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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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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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Guardians at the Gates – Shoftim 5875

The opening verse of this morning’s Torah portion is:

שֹׁפְטִ֣ים וְשֹֽׁטְרִ֗ים תִּֽתֶּן־לְךָ֙ בְּכׇל־שְׁעָרֶ֔יךָ אֲשֶׁ֨ר ה֧׳ אֱלֹקֶ֛יךָ נֹתֵ֥ן לְךָ֖ לִשְׁבָטֶ֑יךָ וְשָׁפְט֥וּ אֶת־הָעָ֖ם מִשְׁפַּט־צֶֽדֶק׃ 

You shall appoint judges and officers in all of your gates, in all the settlements that the LORD your God is giving you, and they shall judge the people with due justice. (Deuteronomy 16:18)

Rashi, the author of our go-to study guide for the Torah, understands this verse in a straightforward sense. Moses is instructing the Israelites to appoint judges, and court officers who will enforce their judgments, in every city, in all of the tribal regions in the Promised Land that the Israelites are about to inherit. The text continues with specific instructions for those judges and officers to judge justly, to not accept bribes or play favorites.

For any society to operate with trust and social cohesion, having just officials who administer the law impartially is a necessity. While the opening of our parashah may seem obvious, its fulfillment is far from a given. 

But there is a grammatical detail that Rashi, and many of the commentators, ignore. Moses delivers his instructions in the second person, singular. “You” – just you – “shall appoint magistrates and officials…”

Who is Moses talking to? Which individual has the authority and ability to make all of these appointments? Is it a grammatical mistake? Is it a collective “you?”

Our Etz Ḥayim Ḥumash refers to a teaching by Isaiah ben Jacob Ha’Levi Horowitz, who understands Moses’ instruction as metaphorically applying to each one of us, individually.

Horowitz lived in the late sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Originally from Prague, he made aliyah to Eretz Yisrael in 1621, moving to Jerusalem, where he was appointed the leader of the Ashkenazi community living there. After he was taken hostage and ransomed, Horowitz moved North to Tsfat and T’veriah, in 1625.

Horowitz wrote his magnum opus, Shnei Luchot HaBrit, as a kind of ethical will. His son later published it in his father’s name. Horowitz is known as the Sh’lah, after the acronym of his famous work. Shnei Luchot HaBrit had a tremendous influence on Ashkenazi Judaism, particularly Hassidism, and popularized many kabbalistic ideals.

Drawing on the opening verse in this morning’s Torah portion, the Shlah cites an ancient kabbalistic teaching that identifies seven gateways to the human soul: two eyes, two ears, one mouth, and two nostrils. To these seven gateways, the Shlah adds two additional orifices that are a bit lower down. He says that the opening verse of our parashah alludes to a moral imperative on the individual.[i]

We must guard these seven (or nine) gateways with extreme care, he says. To what we see with our eyes, what we hear with out ears, what we speak or ingest with our mouths, and the anger which flares from our nostrils. He adds a bit more about our lower gateways, but I am going to skip over those details this morning.

In short, he concludes, these are the gateways of the body, over which one must appoint for oneself judges and officers who will constantly judge oneself. This is the reason the Torah added the words titein l’kha, “place for yourself,” in the singular. Moses is speaking to each one of us.

What the Shlah does not say explicitly is that Parashat Shoftim always occurs on the first Shabbat of the month of Elul. This is the month when we begin our spiritual preparation for the High Holidays, when we engage in Cheshbon NaHefesh, taking account of our souls, as a necessary step in the process of teshuvah, repentance.

The Shlah focuses mostly on what comes out of our soul’s gateways. By controlling how we interact with the physical world around us, he points out, we can keep ourselves from sin and achieve a state of peace, holiness, and purity.

Lately, I have found myself troubled much more by a kind of input into my soul that the Shlah could never have imagined, an input that I fear is having a terrible impact on me. Specifically, the digital content that pervades nearly every waking moment of my life.

I am not going to go through all of the evidence of how harmful our screens are to us. We know that they are harmful to our children’s learning and development. And while parents struggle to place some limits on our kids’ screen use, many of us know that we are just as addicted.

By this point, we know it is bad for our mental health and our social interactions, our relationships with family members and friends. Our attention spans and our patience. We know that book reading is down and loneliness is up. 

We know how social media drives us into echo chambers and exacerbates polarization. We know, intellectually, that the content that appears on our news feed, our Instagram reel, Tik Tok, Facebook, and whatever other social media platforms we use are driven by algorithms designed to feed us content that is tailor-made to keep our eyes glued as long as possible.

This system has us paying for the device and the internet connection. This entry fee grants us the right to have our attention sold as a product to the advertiser.

I see the ad. I recognize it for the click-bait that it is. I know that it likely contains something malicious. And I click on it anyways.

How many of us have had the experience of having a verbal conversation with someone and then, within a short time, we start receiving ads for the very thing we were talking about?

The rapid rise of ChatGPT and the other generative language AI platforms has introduced even more potentially isolating and dehumanizing dimensions to our lives. The amount of computer-generated content that enters through our gateways keeps rising, while our ability to distinguish what is human from what is AI-generated decreases.

To be clear, I am not anti-technology. The advances that we have seen are incredible, and offer the possibility to improve human life and flourishing, to combat disease and poverty, to help us solve the greatest social and global challenges.

The technology itself is not inherently good or evil. That depends on us. We get to decide how to use it – and how not to. The nature of fast-changing technology makes it very difficult to impose top-down guardrails and restrictions. 

My hope is that enough of us can get sufficiently fed up with the harmful uses of these devices that we begin to impose guardrails on our own use, and then the way that they are used begins to change for the better.

