do not have any confidence in the actual situation. All I can say is that I hope that the IDF is operating according to its stated principles and is doing its best to prevent suffering.

I am afraid that the impact on attitudes about Israel and about Judaism and Jews is taking a hit that will take a long time to recover.

This will lead to continuing violence against Jews around the world, like we have seen recently in this country in D.C. and Colorado. It will be awful. But we know how to deal with that.  We have been doing it for thousands of years. That is why we have Tisha B’Av. We look inward. We look outward. We look forward to better times. 

What I am afraid of, and this is the first time I have voiced this in a sermon, is that a generation of Jews is going to decide, “It’s just not worth it,” and walk away from the Jewish people. And then that, too, will become part of the narrative of Tisha B’Av. That’s my fear.

I don’t have the secret formula to prevent this. But I suspect the remedy probably involves something along the lines of increasing our own commitment to Torah learning, Jewish practice, and living proudly as members of the Jewish people, despite the differences we have. 

I’ll add as well that living here in Silicon Valley, where there is such a large Israeli ex-pat community who have very different experiences of the war in Gaza, it is so important to be in open communication with that segment of the community.

I’ll add as well that programs like Camp Ramah, at which I was able to spend last week, is also critical. It is an explicitly Zionist camp. There is a large Israeli contingent. We are surrounding our kids with pride in Judaism, a love of who we are, and connections that last a lifetime.

Supporting kids within our synagogues who are surrounded by these kinds of experiences on a daily and weekly basis – that has to be part of the solution. We need to double down on that.

I hope my fear is unjustified. 

So I will end with the closing words of this morning’s Haftarah that we chanted just a few minutes ago.

וְאָשִׁ֤יבָה שֹׁפְטַ֙יִךְ֙ כְּבָרִ֣אשֹׁנָ֔ה
וְיֹעֲצַ֖יִךְ כְּבַתְּחִלָּ֑ה
אַֽחֲרֵי־כֵ֗ן יִקָּ֤רֵא לָךְ֙
עִ֣יר הַצֶּ֔דֶק קִרְיָ֖ה נֶאֱמָנָֽה׃ 

צִיּ֖וֹן בְּמִשְׁפָּ֣ט תִּפָּדֶ֑ה
וְשָׁבֶ֖יהָ בִּצְדָקָֽה׃

I will restore your magistrates as of old,
And your counselors as of yore.
After that you shall be called
City of Righteousness, Faithful City.” 

Zion shall be saved in the judgment;
Her repentant ones, in righteousness.

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February 24, 2025

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Where Was The Guardian Angel? – Mishpatim 5785

Parashat Mishpatim occupies a central place within God’s epic revelation to the Israelites at Mount Sinai. It opens with Sefer HaBrit, the Book of the Covenant, outlining the mitzvot that the Israelites will be expected to uphold. Their agreement is captured by an enthusiastic, two word response, na’aseh v’nishma, “We will do and we will listen.”

Among God’s commitments to the Israelites is a promise to send what is, in effect, a guardian angel to protect them.

I am sending a messenger before you to guard you on the way and to bring you to the place that I have made ready. Pay heed to him and obey him. Do not defy him, for he will not pardon your offenses, since My Name is in him; but if you obey him and do all that I say, I will be an enemy to your enemies and a foe to your foes.

Exodus 23:20-22

This angel will be a guide, a judge, as well as a protector and a champion for the Jewish people. Who is this angel? Many of our midrashim and commentators try to answer this question. One explanation in particular stands out to me. After citing several interpretations offered by others, Nachmanides, the 13th century Spanish Rabbi, shares his own. “The true understanding is that this angel whom they are promised is the mal’akh hago’el – ‘the redeeming angel’ of Genesis 48:16, who has God’s name ‘in him’…”

Nachmanides draws our attention to a particularly special moment.  Jacob is nearing the end of his life. He calls Joseph to his side, along with his grandsons, Ephraim and Menashe. Blessing, them, Jacob invokes the angel who has been with him, protecting him throughout his life.

Ha’mal’akh hago’el oti mi’kol ra—
The angel who has redeemed me from all harm—
Bless the lads.
In them may my name be recalled,
And the names of my fathers Abraham and Isaac,
And may they be teeming multitudes upon the earth.

Genesis 48:16

As Nachmanides develops the idea, he explains that this Redeeming Angel is in fact not an angel at all, but rather the aspect of God that watches over and governs the physical world in which we live.

Jacob, despite a life filled with adversity and danger, experiences God’s protection and blessing. This is what he wishes for his grandchildren. And this is what God invokes at Mount Sinai, promising to watch over the Jewish people through the adversity and danger that they will face in the generations to follow, up to and including our own.

This is what I was thinking of this week, as we witnessed the bodies of Ariel and Kfir Bibas returned to their families. With their bright red hair, Ariel and Kfir, just 4 years old and 9 months old when they were taken hostage by Hamas on October 7, 2023, became the symbolic faces of the entire war.

On the morning of October 7, Yarden and Shiri Bibas, with their two sons, Ariel and Kfir, hid as Hamas terrorists stormed through their Kibbutz, Nir Oz.  In an attempt to draw the terrorists away from his family, Yarden left the safe room and was captured. A little while later, Shiri and her children were also taken and brought, alive, into the Gaza Strip. Photographs of a terrified and bleeding mother and her crying children showed them alive in Khan Younis later that day. Shiri’s parents, Margit and Yossi Silberman, who also lived in Kibbutz Nir Oz, were among the more than 1,200 Israelis who were brutally murdered.

Since December 2023, Hamas claimed that Shiri, Ariel, and Kfir were killed by an Israeli attack. The IDF never confirmed what happened to them, and the family refused to give up hope until their bodies were returned home.

According to the terms of the current cease fire, Yarden was released on February 1, after nearly 500 days.  At the time of his release, he did not know that his wife and children had been murdered.