Although he never would have imagined his words being used in such a way, the Shlah’s interpretation of our parashah is entirely fitting to the present moment. It is up to each of us to appoint judges and officers over the gateways of our souls.

Over the next month, as we prepare for the High Holidays, this is what I will be working on. My Cheshbon HaNefesh will be taking stock of how I am utilizing technology, how the content that it feeds me is impacting my soul, and how I can better empower my own judges and officers. I invite you to join me. 

[i] Torah Shebikhtav, Shoftim, Derekh Chayim

שופטים ושוטרים תתן לך בכל שעריך (דברים טז, יח). בכאן יש רמז מוסר להא דתנן בספר יצירה, שבעה שערים הם בנפש, שתי עינים, שתי אזנים, והפה, ושני נקבי האף, עד כאן לשונו. והוא חושב השערים שהם בראש של אדם. אמנם יש שער לברית המעור, וגם כן פה התחתון, וצריך האדם להיות שומר השערים דהיינו הראיה והשמיעה והדיבור והכעס היוצא מאף. ג”כ צריך לשמור שער ברית הקודש שלא יצא זרע כי אם לקדושה. גם פה התחתון שלא ימלא כריסו כבהמת קיא צואה. ועל אלו השערים ישים האדם לעצמו שופטים ושוטרים, כלומר שישפוט את עצמו תמיד. זהו תיבת לך שאמר תתן לך, וישגיח תמיד שלא יהיה שם שום עבירה, כי כמעט אלו המקומות מקום שלום, ויהיו תמיד בקדושה ובטהרה: 

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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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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.

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March 3, 2024

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Israel Needs Us – For the Future of Judaism Itself – Ki Tissa 5784

I returned on Sunday from the South Bay Solidarity Mission to Israel. Nineteen members of our community, including five from Sinai, spent a packed week filled with meaningful, important encounters to bear witness, console the mourners, and comfort the sick.

A week and a half ago, we visited Hostages Square in Tel Aviv. As we were about to board our bus to return to the hotel, a voice boomed from the loudspeakers.  Earlier that day, the far right Finance Minister Bezalel Smotrich had given an interview in which he said, rather smugly, that getting the hostages back was not as important as destroying Hamas.

An impromptu protest formed of relatives of hostages, who were, understandably, incensed.

Liri Albag, eighteen years old, has been held hostage in Gaza for 147 days. Her father, Eli Albag, cried out in the most gut-wrenching, tormented, angry voice that I have ever heard.

“Let them kidnap your children!” Calling out Smotrich by name, he shouted “Let them kidnap your children and I will shout in the street, ‘It’s not the most important thing!’”

“I’m talking to all citizens of Israel — whoever thinks that the citizens, the hostages are unimportant, let them kidnap your children and then you can speak!” 

“We have suffered for 137 days, day after day, minute by minute, we don’t sleep at night,” 

Referring to the Israeli cabinet, he continued, “It will not protect you… They are abandoning us above. They are laughing at us, dragging their feet, they are not going to negotiate. I say to you citizens, take to the streets because today it is us and tomorrow it will be you.”

This may have been the most painful thing I have ever heard another person say.

As someone who follows current events fairly closely, the week long trip was an eye-opening experience nonetheless. 

We met Israelis from many different backgrounds, gaining a sense of the complicated, conflicting ways in which social, economic, religious, and political differences play out in society.

One thing that was obvious was that the language and rhetoric that surrounds us here in America is very different from that which permeates Israeli society right now.

The most dominant issue we encountered, by far, was the chatufim, the hostages. From the moment one walks down the ramp to exit Ben Gurion airport, photos of each of those still in captivity are everywhere. On the sides of buildings, on café counters, in bank windows, on t-shirts, their faces are impossible to miss.

Alongside the photos, at least in Tel Aviv, are signs, grafitti, and billboards casting blame for October 7 on the government, and Benjamin Netanyahu in particular. One huge poster visible from the Ayalon Highway, covering the entire side of a building, has a photo of Bibi and the words Attah haRosh! Attah Ashem!“You are in charge!  You are guilty!”

Along with this are calls, everywhere, for the government to resign so that new elections can be held.

Most of the Israeli voices we heard did not express much concern for the things that fill our airwaves. There were few mentions of the Palestinians, a two state solution, or even the thousands of civilian deaths in Gaza.

The closest to calls for a ceasefire occurred within the context of “Bring the hostages home at any cost.” Even when we met with Achinoam Nini, one of Israel’s most famous singers and a peace activist for the past thirty years, she did not go so far as to call for an immediate ceasefire, although she did speak passionately about the need for a Palestinian state alongside Israel and the moral obligation to empathize with all human suffering.

Antisemitism came up, but usually in the context of Israelis being concerned about all the antisemitism that we are facing in the West. 

It should not really surprise us that the issues we are dealing with here are largely absent from the Israeli discussions. This is not to justify, but to explain. Israelis are still in trauma from October 7. They freely admit it. The fate of the hostages is front and center, with photos everywhere. The 134 who are still missing have become household names. I could not imagine being able to think of anything else if my child was in captivity.

Hundreds of thousands of Israelis are currently serving as active duty soldiers or reservists. When your child or spouse or brother or sister is fighting a war, it is hard to muster much emotional energy for those on the other side of the border.

And don’t forget the tens of thousands of Israelis who are displaced from their homes around the Gaza envelope and the northern border.

This past Saturday night, the first major anti-government protest since October 7 took place in Tel Aviv. We were there for the beginning of it. Tens of thousands of Israelis filled the streets. It was clear that there were a wide range of coalitions comprising the rally, ranging from families of hostages, relatives of victims of October 7, life-long Likud members, and pro-peace activists.

The messages were simple and clear: The government is responsible for the failures of October 7. They should resign and new elections should be held. The word achshav kept coming up as a chant. Achshav! “Now!” Israeli flags were everywhere.

A few weeks ago, we read Parashat Yitro, in which God’s Presence descends upon Mt. Sinai in revelation to the children of Israel, who are encamped below.

This moment is imagined by our tradition as a wedding. So let’s run with that metaphor a bit. We would say about a newlywed couple that they are “in love.” They only have eyes for one another. They do not see each other’s faults, and their only desire is to be together. 

Now here we are in Ki Tissa, a few Torah portions later. Moses has been on top of Mt. Sinai for forty days. He has literally gone up to heaven to speak with God. Meanwhile, back down on earth, what have the Israelites done?  They have built a golden calf.

The honeymoon is over. The rest of their time through the wilderness will be frought with misunderstandings, miscommunications, and disappointments, punctuated by occasional moments of bliss. 

This is a useful metaphor for us to consider with regard to our relationship with Israel as American Jews.

My parents and grandparents’ generations were around when Israel came into being in 1948 and in its early years. The Holocaust was a recent memory and the need for a Jewish homeland was clear. The exciting, miraculous fact of its existence, the ingathering of the exiles, and the pioneering Jews taking charge of their own destiny after 2,000 years as an opressed minority in the Diaspora was a source of pride.

After 1967, with another miraculous victory over its enemies in the Six Day War, Israel could do no wrong. 1967, by the way, is when Jews in America began to feel comfortable wearing Kippot out in public.

The 1973 Yom Kippur war began to chip away at this image of invincibility. Israel was shown to be vulnerable. This is when things started to get more complicated in the relationship. I was born in this post-1973 generation.  

Beginning with the war in Lebanon, which lasted nearly 30 years, and the first Intifada, Israel was now in a position in which it was unquestioningly the stronger military power. It was occupying land and was responsible for the Palestinians, who were not citizens of the state.  It now had to deal with a challenge that Jews had not faced for more than two thousand years: How do we use our power Jewishly?

Let’s come back to the marriage metaphor. Up until 1973, American Jews were in the honeymoon phase. We were “in-love” with Israel. The agreement was that we would buy trees through JNF, purchase Israel bonds on the High Holidays, and take pride in this growing, thriving, Jewish nation. And we would feel more safe and secure about our place in the Diaspora.

My generation began to develop a different relationship with Israel. Let’s call it “marriage.” The honeymoon is over. We are committed to each other, but we are starting to see the faults.

In the early 1990’s there was tremendous hope that the Oslo Accords would finally bring peace. Most American Jews were ecstatic, and the majority of Israelis were cautiously supportive.

The assassination of Yitzchak Rabin in 1995 by a right wing Jewish terrorist, followed by a string of terrorist attacks by Hamas, shattered that hope. This led to the third phase, comprised of young American Jews who claim that the Israel they know is not in alignment with the Jewish values they have been taught in our synagogues, Jewish schools, and summer camps.

Those of us from earlier generations can complain until we are blue in the face, but let’s consider for a moment that for someone who was born in the last thirty years, the only Israel they have experienced is one which has waged a near constant series of assymetrical wars.

They have seen ultra religious factions in Israel flexing their muscles in ways designed to deliberately suppress the liberal movements that they grew up in. They have seen a constant expansion of Jewish settlements in the West Bank, making the prospect of a two state solution seem more and more unlikely.

When it comes to Israel, what we are hearing from many young American Jews is simply “I want a divorce.”

This is tragic and frustrating. But if we, from the Honeymoon and Marriage generations, are to perform our duty of teaching our children of the Divorce generation, we have got to recognize where many of them actually are, and what they have experienced.

Congregation Sinai’s mission is to connect Jews to Judaism, each other, Israel, and the world.

What does it mean to be connected to Israel?

At the very least, it means recognizing that, as the home for half of the world’s Jews, our fates are connected in extremely tangible ways. Like it or not, what happens in Israel socially, religiously, and politically, impacts Judaism everywhere.

The current Israeli government is comprised of quite a few figures who embody what many of the anti-Zionists of the world say about Israel. Figures, like Smotrich, whose stated goal is to transform Israel into something resembling a messianic theocracy with all non-Jews holding a form of second class citizenship.

These are the people whose statements were brought by South Africa to the International Court of Justice in the Hague in its case accusing Israel of genocide.

The reality is, these extremists are extremely unpopular for most Israelis also. They are not, in fact, representative, but because of the particular nature of the Israeli political system, they enjoy a lot of power and influence right now. 

If their vision is realized in the Jewish homeland, the results for us here in the Diaspora will be terrifying. As one of our speakers claimed, the future of Judaism itself is at stake.

And so, it matters to us.

Lately, (and I myself am guilty of this) we have been using the expression kol Yisrael arevim zeh lazeh.  “All of Israel are responsible for one another.” We use this expression to describe the sense of deep connection we feel with our Jewish brothers and sisters around the world, particularly when they are under attack.

But the original use of this expression in the Talmud (BT Shevuot 39a) is a little different. If a Jew is about to sin, and I fail to intervene to steer them correctly, then my fate will be tied to their fate. We will all suffer the consequences of their wrong behavior. This expression is really about communal responsibility. I have to act.

We are being encouraged, by Israelis, to get involved in a more substantive way than we have been. Many of the people with whom we met begged us to be involved. What we saw is that there is tremendous diversity in what it means to be pro-Israel, to be a Zionist.

At its most basic level, Zionism is the belief that Jews should be able to determine our own destiny, and this can only happen if Jews are living in the Jewish homeland. Think about the final words of Hatikva – Lihyot am chofshi be’artzeinu: Eretz Tzion virushalim – To be a free nation in our land: the land of Zion and Jerusalem.