We now have a better idea about what they suffered. On Thursday of this week, as part of the terms of the cease fire, the bodies of Shiri, Ariel ,and Kfir were to be released, along with that of 83 year old Oded Lifshitz. In a cruel spectacle, similar to the Hamas propaganda that accompanied the previous releases, coffins were brought up on stage with celebratory music, taunting photographs and messages in Arabic, Hebrew, and English. This prompted widespread condemnation. Even the Chair of the UN Human Rights Commission condemned Hamas’ actions. “The parading of bodies in the manner seen this morning is abhorrent and cruel, and flies in the face of international law.”

As the coffins passed from Hamas to the Red Cross to the IDF, Israelis lined the streets and the squares of the nation in tears. The process of mourning, more than 500 days later, could finally begin. 

But the horrors were not over. Israeli forensic teams confirmed the identities of Ariel and Kfir, along with Oded Lifshitz. Physical evidence revealed that the children had been murdered by bare hands in cold blood in November 2023.The fourth body, it turned out, was not Shiri’s. As I was preparing my drash, Hamas had just released another body which they claimed was Shiri’s.

What are we supposed to feel at this moment? Anger, rage, sadness, grief, relief – so many swirling, conflicting emotions.

The Torah’s promise of mal’akh go’el – a Guardian Angel, rings hollow at a time like this.  Where was the Guardian angel while innocent children, Ariel and Kfir, were brutally taken, imprisoned and murdered?

I imagine the Israelites at the base of Mount Sinai may have had similar questions.  How many children were cruelly cast into the Nile by Pharaoh and his decree? Where was God when that was happening? Can they really count on God to protect them now?

Are there words that can adequately express what we are feeling?

There have been a lot of statements put out over the last two days expressinga lot of emotions. Several of them cited passages from our holy texts, in particular the Book of Psalms, to capture what we might want to say to God right now. From Psalm 91, which is traditionally recited while accompanying a body to its final resting place. It expresses faith in God’s justice and protection. 

For He will order His angels
to guard you wherever you go.

Psalm 91:11

Words that may ring hollow in this moment. Next is from Psalm 94, which we recite as the daily Psalm for Wednesday. It is a demand for an absent God of justice to take vengeance against those who commit evil.

God of retribution, LORD,
God of retribution, appear! 
Rise up, judge of the earth,
give the arrogant their deserts! 
How long shall the wicked, O LORD,
how long shall the wicked exult,

Psalm 94;1-3

A Psalm that does not appear in our regular liturgy is Psalm 83. Its words feel terribly fitting.

O God, do not be silent;
do not hold aloof;
do not be quiet, O God! 
For Your enemies rage,
Your foes assert themselves.
They plot craftily against Your people,
take counsel against Your treasured ones. 
They say, “Let us wipe them out as a nation;
Israel’s name will be mentioned no more.” 
Unanimous in their counsel
they have made an alliance against You— 
…May they be frustrated and terrified,
disgraced and doomed forever.

Psalm 83:2-6, 18

And finally, Psalm 147, which we recite every day of the year during Pesukei D’zimra. These words of comfort are perhaps what we need most of all. 

God heals the brokenhearted
and binds up their wounds.

Psalm 147:3 

May God grant comfort to the Bibas family, the whole House of Israel, and all who suffer in the world. May God heal those broken in body and spirit. May God restore to their families all of our hostages, and bring home the bodies of those who have been murdered so that their families can begin to mourn.

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February 5, 2025

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מִי וָמִי הָהוֹלְכִים – Who and who are going – Bo 5785

We are thankful for the freedom from captivity on Thursday of Gadi Mozes, Arbel Yehoud, and Agam Berger, along with Pongsak Thenna, Sathian Suwannakham, Watchara Sriaoun, Bannawat Seathao and Surasak Lamnau.

And for the release today of Keith Siegel, Ofer Calderon, and Yarden Bibas. May they find healing of body and spirit in the days and weeks ahead. And may those who remain hostage be returned to their families speedily and without delay.

We are reminded, during these tense and perilous times, of the Jewish values of making sure everyone is included. This is a value that finds expression in this morning’s Torah portion, Parashat Bo. The first seven plagues have struck Egypt.

At this point, Pharaoh is under pressure from the Egyptian court to let the Israelites go. So he summons Moses and Aaron back to the palace and orders: “Go serve the Lord your God!” He seems to have given in. But then he asks: Mi va’mi ha’holkhim – “Who and who are the ones who will go?” (10:8)

 That’s a silly question. Has Moses not told him exactly who must be allowed to leave? Time after time, he has said something to the effect of “Thus said the Lord: Let My people go that they may worship Me.”

Nevertheless, Moses answers Pharaoh’s seemingly redundant question. 

With our young ones, with our elders we will go, 
with our sons and with our daughters, 
with our sheep and with our oxen we will go— 
for it is the Lord’s pilgrimage-festival for us.

Here, Moses adds a new element to his request. Never before has he specified who, exactly, is included by the term “My people.” Now he says it outright: our children, and elders, our sons and daughters, even our sheep and oxen. That is who is included in “My people.”

To this, Pharaoh claws back the permission he has just granted. No way will I let your children go with you. Just the men can go to worship the Lord.

What is the point of these word games? Why does Pharaoh insist on this verbal jousting. And why does Moses need to articulate what “My people” means.

According to Rabbi Shmuel Goldin, there is a deeper conversation taking place. Remember, Moses has not yet requested that the Israelites be freed from slavery and allowed to leave Egypt outright, even though we know that is God’s ultimate plan.

So now Pharaoh has agreed, in principle, to allow the three day holiday to take place outside of the land. How does Pharaoh, and the rest of Egyptian society, for that matter, think this is going to happen?

In Egyptian religion, and indeed, in every ancient religion, worshipping the deity was the domain of an elite priestly class. You may recall, at the end of the Book of Genesis, with Joseph as the vizier to an earlier Pharaoh, the Egyptian monarchy consolidates all land in the empire under the crown, except for the land holdings of the Egyptian priesthood. They are a powerful force to be reckoned with.

Access to the gods, religious worship, was the domain of a limited elite. The common people could not, and were not expected to, participate in the central observance. It is the king, the priests, the sorcerors who manage the relationship between people and the gods.

So when Pharaoh asks Moses “who, exactly, is going to go?” this is what he has in mind. The idea that the entire nation, including children even the animals, need to participate in the festival to God, is completely foreign to him. So when Moses answers the question in such an expansive way, Pharaoh takes personal offense.

But this too is part of God’s plan to introduce something new to the world. In just two chapters, when the Israelites assemble at the base of Mount Sinai, God will declare them to be a “kingdom of priests, a holy nation.”

The Exodus from Egypt begins a process of democratization of religion. Every Israelite will be able to participate in the worship of God. We see elements of this in this morning’s Torah portion, Parashat Bo. The Torah interrupts the Exodus story before the enactment of the tenth plague to tell us about the laws of Passover.

We learn that this is a holiday that is observed by the entire family. Nobody is left out. It does not require a priest or a Temple. It is observed in the home. Moses instructs the Israelites, us, to observe it as an institution for all time.

Three separate times, he emphasizes the obligation upon parents to teach their children about the symbolism of the rituals and what they represent. Maybe this sounds familiar.

And when your children ask you, ‘What do you mean by this rite?’ you shall say, ‘It is the passover sacrifice to the Lord, who passed over the houses of the Israelites in Egypt when smiting the Egyptians, but saved our houses.’

This is one of the sources of the parable of the Four Children in the Pesach Seder.

What is the grand moral of the story of the Exodus? We are used to it being a story of freedom, conveying the lesson that humans ought not enslave one another, that the condition to which we must strive is for all people to be free. Or perhaps it is the lesson to Pharaoh, Egypt, and the nations of the world – that no human is a God.

Here we learn another message: that every human being can stand in the presence of the divine. God is accessible to every human being. God’s revelation to the Jewish people includes every one of us, regardless of class, gender, or station. All must be included for our celebrations to be complete.

This is what we strive for in our synagogue. It is embedded in Jewish history and practice. And it is part of the culture that has driven our commitment to bringing home our brothers and sisters taken hostage in Gaza. 

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November 21, 2024

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Dust and Ashes – Valera 5785

The Chassidic Rebbe, Simchah Bunem, used to teach his students:” Everyone must have two pockets, so that he can reach into the one or the other, according to his needs. In his right pocket are to be the words bishvili nivra ha’olam.  “For me was the world created.” And in his left, va’anochi afar va’efer. “For I am but dust and ashes.” Knowing when to remove each piece of paper, is the challenge.  

Sometimes, we need to be assertive, to place ourselves and our own needs at the center of our concern. Other situations demand that we step down, and recognize how small and insignificant we are in the span of space and time.

As it turns out, va’anochi afar va’efer — “For I am but dust and ashes” — appears in this morning’s Torah portion.

וְאָנֹכִ֖י עָפָ֥ר וָאֵֽפֶר

But before we find out where, let’s see if we can figure out what it means. Afar va’efer. Afar with an ayin. Efer with an alef. Two different, unrelated words, but together, as an alliteration, expressing something profound.

Afar – “Dust” with an ayin — brings us back to creation. In the Garden of Eden, the first human is created out of the dust of the earth. Afar min ha’adamah. God gathers the raw materials together in the shape of a person, but it only becomes a human being when God blows the breath of life into its nostrils.

To compare oneself to dust, therefore invokes our origins, the raw materials from our physical selves are made.

Efer – “Ashes” with an alef,  are what are left over after something has been completely burnt. Through combustion, a thing that was once alive has been rendered into its inorganic parts. All of the organic components have become oxidized and are no longer present.  In other words, ashes are what are left over after all traces of life are gone. 

To compare oneself to ashes invokes the end of our physical selves. What is left over after anything that once marked us as individuals is gone.

Together “dust and ashes” describe the parts of our timeline which are devoid of life. Before the soul entered our bodies, and after the materials out of which our bodies are comprised have lost their cohesion.

This expression Afar va’efer, appears just three times in the entire Tanakh. Once in this morning’s Torah portion, Parashat Vayera, and twice in the book of Job. 

Vayera opens with three angels, disguised as men, coming to visit Abraham with a message that in one year, he and Sarah will have a son together. Message delivered, two of the angels leave, while one sticks around for a further conversation.

God has seen the wickedness of the people of Sodom and Gomorrah, and determined to destroy the cities entirely. But first, God turns inward to ask Godself:

Shall I hide from Abraham what I am about to do, 

since Abraham is to become a great and populous nation and all the nations of the earth are to bless themselves by him? 

For I have singled him out, that he may instruct his children and his posterity to keep the way of the Lord by doing what is just and right, in order that the Lord may bring about for Abraham what has been promised him.

True to God’s assessment of him, Abraham challenges God’s eagerness to punish the innocent along with the wicked, asking God to spare the cities if fifty innocent people can be found living there. In a bold rebuke, Abraham declares “Shall the judge of all the earth not do that which is just?!”

God agrees, and it turns out that this was just the opening of the negotiations. Abraham will lower the number to 45, 40, 30, 20, and finally 10 innocent people to spare the wicked cities. But first, he employs our phrase

Here I venture to speak to my lord, I who am but dust and ashes

What does this expression mean in this context?

At first glance, it might seem to be an expression of humility.  But what Abraham has just done and will continue to do seems quite bold. He has essentially told God that if You do not behave justly, you don’t deserve to be God. 

This is not behavior that most of people would describe as humble.

What about Job? He uses the expression twice. 