The conviction that we should be able to self identify and self actualize as a nation is the essence of Zionism.  The rest is commentary.

We have to participate in that commentary, not only for our own sake, but also for our children’s sake, and for the sake of Judaism itself. 

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September 19, 2023

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Sarah’s Howl – Rosh Hashanah II 5784

How did the ram’s horn get its name?

Because you can hear it from shofar away.

Now that we have firmly established the linguistic origin of the word shofar, where does this tradition of hearing the shofar on Rosh Hashanah come from? What might that origin teach us about the meaning and purpose of the shofar?

The Maftir Torah reading, from our second Torah scroll, is identified as the source of the obligation.

In the seventh month, on the first day of the month, you shall observe a sacred occasion: you shall not work at your occupations. A Day of Blasting it shall be for you.

Numbers 29:1

This is the Torah’s name for today: Yom Teruah, “A Day of Blasting.” Other than a few typical sacrifices, blasting the shofar is the only specific action that the Torah commands.

Nowhere is our holiday called Rosh Hashanah. It is never acknowledged as the new year, nor is it claimed to have anything to do with creation. Teshuvah is never mentioned.

It would seem that Rosh Hashanah’s significance, in the Torah, is in respect to Yom Kippur. We sound the shofar as an announcement of the upcoming Day of Atonement. In contrast, Yom Kippur does have great significance and lots of detail in the Torah. 

The deeper meaning of our holiday is revealed through our rabbinic traditions. It is Rosh Hashanah: the new year. It celebrates creation and the enthronement of God as king. It is the Day of Judgment, the first step in what will eventually result in our souls being purified on Yom Kippur. It is the day when we eat apples dipped in honey and make our challahs round.

Through multiple layers of significance, the shofar remains the most iconic element of Rosh Hashanah, the most unique and special ritual of the holiday.

But what does it mean? Maimonides acknowledges that the Torah provides no explicit reason for the shofar, but suggests that there is a hint as to its purpose. The sound announces:

You who sleep, bestir yourselves from your sleep, and you who slumber, emerge from your slumber. Examine your actions, return, and remember your Creator. Those who forget the truth in the vanities of time and waste all their years with vanity and emptiness, which is not effective and does not save, look inside yourselves. Improve your ways and your actions, let each one of you abandon their evil path and their thoughts that are not good!

Maimonides, Laws of Repentance 3:4

For Rambam, the shofar is a moral alarm clock, meant to awaken us to what is really going on with our lives. Most of us devote most of our energies to tasks that are unimportant in the grand scheme of things. If we are paying the right kind of attention, the shofar blast shatters our complacency, and reorients us to what truly matters. In other words, the sound of the shofar is an important step in the process of teshuvah, repentance.

While Maimonides offers us a psychological explanation, the Talmud offers something more theological, imagining a conversation between God and the Jewish people. God says:

Sound a blast before Me with a shofar from a ram, so that I will remember for you the binding of Isaac, son of Abraham, and I will consider it as if you had bound yourselves before Me.

Babylonian Talmud, Rosh Hashanah 16a

The Torah reading from this morning, the Binding of Isaac, ends with Abraham offering up a ram as a burnt offering in place of his son Isaac. This story was chosen for today as a testament to Abraham’s total and complete faith in God, as well as Isaac’s willingness to go along with the Divine command.

Sounding the shofar is our way of symbolically participating in that act. It is a way of offering up our faith to God, putting our lives in God’s hands, so to speak, so that God considers us with mercy on the Day of Judgment.

Of course, the story itself never claims to have taken place on Rosh Hashanah, nor does the Torah ever make a connection between the Binding of Isaac and our holiday.

Maimonides’ explanation characterizes the sound of the shofar as a call to us to perform teshuvah. The Talmud says that it is a reminder to God to remember the Binding of Isaac and have mercy upon us.

A midrash provides a third explanation for the origin and the meaning of the shofar that digs even deeper. It suggests a deeply emotional origin for our beloved ritual.

This midrash picks up on the juxtaposition of the story of the Akeidah with the death of Sarah in the subsequent chapter. It addresses Sarah’s absence in the story. Did she know what Abraham was doing with her son? Did she ever find out afterward? Did she wake up the morning they left to pack them a lunch and see them off? “Bye honey, be back in time for dinner.” The Torah is silent.

This midrash brings in Samael, an evil angel who serves as God’s adversary. Samael expects Abraham to chicken out at the last minute, revealing the weakness of his faith. But Abraham’s commitment to God is so strong that an angel has to call out his name, not once, but twice to get his attention and stop him from slaughtering Isaac.

His plan frustrated, Samael sets out for revenge. Hastily, he rushes to Sarah with a message:

“Sarah, Have you not heard what has happened?”

“No.”

“Your old man (Yes, he calls Abraham ‘old man.’) took your son Isaac to sacrifice as a burnt offering. The boy was crying and howling that he would not be able to be saved.”

[Then Sarah] began to cry and howl. She cried three cries, corresponding to the three tekiot. Three howls corresponding to the three yevavot.[Then] her soul departed, and she died.

Pirkei DeRabbi Eliezer 32:8

A few words of explanation.

The three tekiot and three yevavot refer to the required number of blasts that one is required to hear on Rosh Hashanah. A tekiah is an uninterrupted note. A Yevavais a broken note, what we call teruah. The Rabbis translated Yom Teruah, a “Day of Blasting” into Aramaic as Yom Yabava.