The first instance is in the midst of a long speech in which he is describing his suffering in most vivid terms. He laments how even the dregs of society, the worst of the worst, look down on him.

By night my bones feel gnawed;
My sinews never rest. 

With great effort I change clothing;
The neck of my tunic fits my waist.

And then comes our verse

He cast me down to the clay,
I have become like dust and ashes.

Here dust and ashes does not describe humility as a moral character trait, but seems to be almost literal. Just as people walk on dust and ashes without a second thought, without even noticing, Job too feels like he is being trampled underfoot.

His entire existence has been reduced to insignificance. “Dust and ashes” is a lament of self-pity. 

He uses the term once more, in the final chapter. In face, they are the last words he utters in the entire book that bears his name. After forty long chapters struggling to understand the meaning of his suffering, and rejecting all of the theological accusations and explanations of his so-called friends, God appears to Job out of the whirlwind.  And basically says, “I’m God.  Who the heck are you?”

And so, Job backs down.

Therefore, I recant and relent,
Being but dust and ashes.

This is Job’s final utterance. He realizes that his earlier complaints have been misguided. Job has been seeking some sort of reason for his suffering, a rational explanation for why he has been brought so low. 

But he never gets it. When he comes face to face with the awesome, terrifying Divine Presence, Job finally discovers that, as a mere mortal, comprised of “dust and ashes,” he is simply incapable of understanding God’s nature. Human concepts of justice and morality do not apply to God. It is pointless to try to discover any purpose to Creation that would make sense to us.

For both Abraham and Job, “dust and ashes” seems to be an expression of humility. It is a recognition that our existence on earth is temporary, that our imperfect bodies are made of material that comes together for only a brief moment in time.

We should also note that for both of them, the phrase “dust and ashes” occurs in the context of challenging God’s justice. They both react instinctively to what they percieve as God’s unjust behavior.

We all have that instinct. “It’s not fair.” Sometimes we experience it when we feel that we ourselves have been denied something we are owed.  Sometimes we experience when we see or hear of injustice perpetrated against someone else.

“Dust and ashes” is how Job describes himself when he finally stops accusing God of injustice. He realizes that human standards of morality do not apply to God.

For Abraham, it is the opposite. “Dust and ashes” is how he describes himself when he first begins to accuse God of injustice.

Perhaps another difference is that Job has been going through an existential crisis, arguing for justice on behalf of himself. Abraham, on the other hand, has been fighting to protect other people. 

Maybe that is the point of having this as one of the two phrases that we are supposed to have in our pockets. Recognizing our smallness, the limited time that we have on earth, means that we have to make use of that time for good.  To, as Abraham demonstrates, “keep the way of the Lord by doing what is just and right,” even when that might mean putting ourselves at risk.

But also, recognizing that the universe does not owe us anything. It is ok, as Job finally discovers, to accept ourselves as we are. To accept that God does not owe us any explanations. And then to make the most of it, as if the world was created for us. Maybe that is true humility.

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October 6, 2024

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A Four-Fold Song – Rosh Hashanah 5785

God never promised it would be easy.

This morning’s Torah portion tells the story of the banishment of Hagar and Ishmael. Sarah recognizes something untoward in the way that Ishmael is playing with her son. She demands that Abraham send him out into the wilderness with his mother.

When their supplies run out, Hagar places her son underneath a bush so she does not have to watch him die. God hears the cry of the boy and sends an angel to Hagar with a prophecy.

Fear not, for God has heeded the cry of the boy where he is. Come, lift up the boy and hold him by the hand, for I will make a great nation of him.

Then the angel reveals a well of water, and they are saved.

A midrash (Tanchuma Vayetzei 5:2) describes a scene that transpires in heaven, just before this moment. When God commands the angel to reveal the well, the angel objects: “Master of the Universe, why do you bring forth a well for this wicked person who will ultimately waylay travelers and wayfarers?”

The Holy One, blessed be He, retorts: “What is he right now? Is he not righteous? I judge a person only according to the moment at which he stands before me.”

The midrash derives this response from the Torah’s language: God has heeded the cry of the boy ba’asher hu sham – “in the place where he is.”

Midrashim often put into words their authors’ struggles with the Sacred Text. In this case, we witness the tension between the suffering of a child, for which any human with a heart must feel compassion and pity; and tribal protectiveness. This struggle is personified through Sarah versus Hagar, Isaac versus Ishmael.

The angel’s objection captures our defensive instinct to close ranks and protect our own. God ‘s rebuke expresses the universalism which seeks to break down barriers between peoples and treat individuals as they are, human beings made in the Divine image.

God does not suffer from human parochialism.

It is a particularly poignant midrash for us this year, conveying this tension between tribalism and universalism. I ask myself, in this moment: “Do I resonate more with the angel, or with God?”

As we celebrate Rosh Hashanah, welcoming 5785, it is a time for us to reflect on the ways in which we value peoplehood and humanity. Or is it peoplehood versus humanity?

One of the most beautiful expressions of this was described by Rav Abraham Isaac Kook over one hundred years ago, at a time which bore certain similiarities to our own.

Rav Kook is considered to be be the founder of religious Zionism. He was born and grew up in Russia in the second half of the nineteenth century. In 1905, he moved to Yaffo, in Palestine, then controlled by the Ottoman Emprire.

At the outbreak of the first World War, Rav Kook happened to be in Germany, where he was interned as an alien. He managed to escape and lived for the remainder of the war in London, stuck in exile, unable to return to Palestine.

It was a tumultuous time, full of danger, uncertainty, and change. The world was at war. Empires fell while nationalist movements reared their heads. Russia was aflame in revolution. A global pandemic was incubating. It was during this time period that Rav Kook wrote Shir Meruba, A Four-Fold Song.

He imagines four ways that a person might see themself; might orient their life and find meaning. He describes each of these four ways as a kind of song: the song of the self, the song of the nation, the song of humanity, and the song of the universe.