This remarkable midrash provides a very different origin story for our shofar.  Instead of representing the willingness of a father to sacrifice his son, it expresses the grief and utter loss of control of a mother who discovers she has just lost her child. As Aviva Zornberg explains, the word for howl, yelalah, is

a wordless sound made by women particularly at moments of birth or death, at extreme moments when all normal patterns and understandings of the world break down.

“Cries and Whispers: The Death of Sarah” in Beginning Anew: A Woman’s Companion to the High Holidays, p. 185.

It is pure emotion, uninhibited and unrestrained. When the Rabbis in the Talmud argue over what the broken short notes, the yevavot, are supposed to sound like, they compare them to the yelalah – the raw cry of motherly grief. There is no discernable message in the yelalah. No reminder for self reflection, no call for Teshuvah, and no appeal to Divine mercy. Just honest, unfiltered emotion.

We encounter another weeping mother in today’s Haftarah. Picture the scene in your mind’s eye.

A cry is heard in Ramah—wailing, bitter weeping—Rachel weeping for her children. She refuses to be comforted for her children, who are gone.

Jeremiah 31:15

While the passage continues with God’s words of comfort and promises to restore her children to their land, Rachel’s crying reverberates.  She refuses to be comforted. In this haunting scene, we are reminded that sometimes, before we can embark on a path of introspection and repentance, we need a moment to howl, to let out our rage and grief.

The howl of the shofar echoes the sorrow and despair in our world: mothers and fathers who have lost children to violence and suicide; families and communities devastated by earthquake, flood, and fire; humans suffering from poverty and oppression, addiction and depression; as well as many of us whose lives have not unfolded as we had hoped. 

If we allow it to penetrate us, the cry of the shofar can awaken the compassion and empathy necessary to truly evaluate our own lives and pray for Divine mercy, not only for ourselves, but for all who suffer. As we open our hearts to the shofar’s call for personal growth, let us also extend our hands. May the echoes of Sarah’s howl and Rachel’s bitter weeping, along withthe cries of all who grieve, inspire us to be agents of healing, kindness, and transformation in the year ahead.

May the pure sound of the shofar serve as a beacon of hope, reminding us that even in our moments of deepest sorrow, we can find the strength to move forward, to mend, and to repair our world.

Shanah Tovah, may we all have a sweet and meaningful new year filled with love, compassion, and positive change.

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The Cure for Loneliness – Rosh Hashanah I 5784

What is the number one public health challenge in America?

Loneliness.

That is not something that we typically associate with health.

Dr. Vivek Murthy became the Surgeon General of the United States in 2014. Dr. Murthy spent his first several months visiting communities large and small, urban and rural. He met with health care professionals and farmers, small business owners and teachers. Of course, he heard all about heart disease and diabetes, cancer, drug and alcohol addiction, the opioid epidemic and obesity. These were expected.

But what surprised him was to encounter, over and over, that people were experiencing loneliness and isolation in profound ways.

Now in his second stint as Surgeon General, Dr. Murthy’s department released, this past April, a general advisory for our nation entitled Our Epidemic of Loneliness and Isolation.

What is loneliness? First of all, it is subjective. We experience it when there is a gap between the social connections that we desire and those that we have. 

Aloneness and Loneliness are not the same. It is possible to be alone in a crowd, just as it is possible to spend large amounts of time by oneself and feel socially fulfilled. 

Consider your own life. If you have felt lonely at some point in the past year, and if you are comfortable doing so, I invite you to raise your hand…

A related, objective term is “social isolation.” This refers to having few social relationships and roles, group memberships and interactions with others.

Social isolation has been increasing in the United States for the past half century, and especially over the past twenty years. For example, between 2003 and 2020, the average number of hours adults spent by themselves increased by 24 hours per month. Time spent engaging, in person, with friends decreased from 30 to 10 hours per month. Even within households, we spent 5 fewer hours per month interacting with our family members.

This is bad for us. Decades of research has found connections between loneliness, social isolation, and health outcomes.

Lacking social connection puts a person at about the same risk of early mortality as smoking fifteen cigarettes a day and is a greater risk factor than drinking 6 alcoholic drinks a day, physical inactivity, obesity, or exposure to air pollution.

Those with poor social relationships are associated with having a 29% increase in risk for heart disease and 32% increase in risk of stroke. Similar links exist with hypertension, diabetes, cognitive decline, and dementia.

It should come as no surprise that those who are more socially isolated are more likely to experience depression and anxiety, to become addicted to opioids, and self harm.

Gun violence is exacerbated by loneliness and isolation.

Loneliness also brings an economic cost. First, the obvious: healthcare and social services. But there are other expenses. Children who are isolated have lower academic achievement. Workers experiencing loneliness are less productive in their jobs. One study found that loneliness led to increased rates of stress-related absenteeism, costing employers $154 billion each year.

There is one additional harm that bears mentioning. The terrible political and social polarization plaguing us is directly related to the loneliness and social isolation that has exploded over the past decades. Loneliness drives us to extremes.

How did we get here?

For most of human existence, survival required membership in deeply integrated social communities. Our prehistoric ancestors formed tribes for mutual protection from outside enemies as well as to meet basic needs, i.e., food, clothing, and shelter. Religious beliefs, moral codes, meaning, and purpose all emerged out of this collective social orientation.

Now, we can survive day-to-day without ever sharing air with another person. I can work remotely. I can have all my food, clothing and cleaning supplies delivered to my door. I can consume an endless amount of entertainment from the comfort of my sofa. And I can even complain to my therapist about my lack of a social life from the comfort of my laptop. 

In his final book, Morality, published in 2020, the late Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, z”l, points to the beginning of the Enlightenment, approximately 400 years ago, as the moment when humans began to shift the way that we perceive ourselves in relation to our communities.

Instead of existing as part of a collective “We,” individuals began to think of themselves as a unique, sovereign “I.”

Without going into a social, political, religious, and economic history of the past four hundred years, it is safe to say that the quest for meaning and purpose in life is now something that we each must figure out on our own. This has not always been the case.

In his 1961 inaugural address, President John F. Kennedy famously challenged, “And so, my fellow American: ask not what your country can do for you. Ask what you can do for your country.” It was a call for children and adults to do something to contribute to the public good, to selflessly give of themselves for the collective “We.”

His challenge presupposed a shared national identity and system of collective values.

Can you imagine a national politician putting out a similar call today?

By the way, the continuation of the speech included this line: “My fellow citizens of the world: ask not what America will do for you, but what together we can do for the freedom of man.”

I think we know, deep down, that we need each other, that we are better off when we face life’s challenges together, and that our society is more cohesive when we embrace a shared set of values.

But now it is not uncommon to ask, “What does my Judaism mean to me?” That is a lonely question that would have been considered absurd until very recently.

Facebook is less than twenty years old. Newer still are Instagram, Snapchat, Tik Tok, X—human beings around the world have never been more connected. Ironically, we have also never felt so alone.

Think for a moment about some of the terms we associate with social media: Influencer; My personal brand; Followers, The selfie.

While presented as tools to bring people together, these social media apps prey on our attachment to self and need for validation. But the result is that we feel inadequate. Do we feel more or less connected to fellow human beings after scrolling through our feed for an hour?  

So many of our face-to-face encounters have been replaced by screen time. Our social muscles are atrophying. Even when we are together, we are distracted. It is so disheartening to look around a restaurant and see families, friends, and colleagues mesmerized by their phones, oblivious to the person sitting across from them. Is this the purpose for which we are created?

Our tradition teaches that Rosh Hashanah, the first of Tishrei, coincides with the day on which humanity was born. After creating the first human in the Garden of Eden, God declares, lo tov heyot adam levado. “It is not good for a human to be alone.”

So, God makes all the animals off the ground and the air, bringing them to Adam, one by one. But no fitting helper can be found.  It is then that God casts a sleep upon the human and forms a woman out of its side. Now identified by gender, the man and the woman find companionship in each other. 

Humanity’s very first experience is loneliness. The Torah unambiguously declares it lo tov, “not good.” Its remedy, the solution provided by God, is human companionship.

Our present epidemic is not how we are meant to live, neither from a biological perspective, an evolutionary perspective, nor a religious perspective.

Turning to our Rosh Hashanah liturgy, we find the theme of loneliness woven throughout. In our Torah portion, after God remembers Sarah and blesses her with a child, she orders Abraham to banish Hagar and Ishmael. 

Cast out that slave-woman and her son, for the son of that slave shall not share in the inheritance with my son Isaac.

Genesis 21:10

This is not mere physical exile, but social excommunication. Hagar and Ishmael can no longer be part of the family. When their supplies run out in the wilderness, Hagar, depressed, abandons her son, thinking “Let me not look on as the child dies.” Hagar’s loneliness is answered when God sends an angel to announce that God has heard the cry of the boy “where he is.”

Our Haftarah tells the story of another barren woman. As the story begins, Hannah is teased and tormented continuously by Peninnah, her rival wife. Her tone-deaf husband, Elkanah, tries to console her:

Hannah, why are you crying and why aren’t you eating? Why are you so sad? Am I not more devoted to you than ten sons?

I Samuel 1:8

The Bible does not dignify Elkanah’s selfish words with an answer. Hannah prays, silently moving her lips while weeping. Even the priest Eli looks right past her. He scolds her as a drunk. Only then does Hannah recite her first words out loud.

Oh no, my lord! I am a very unhappy woman. I have drunk no wine or other strong drink, but I have been pouring out my heart to Adonai. Do not take your maidservant for a worthless woman; I have only been speaking all this time out of my great anguish and distress.

I Samuel 1:15-16

That must have taken a lot of courage: to speak up for herself, to own her sadness and loneliness, and to share it with a stranger. Now Eli really does see her. He prays for God to grant her wishes. As Hannah leaves, she eats and she is no longer downcoast. A moment of empathy, of being seen, has made all the difference.

These stories evoke our own loneliness. How have we been forgotten? Does God hear our prayers? Is there a remedy for our own loneliness?

Look around the room. We come to shul.  We sit side by side. We sing in harmony (or something resembling harmony). We catch up. We wish each other a good year. Amidst the angst and uncertainty that fill our lives, we come together to share our loneliness. And suddenly we are not so lonely.  All of us recognize, at some level, that the only way to celebrate the new year is together.

It should not surprise any of us to learn that people who are involved in religious communities are less lonely, and experience higher levels of social support and integration. In other words, Shul is good for your health – emotionally, psychologically, maybe even physically. (Although we might want to take it easy during Kiddush.)

To reverse our loneliness epidemic, Rabbi Sacks suggests that we need to shift our focus back from “I” to “We.” How do we begin?

In one experiment, participants were given a sum of money. Half were told to spend the money on treats for themselves. Half were told to spend the money on a person in need. The subjects were asked questions before and after to measure their relative levels of happiness. Which group do you think was happier at the end of the experiment?

It was the group that spent the money on someone else. Taking those few moments to think “What would make another person happy,” increased their own happiness. We experience the greatest joy when we stop thinking about ourselves. 

Instead of turning to “Self-Help” to work on what is wrong with us, how about trying “Other-Help?”  What if, every day, we consciously do one thing solely for another person’s benefit. 