There is one who sings the song of oneself, and in themself findseverything, full spiritual satisfaction in its entirety.

There is another who sings the song of one’s people. He leaves the circle of his own individual self, because he finds it without sufficient breadth, without an idealistic basis. He aspires toward the heights, and he cleaves with a gentle love to the whole community of Israel. Together with her he sings her songs. He feels grieved in her afflictions and delights in her hopes. He contemplates noble and pure thoughts about her past and her future, and probes with love and wisdom her innerspiritual essence.

There is another who reaches toward more distant realms, and going beyond the boundary of Israel to sing the song of humanity. Her spirit extends to the wider vistas of the majesty of humanity in general, and its noble essence…

Then there is one who rises toward even wider horizons, until he links himself with all existence, with all God’s creatures, with all worlds, and he sings his song with all of them…

As Rav Kook describes so evocatively, each of us sings one of these four songs. He describes them as reflecting wider and wider perspectives, ever-expanding concentric circles.

What is my primary area of concern? Who do I care about most? Where do I invest my emotional energy? Form which wellsprings do I draw meaning and purpose in life?

Do I wake up each day to advance myself? Am I devoted to the Jewish people? Do I work for humanity? Or is my concern even more global?

Which song do I sing most strongly?

Rav Kook suggests that most people primarily sing one of these four songs. It is tempting to restrict our perspective to the narrowest of the concentric circles. Perhaps that is the song that most of us sing, most of the time.

This is the drive for self-preservation, for placing self over others.  It evokes the most famous teaching of Hillel the Elder in Pirkei Avot: 

אִם אֵין אֲנִי לִי, מִי לִי. “If I am not for myself, who will be for me?”

The next part of Hillel’s teaching warns of the risk of only focusing on the self

וּכְשֶׁאֲנִי לְעַצְמִי, מָה אֲנִי. “But if I am (only) for myself, what am I?”

Hillel suggests that a self-focused life is incomplete. Meaning and worth must include a concern for and commitment to others. But his teaching does not go so far as to distinguish how far that concern should extend: just to the Jewish people, to humanity, or to all of creation.

As we look back at the past year, I fear that we may have placed too great a focus on the universal, and not enough on the particular. Maybe we did not emphasize enough to our children how important it is to form our structures of meaning specifically around the history, values, and traditions of the Jewish people. We did not sufficiently emphasize that it is not only ok but necessary to feel particular connection to our Jewish brothers and sisters around the world.

We are now being taught that lesson. The borders that surround us are pressing in.

We are four days away from the one-year anniversary of the October 7 massacre, which changed the way Jewish people everywhere view ourselves as individuals, as part of the Jewish people, and within the wider society of humankind. 

Within hours of that horrific event, antisemitism had already begun its surge.

This past year has seen the international double standard against the world’s only Jewish state laid bare. We are still praying for the return of 97 hostages.

Many university campuses became unwelcome places for Jewish college students. We felt the need to further harden the barriers around our houses of worship and Jewish institutions, increasing our stress and fear.

So many experienced abandonment by friends, who could not bear to even have a relationship with someone who supports the legitimacy of the State of Israel.

And some of us painfully faced the conflict between the song of the nation and the song of humanity within our own families.

How have these forces, pushing in against us, affected our song?

After October 7, so many of us sought out one another, to be together, shed tears, express our grief, find solidarity —to experience some measure of comfort.

Many of us were surprised to find ourselves feeling connected to the Jewish people more profoundly than ever before.

This amplification of our song has not only been reactive. We are experiencing renewed eagerness to embrace Jewish tradition and practice. Participation in Jewish life is rising all over the world. 

Membership at Congregation Sinai is at its all-time high, along with the number of children learning in our religious school. What began as a defensive reaction has evolved into an awakening curiosity and eagerness to explore and find meaning in Judaism’s rich history and culture.

As we gather as a people to observe the new year, what are we to make of this seeming dissonance between Jewish peoplehood and universalism?

Rosh Hashanah is not a particularly particularistic holiday. It does not have an historic or symbolic connection to the Exodus from Egypt. It does not mark any moment in the history of the Jewish people. 

We describe it as Yom Hadin, the Day of Judgment. Not judgment for the Jewish people – but rather, judgment for all humanity. Unetaneh Tokef describes how “all who live on earth shall pass before You like a flock of sheep.”

A few lines later, we sing “On Rosh Hashanah it is written and on the fast of Yom Kippur it is sealed.” The fate of every living person in the year ahead is determined.

Rosh Hashanah is said to take place on the sixth day, the day on which God completed all the works of creation by forming humanity in the Divine image.

It is the most universal of Jewish holidays. Perhaps Rosh Hashanah is a holiday for singing the song of humanity, or the song of the universe, rather than the song of our people.

Does it have to be either/or? Must concern for the Jewish people come at the expense of concern for humanity, or vice versa? Let us return to Rav Kook’s Four Fold Song, which continues from where we left it. He imagines the rare individual who harmonizes the four competing melodies

…into one ensemble, each joining their voices… lending vitality and life to one another. They are sounds of joy and gladness, sounds of jubilation and celebration, sounds of ecstasy and holiness.

The song of the self, the song of the people, the song of humanity, the song of the universe continuously merged…

Rav Kook describes this four-part harmony as a “song of holiness.” It is the song of Yisrael, which, with the first two letters switched, spells Shir El – the song of God.

Rav Kook challenges us to merge our various identities. We start by asking: Which song do I primarily sing? Has my song changed in the past year?

With Israel at war, and the Jewish people threatened, is there space left in my heart to maintain my commitment to myself and my people, as well as to humanity and creation?

Rav Kook would argue that I do not have a choice. Humanity’s mission is to strive towards wholeness and perfection. Israel, like other peoples, has a unique contribution to make.

From the beginning, when God first revealed Godself to Abraham, our challenge as a people has always been to be a blessing to the world, as a distinct people, and through our commitment to Torah. 

For humanity to rise higher, we must be able to sing both songs. Rav Kook wrote:. “The upright person must believe in their own life.” He also wrote “the Love of Israel requires the love of the whole of humanity.”

Even when segments of humanity do not behave so lovingingly towards us.

We celebrate our new year with complicated emotions. We pray that our brothers and sisters still held hostage will return to their families embrace. We pray for God to protect our people who are at war, and to deliver the brave souls fighting to defend them.

We pray that we be strengthened in our communities and drawn closer as a people. We pray for love, connection, and healing within our families.

We pray for all people, everywhere, to learn to recognize the Divine sparks in one another. We pray for unity in humanity’s collective striving for wholeness, for each person and nation to contribute their own blessings to our shared task.

May all of these prayers blend together to produce a glorious masterpiece, the song of God, the Song of Songs.

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July 30, 2024

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Camp Ramah: A Bubble of Peace – Pinchas 5784

Dana and I had the wonderful opportunity to be away last Shabbat, as I completed a week as the Rabbi in Residence at Camp Ramah Galim. Galim means “waves,” which is a fitting name, given that the camp lies on a beachfront campus outside of Watsonville.

I am honored to serve on the Board of Directors for the past year and a half. My week started with a Sunday Board meeting, and then I got to stay. I would like to share with you a bit of what I experienced while I was there. 

Ramah Galim is the only Jewish, Zionist, Shomer Shabbat, kosher camp in Northern California. The camp continues to grow — this current summer is the biggest yet; and we just signed a ten year lease with the Monterey Bay Academy, which hosts us.

Campers at Ramah Galim sign up for one of four specialty tracks, which they attend most mornings. Afternoons bring everyone together for activities with their edot (age groups), kevutzot (groups), and the entire camp.

One specialty track is Yam – “ocean”.  Campers focus on learning about marine ecology, in addition to boogie boarding, surfing and other water activities. Campers in Etgar — “challenge” — go mountain biking, hiking, rockclimbing, farming, and other outdoor activities. Those in Al HaBamah — “on the stage” — write, rehearse and perform an original musical over the course of a two week session. I don’t know how they do it.

In addition, for the second summer, Ramah Galim has hosted the Ramah Sports Academy, which offers intensive training for basketball and soccer athletes.

I could go on about all of the wonderful aspects of Ramah Galim, but I want to focus on a few key experiences.

I am proud to share that Congregation Sinai sends more kids to Ramah than any other synagogue. There are twenty Sinai chanichim, campers, attending session three alone. If we add up campers who were at the first two sessions, we are proably in the 30-35 range. I haven’t run the numbers, but I suspect that this is at least 1/3 of all of the kids in the shul. Plus, we have four Sinai young adults serving as madrichim, or counselors. 

We have a scholarship fund at Sinai. This year, we provided more scholarship money for more kids than we ever have before. And I would love to see this expand.

As Rabbi in Residence, I get recruited to a number of different activities. 

Harga’ah means relaxation. Before bedtime, I might meet with an edah or a kevutzah to tell a story or teach a song.

I attend Tefilah with different edot, sometimes as a participant, and sometimes to lead or teach.

On Shabbat afternoon, I led a program for all of Nitzanim and Kochavim – third through sixth graders.

And on Shabbat morning, I led a learning session with staff.

Beyond this, I have the opportunity to simply participate in camp, interacting with campers and counselors, learning about them and occasionally answering “rabbinic” questions. I was also glad to be able to support our Sinai kids, who get a thrill to see “their rabbi” at camp.

This summer, there were also about 30 Israeli chanichim. Many of them are from the northern border and have not been living in their homes for the last nine months. The Education Minister just announced that schools from the evacuation zone will not be reopening in the fall. So these campers will again be attending makeshift schools that have been cobbled together near the hotels to which they have been evacuated.

For the second summer, there is a contingent of Ukrainian campers at Ramah Galim, who are here through a partnership with Maccabi.

All of these kids and staff come together to have a Jewish camp experience. And it is so wonderful. What strikes me about Ramah is how supportive and positive it is for everyone. It is meant to be joyful, experiential Judaism. Chanichim and madrichim are challenged to try new things, take on leadership roles, and have fun. 

As I mentioned earlier, among its core values, Camp Ramah is a Zionist camp. This comes through in so many ways. There is a large mishlachat, or contingent of Israeli staff.

Israeli flags fly everywhere. Announcements are made in Hebrew, and modern Hebrew words and expressions are woven into the camp experience. One of the most popular activites at Ramah is Israeli dancing, which takes place before most dinners, and on the beach after Havdallah.

Yom Yisrael is a day devoted to learning about and celebrating Israeli history, culture, and life. This year, it took on more somber tones. 

More important and impactful than all of the formal programming is the opportunity for Jews from Israel, America, Ukraine, and other communities to live together, get to know each other, become friends, and establish personal relationships. This is the best way to convey the Jewish value of achdut – unity.

At the end of last week’s parashah, the Moabites send in women to lure the Israelite men into commiting idolatry during an event which became known as “The sin of Ba’al Peor.”

To stop the ensuing catastrohe, Pinchas, grandson of Aaron, takes a spear and stabs an Israelite leader and a Moabitess.

As this morning’s parashah opens, God explicitly approves of Pinchas’ initiative, which “turned back [Divine] wrath from the Israelites.” In response, God grants him God’s “covenant of peace,” a covenant of priesthood for him and his descendants after him for all time.

The language in the Torah is unambiguously praiseworthy of Pinchas’ zealous violence. All of the medieval commentators approve of Pinchas’ actions.

It is a moment of crisis. Many Israelites, including leaders, are committing apostasy with the Moabite women. Thousands are dying in a plague. God has just instructed Moses to have all of the ringleaders impaled to turn aside Divine wrath. Pinchas is the one who takes action, stopping the idolatry, ending the plague, and saving the Israelites. He is a hero.