There is a particular concept in Judaism that Rabbi Sacks suggests could help us reframe our relationship to community: the brit, or covenant. A covenant is different than a contract. In a contract, I am me and you are you. Contracts deal with tangible things and specific responsibilities. I agree to pay you five thousand dollars, and you agree to give me a car in working order. When we complete our responsibilities as outlined by the contract, we never have to see each other again. A covenant is different. It establishes a relationship. Fundamentally, it calls on the parties of the covenant to be loyal to one another. It transforms you and me into we. 

As Jews, we are quite familiar with this idea, at least conceptually. Covenant is how we describe our relationship with God. Our brit establishes mutual loyalty, care, and compassion; not only between God and us, but between and among one another. If I am not responding to the needs of my fellow Jew, I am not being faithful to the covenant. Meaning in is found by sharing a common set of stories and values that tell us where we come from, who we are, and what our purpose is. 

Rabbi Sacks argues that it is our mutual loyalty to one another and to God which forms the basis of morality. Living covenantally asks me to give up some of my need to self actualize and self authenticate, to set aside my self interest and prioritize the other. The goal of any society should be to prioritize the well-being of all its members, and to serve the common good, rather than the interests of a select few. If I am to belong to that society, those must be my priorities as well.

Covenants can exist at varying levels. At the smallest, a marriage is a covenant between two people who make a commitment of loyalty and care to one another. As the Torah explains after the creation of man and woman: v’hayu l’vasar echad. “They become one flesh.”

Ostensibly, the Jewish people are covenantally committed to mutual care and compassion. Kol Yisrael arevim zeh la-zeh, goes the saying. “All of Israel are surety for one another.” How well we live up to that ideal is debatable.

Do we have a national covenant that binds Americans together in loyalty and mutual responsibility? At the moment, it does not seem like we do.

Rabbi Sacks even posits the existence of 

a covenant of human solidarity that binds all [eight] billion of us alive today to act responsibly toward the environment, human rights, and the alleviation of poverty for the sake of generations not yet born.

Jonathan Sacks, Morality, 313-314

How different our world would be if humanity truly saw itself committed to this shared vision. Perhaps that is the meaning of the words of Zekhariah that conclude the prayer Aleinu, originally recited only on Rosh Hashanah.

V’hayah Adonai l’melekh al kol-ha’aretz,
bayom hahu yihyeh Adonai echad ush’mo Echad

Adonai shall be ruler over all of the earth.
On that day, Adonai will be One and the name of Adonai, One.

Let us each take the steps within our power to bring that day closer.

This year, may we dedicate ourselves to cultivate compassion and empathy, to truly see one another, and to put other before self. May we, together, be worthy of a year filled with health, happiness, meaning, and growth. L’Shanah Tovah.

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August 24, 2023

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Deuteronomy (דברים), Divrei Torah (Weekly Sermons)

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How do we know whom to listen to? – Shoftim 5783

How do we know who to listen to? Whom to trust?

This is a real problem for all of us, with so much conflicting information and sources surrounding us. It is one of the major sources of division in our world.

It turns out, this is nothing new.

This morning’s Torah portion, Shoftim, is primarily about leadership. It focuses on rules for judges and kings, as  well as laws about the waging of war. One area that it covers is what to do when situations arise that the Torah does not anticipate. Who should be consulted for leadership and guidance? Who can be trusted?

To introduce this question, Moses first reminds the Israelites of what happened at Mount Sinai nearly forty years earlier. God’s Presence descended on the mountain in a tremendous cacophony of sound, light, smoke, and shaking.

The people freak out, telling Moses, “We can’t take it anymore. This is going to kill us. You go talk to God and report back to us. We’ll do whatever you say.”

Moses reports that God was pleased with the Israelites’ response. It seems that, in fact, this reaction was what God was aiming for all along. The purpose of the overwhelming display of power was to get the people to put their trust in God’s Prophet—Moses. Here in Deuteronomy, Moses expands on God’s words to him at that time, with an eye towards the future. 

“…I will raise up a prophet for them from among their own people, like yourself: I will put My words in his mouth and he will speak to them all that I command him; and if anybody fails to heed the words he speaks in My name, I Myself will call him to account.

Deuteronomy 18:18-19

God’s plan, apparently, is to have prophets who will convey the Divine will to human beings. They carry the authority to speak in God’s name, and the people will be expected to follow their instructions.

But there is a problem, which God anticipates: what to do about fakes.

But any prophet who presumes to speak in My name an oracle that I did not command him to utter, or who speaks in the name of other gods—that prophet shall die.”

Deuteronomy 18:20

That seems straightforward enough. Of course, how are we supposed to know if someone is a fake? Again, Moses provides the answer:

And should you ask yourselves, “How can we know that the oracle was not spoken by the LORD?”— if the prophet speaks in the name of the LORD and the oracle does not come true, that oracle was not spoken by the LORD; the prophet has uttered it presumptuously: do not stand in dread of him. (Deut. 18:21-22)

If a prophet’s prediction does not happen, then they are not to be believed. Honestly, that does not seem like a very good test. What if the prediction is for something that is supposed to happen fifty years from now? Or ten years? Or even next month? How am I supposed to know, right now, whether to listen to this purported prophet?

The passage in Shoftim about prophecy seems so optimistic. God is pleased that the Israelites agree to listen to Moses and follows his instructions. And yet, if we actually follow the careers of the prophets through the Bible, we find that them to be a tragic lot. 

To illustrate the problem, we turn to the book of Jeremiah. It is during the final decades of the First Temple, towards the end of the reign of the dynasty of King David.

Jeremiah was a tortured soul. He preached doom and gloom for several decades, speaking God’s word to several kings, along with the residents of Jerusalem. The great tragedy is that nobody listens to Jeremiah. In fact, there are a lot of other prophets running around preaching messages of hope and victory – the kinds of predictions that kings and the Jerusalem upper crust like to hear. 