Why does he need a covenant of peace? The Talmud records a legend that the elders wanted to excommunicate Pinchas for taking matters into his own hands rather than going through a judicial process. God’s message to Moses, thus, is a counter to that effort, stating that Pinchas’ zealousness exactly matched God’s zealousness.

The medieval commentators suggest that the covenant of shalom is a promise of Divine protection from the possibility of retribution by the families of the people whom Pinchas impaled, or even from his fellow Israelites.

Modern commentators offer more psychological explanations. Naphtali Tz’vi Yehudah Berlin, known as the Netziv, lived in nineteenth century Russia. He writes in HaEmek Davar, his commentary on the Torah, that

In reward for turning away the wrath of the Holy Blessed One, God blessed him with the attribute of peace, that he should not be quick-tempered or angry.  Since, it was only natural that such a deed as Phinehas’ should leave in his heart an intense emotional unrest afterward, the Divine blessing was designed to cope with this situation and promised peace and tranquility of soul

In other words, Pinchas did what needed to be done. It was unquestionably the right move. But, it took a toll. God’s granting him a covenant of peace is about settling his soul so that Pinchas does not carry the trauma, the PTSD, if you will, with him, nor pass it on to his children.

Camp Ramah, this summer in particular, is playing such a role, particularly for the young adult staff who are there.

In part of the Chadar Ochel, the dining hall, there are posters up of people who have been killed since Oct. 7, as well as of hostages. All of them are personal friends and family members of staff members. Poetry and artwork by campers decorates the walls.

Outside of the Nachshonim bunkhouse, where the oldest campers live, there is a large “Free Hersh Goldberg” banner.

While October 7 and its aftermath certainly hovers over camp this summer, it has not taken over. Quite the opposite, in fact. Nobody knew what to expect before the summer. As it turns out, for the staff in particular, camp has been a respite.

I spoke with Israelis who who have spent much of the past year serving in the military.  Some are 20, 21, 22 years old, and have just completed their mandatory service. Others have had to put their careers on hold to serve in milluim, reserve units. Some saw combat directly. Others had to wait at home while loved ones were called up, not knowing when or whether they would be coming home. Many lost friends and family members on October 7 and during the war that followed. 

One young soldier who spoke with the Board of Directors was sent with his unit on the afternoon of October 7 to battle Hamas terrorists who had taken over a base. He lost several of his fellow soldiers that day, including his commanding officer, who led the charge. He was in tears as he shared his story with us.

Dana and I met with a group of Sollelim kids, going into seventh and eighth grades.  We visited them at their campsite in Monterey during intersession to play music and sing songs.  I let some of them play my guitar. I asked one talented kid where he was from. “Germany,” was his answer.

But that is not where he is from. He is from Ukraine and has only lived in Germany for the past two years. There are a couple of dozen Ukrainian Jewish kids who are at Camp Ramah, getting a break from a disrupted childhood that I cannot even imagine. 

Some of the American college students came to Ramah having experienced a different kind of trauma on their campuses. They described Camp Ramah as a kind of bubble where they did not have to worry about being visibly identified as Jewish, or think twice about what route to take while walking to the dining hall.

Camp is always a kind of bubble from the outside world. Usually, it is a bubble of joyful Jewish experience. This summer, in particular, it is serving as a bubble of love and support in the midst of extremely chaotic and threatening times.

I feel very blessed to have been able to spend a week inside this bubble of peace. I only wish that the world could always be like camp.

Shabbat Shalom.

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April 13, 2024

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Passover 5784 – Two Open Doors

Usually, around this time, I am pretty focused on Passover cleaning, kashering, and shopping. I am sure that next week is going to be full of that.  This year, though, the question that is filling my thoughts is about how to mark this difficult time in which we find ourselves during the Passover Seder. 

How will this seder be different from all other seders?

I imagine we are all wondering the same thing.

Let’s keep in mind that Jews have been observing Passover for thousands of years, often in times of suffering and distress. Our ancestors found way to hold Seders in concentration camps, as crypto-Jews, and under the threat of blood libels.

The Seder is well-designed to respond to the moment in which we find ourselves. By its nature, it invites us to relate the ancient story of Exodus, of moving from slavery to freedom, in the context of our own lives and experiences. 

B’khol dor vador. In each and every generation, we are obligated to see ourselves as if we personally went out of Egypt.

The Seder is not just a bunch of ancient texts.  It involves actions, movement, performance, song, taste, and observation. Each of the traditional elements holds the promise of evoking something deeply personal and relevant in us.

That is what the questions are all about, after all. Something is happening tonight that is not usual. We notice and ask why.

I would invite those of us who are leading a seder this year to invite our guests to respond authentically and honestly to what strikes them. For those who are guests, bring it with you to the seder you are attending, even if the host does not explicitly invite it.

There are many resources available. The Hartman Institute published a Seder supplement called In Every Generation which you might find helpful. It offers a number of suggestions that could be meaningful to incorporate.  I’ll just share a couple.

When setting the table, set an extra seat dedicated to those who are still held hostage, unable to celebrate Pesach with their lived ones. They are, quite literally, in degradation.

The four cups of wine symbolize four acts of redemption performed by God on behalf of the Israelites. Dedicate the fourth cup in memory of those who were killed and kidnapped on October 7.

Kibbutzim have a long history of writing their own haggadot, which often reflect the backgrounds and experiences of the members themselves. The supplement includes writings out of Haggadot published by kibbutzim that were attacked.

Or, find something in the Seder that speaks to you, and introduce your own ritual or discussion. 

I am thinking about the two times during the Seder in which we open the door.  Once is early, and once is late. These two moments feel especially poignant this year. 