As a result of his prophecies, Jeremiah himself is sent to prison.

In one moment of exasperation, Jeremiah turns his rage to God.

Accursed be the day that I was born! Let not the day be blessed when my mother bore me! Accursed be the man who brought my father the news and said, “A boy Is born to you,” and gave him such joy! Let that man become like the cities which the LORD overthrew without relenting! Let him hear shrieks in the morning and battle shouts at noontide—because he did not kill me before birth so that my mother might be my grave, and her womb big [with me] for all time. Why did I ever issue from the womb, to see misery and woe, to spend all my days in shame!

Jeremiah 20:14-18

This is the great irony. The true prophet is not believed, and the false prophets are embraced. The rules in Parashat Shoftim do not appear to have been particularly effective.

The following story takes place early in the reign of King Zedekiah, the final king to rule over Judah before the destruction of the Temple by the Babylonians in 586 BCE.

Jeremiah sends leather straps and wooden yokes to all of the surrounding kings, as well to King Zedekiah. The accompanying message is that they should submit to King Nebuchadnezzar of Babylon, to whom God will be delivering all of their lands. There is no point in resisting.

To demonstrate the seriousness of his point, Jeremiah puts King Zedekiah’s yoke on his own neck and straps it closed. He had a flair for dramatic gestures.

One of the many other prophets, Hananiah son of Azzur, comes to the Temple to offer a counterprophecy. This is what he says:

Thus said the LORD of Hosts, the God of Israel: I hereby break the yoke of the king of Babylon. In two years, I will restore to this place all the vessels of the House of the LORD which King Nebuchadnezzar of Babylon took from this place and brought to Babylon. And I will bring back to this place King Jeconiah son of Jehoiakim of Judah, and all the Judean exiles who went to Babylon—declares the LORD. Yes, I will break the yoke of the king of Babylon.

Jeremiah 28:2-4

Basically, “Don’t worry about Nechudnezzar. We got this.”

Jeremiah, who is present for this speech, turns to the assembled priests and Israelites, reminds them to watch out for false prophets, and offers a test for identifying one. This test, as we will see, is a clarification of Moses’ test in Parashat Shoftim.

The prophets who lived before you and me from ancient times prophesied war, disaster, and pestilence against many lands and great kingdoms. So if a prophet prophesies good fortune, then only when the word of the prophet comes true can it be known that the LORD really sent him.”

Jeremiah 28:8-9

If a prophet predicts death and destruction, you’d better listen. But if a prophet says that everything is going to be great, it would be best to wait and see if it comes true before following said prophet.

Not to be dissuaded, Hananiah breaks the wooden yoke from Jeremiah’s neck, and declares:

Thus said the LORD: So will I break the yoke of King Nebuchadnezzar of Babylon from off the necks of all the nations, in two years.

Jeremiah 28:11

Jeremiah confronts Hananiah once again, 

“Listen, Hananiah! The LORD did not send you, and you have given this people lying assurances. Assuredly, thus said the LORD: I am going to banish you from off the earth. This year you shall die, for you have urged disloyalty to the LORD.”

And the prophet Hananiah died that year, in the seventh month.

Jeremiah 28:15-17

Even Hanahiah’s death does not convince the people to heed Jeremiah’s warnings.

Overall, the Israelite prophets were not especially successful in their own day. They underwent immense personal hardship and suffering. They were despised by their neighbors. Kings did not especially appreciate their warnings. And when they tried to convince the people and/or the rulers to follow God’s will, nobody really listened.

The prophets failed in all of their major endeavors. They were unable to save the united kingdom from splitting. They did not prevent the Northern Kingdom from falling to the Assyrians. They did not prevent the Temple from being destroyed by the Babylonians. 

Perhaps this is what leads the Rabbis to officially declare the era of the prophets over. 

Rabbi Avdimi from Haifa says: From the day that the Temple was destroyed prophecy was taken from the prophets and given to the Sages.

BT Bava Batra 12a

The subsequent discussion concludes that Sages are and were always superior to prophets in the first place. The pursuit of wisdom, the preoccupation of the Sages, offers a path towards propehcy. A prophet may or may not have wisdom, but a wise person can access the Divine will. (It is a nice idea, especially if one is a Sage.)

Rabbi Yoḥanan offers a different insight.

Rabbi Yoḥanan said: From the day that the Temple was destroyed, prophecy was taken from the prophets and given to imbeciles and children.

Ibid.

What is this suggesting? Perhaps that prophecy, the revelation of the true Divine will, is only given to those who are destined to not be taken seriously.

In this, perhaps, not much has changed. As exemplified by Jeremiah, the tragedy of the true Prophet is that the truth that the prophet pronounces is not accepted by those who most need to hear it. People are much more likely to listen to what they already know, or what they want to hear.

I fear not much has changed. The ancient prophets were the social and political critics of their day. Most of them would have met the criteria—either Moses’ or Jeremiah’—of the false prophet.

What concerned the true prophets? They worried about the nation’s allegiance to God. They warned against the adoption by the leaders of immoral practices. They worried about the mistreatment and the neglect of the poor, both by the leaders and the population at large. They spoke out against immoral behavior by the population. They tried to convince the people to return to the moral path.

Today, how do we determine who to listen to? I fear that the determination is made, more and more, by an algorithm designed to feed us that to which we are most likely to respond positively, a phenomenon strikingly similar to the false prophets who fed the king and the people the message that they thought would be most well-received (and would be most likely to keep them from being jailed or executed).

It is the fools and children, those who, in their naivete, are less concerned with how their words will be received; or the wise, those whose allegiance to the pursuit of truth outweighs the desire for fame and fortune, whose words we perhaps ought to listen for.