The first door opening comes at the beginning of maggid, before we have even begun to tell the story of the Exodus. We open the door and recite a poem in (mostly) Aramaic.

Ha lachma anya
This is the bread of affliction that our ancestors ate in the land of Egypt.
Let all who are hungry come and eat.
Let all who are in need come and celebrate Pesach.
This year, here, next year in the land of Israel.
This year, slaves, next year, free people.

Ha Lachma anya – is an invokation of peoplehood – we open the door to let anyone in who needs it. Nobody is allowed to go hungry. Nobody can be left out of celebrating Pesach.

The earliest record we have of this tradition is from the ninth century in Babylonia. But we can imagine an earlier scene. In Temple times and before, households gathered to slaughter a lamb, roast it, and eat it at night, hurriedly. One of the Torah’s requirements is that it must be entirely consumed by morning. Households that were too small to eat an entire lamb would have to join forces. That is to say, invite guests to join them.

Anachronistically, we picture people living in tents, roasting their meat, and actively welcoming their neighbors to join them.

When we open our doors now, who is it, exactly, that we are inviting? The invitations need to have already been offered. So this is more of a symbolic invitation.

I would suggest that it is a powerful statement of unity. We start by connecting our actions with those of our ancestors in Egypt. We eat the same bread of affliction that they ate. We invite anyone who needs it to join us. We proclaim that we will not leave anyone out. We declare that we are, this year, all of us, enslaved.  We share the hope, all of us, that next year we will become free.

What an incredibly powerful expression of unity!

And we need it. In many ways, Jews have become more united over these past six months.Yet our differences have also become grossly apparent. Ha lachma anya, and so many other sections of the Seder, emphasize our need to include everyone. Our table is incomplete if we do not have all four children sitting around it, after all.

A question that may challenge us is the extent to which we allow our empathy to spread. Is “let all who are hungry come and eat” limited to the Jewish people, or is it a universal invitation? As Leah Solomon writes, 

In years past, this was easier. Before October 7, although we knew that Jewish history has seen many tragedies, few of us alive today had experienced such a cataclysm. Never, until now, were we confronted with the excruciating task of holding another people’s suffering even as our own is so vast and raw, let alone doing so when the perpetrators of the atrocities against us are members of that very people, and when the suffering of that people is being inflicted in large part by our own.

In other words, can our empathy for human suffering extend to Palestinians in Gaza?

The second time we open the door at the Seder, of course, is near the end, after we have already completed three of the four cups of wine. We open the door, pour a cup for Elijah, and recite four biblical verses.

Shfokh Ḥamatkha. Pour out your fury on the nations that do not know you
upon the kingdoms that do not invoke Your name.
For they have devoured Jacob and desolated his home.

Pour out your wrath on them;
may your blazing anger overtake them.

Pursue them in wrath and destroy them
from under the heavens of Adonai.

This part of the Seder is actually two separate traditions that merged. Elijah had long been known as the herald of the Messiah. He is the prophet who did not die, destined to wander the earth in disguise, standing vigil for the time when the Messiah will come. Pesach, which is described as leil shimurim, the night of vigil, became a natural place to welcome Elijah’s presence, alongside the brit milah ceremony and the end of Shabbat. It is a night of transition from slavery to freedom, from suffering to redemption. Welcoming Elijah with a cup of wine is an expression of Messianic hope.

The first records of reciting shfokh ḥamat’kha appear in the eleventh century. In response to massacres of Jewish community in the lower Rhineland during the first crusades, these verses were introduced as a call to bring down vengeance. One of several medieval commentaries explains that the four verses represent four “cups of punishment” that God will one day give to the nations that once persecuted the Jewish people.

By the fifteenth century, the traditions of welcoming Elijah and reciting “Pour out your wrath” had merged, which makes sense, as both are messianic traditions, acknowledging that the world we live in now is filled with persecution and suffering. It is part of the narrative of “from slavery to freedom,” and “from degradation to praise.”

But it is dark, is it not? To me, Shfokh ḥamat’kha evokes feelings in opposition to Ha laḥma anya. The open door of welcome, unity, and compassion gives way to anger, rage, and vengeance. In the modern era, there are those of us who are uncomfortable calling down divine retribution on our enemies. 

In 1943, the Israeli poet Avraham Shlonsky composed a poem for Passover. He had recently read early reports about what the atrocities that the Nazis were commiting against the Jews of Europe. The poem was called Neder, meaning “Vow.” It is the same word as Kol Nidrei, that we recite at the beginnnig of Yom Kippur. In Kol Nidrei is an anullment of vows. We are proclaiming that if we make any vows in the coming year that we are unable to fulfill, we hereby declare them null and void. Shlonsky says the opposite. His poem is a neder which he refuses to ever abandon.

By my eyes that witnessed the slaughter
By my heart that was weighed down by cries for justice
By my compassion that taught me to pardon
Until the days came that were too terrible to forgive,
I have sworn: To remember it all,
To remember—to forget nothing!
Forget not one thing to the last generation
Until my indignation shall be extinguished
When the staff of my moral rebuke has struck until exhausted
A vow: Lest for nothing shall the night of terror have passed.
A vow: Lest for nothing shall I return to my wont
Without having learned anything, even this time.

This poem was printed in the 1956 Haggadah of Kibbutz Nahal Oz next to the text of “Pour out your wrath.” It was accompanied by a drawing of an olive branch and a sword. On October 7, more than sixty soldiers stationed at a base in Nahal Oz and more than a dozen members of the kibbutz were murdered, and many taken hostage.

“Pour out your wrath,” perhaps accompanied by Shlonsky’s poem, Neder, may have special resonance at the Seder this year.

These two open doors reflect the conflicting feelings and experiences that I am carrying in to Passover this year. I invite you to join me in finding traditions, both ancient and new, to fulfill our central task of rising from degradation into freedom.

And may all those who currently find themselves in actual places of narrowness find comfort and peace soon.