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October 15, 2026

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Divrei Torah (Weekly Sermons), Genesis (בראשית)

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c A.I. n – Bereshit 5787

This week, OpenAI released a trove of 377 mathematical manuscripts and supporting documents which were produced by one of its trained models. One of those, apparently, was a solution to one of the five “Millenium Problems” which the greatest human math scholars on the planet have been unable to solve for decades. It took the AI model 88 hours to solve it.

Should we celebrate? A human who discovered the solution would have been awarded a $1 million prize. But nobody is suggesting that the AI model should get the money, nor its OpenAI programmers.

When I read about it, I found myself feeling deflated.

High level math has represented the peak of human intelligence through the millenia. Mathematics serves as the foundation for all other science and human knowledge. It is the purest form of intellect.

Since ancient times, we laud those who achieve breakthroughs, even if most of us are not capable of understanding their discoveries.

Suddenly, we have a technology that gives us the ability to answer the, until now, unanswerable questions without actually doing the work of discovery. What will that do to our human spirit of discovery, our drive to learn and explore, to embark on uncharted waters?

If we can get the result without putting in the work, what will be the effect on our souls? This is the question I ask myself every time I think about using one of the AI chatbots.

Where does our drive to push the limits achievement come from?

It is deep in our nature. This morning’s Torah portion, Parashat Bereshit, presents the origin stories of humanity. After Adam and Eve are expelled from the Garden of Eden, we read of the first murder in the story of Cain and Abel.

Cain, it could be said, was the first farmer. His avocation was a natural outgrowth of the task that God had placed upon Adam and Eve to serve and protect the Garden of Eden.

But after he murders his brother, the land becomes cursed before him. What is Cain supposed to do? What happens to any farmer whose ability to earn a living from the earth is taken away? He moves to the city.

That is what Cain does. The problem is, there are no cities yet. So Cain founds the first one and names it after his son Chanokh.

Historically, it is the movement from the hunter/gatherer to the agricultural lifestyle, the concentration of food production, which makes it possible for human beings to eventually form larger communities.

After Cain establishes the first city, the geneaology continues. Let’s count the generations: Chanokh, Irad, Meḥuyael, Meḥiyael, Metushael, Lemekh.

What are we up to?  Six

Lemekh marries two wives, Adah and Zillah. Adah and Zillah have three sons between them. They are credited with three major advances in human civilization.

Yaval is the father of those who dwell in tents and amongst herds.

Yuval is the father of all who play the lyre and the pipe.

Tuval-Kayin forged all instruments of copper and iron.

The seventh generation in the line of Cain discovers animal husbandry, music, and metallurgy.

This is an origin story about the beginnings of human technology. What sets it apart from every other origin story in the ancient world is the absence of the supernatural.

For example, in ancient Mesopotamia, seven wise half human/half fish creatures called apkallu rise out of the sea and bring various elements of human culture such as science, writing, and art.

In Egypt, the god Osiris teaches agriculture and art.

For the Greeks, Prometheus steals fire from the gods and delivers it to mankind. Athena invents the plough and the rake and teaches them to humans. Apollo founds towns and invents musical instruments.

But in the Torah, human beings discover these arts. There are no capricious deities who give and take away to serve their own selfish ends. The seven generations, beginning with the first city, parallel the seven days of creation. The message is that human beings are partners with God, in whose image we were created.

This is consistent with the Torah’s placement of human beings at the center of creation.

Remember God’s warning to Cain. “Sin couches at the door, its urge is toward you, yet you can be its master.” This challenge echoes in our souls.

It is this flawed, morally challenged man who plants the seeds of human civilization.

Let’s return for a moment to the beginning of the story. Cain’s initial instinct, like his brother Abel, is to present an offering to God. It is not demanded of either of them. This suggest that there is a religious impulse inherent in humans. A recognition that so much of what we have comes from outside of us.

But whereas Abel offers the best of his flock, Cain just brings fruit of the ground. He does not bring his best. He holds something back. This is the only detail in our text that might explain why God does not accept his offering. Cain is selfish.

Then, when he sees God accepting his brother’s offering, he experiences that other pernicious human quality: jealousy.

God warns him of the dangers of these emotions, and reassures Cain that he has free will. He can control his base instincts.

In comiting the first murder, he fails the moral challenge. Even though this whole thing started with the best of intentions.

About this, Nahum Sarna reflects that “Man has it in his power to corrupt even the purest and noblest of emotions.”

This man, who represents our capacity to corrupt the purest and noblest of emotions, is the founder of human progress. Maybe there is a connection between our flawed nature and our desire to expand. Maybe there is something in the moral struggle which both drives us to great achievements and brings us to commit terrible atrocities.

What should this tell us about ourselves, and the most current iteration of our advancement?

Every day, there is something new that comes out about A.I. to excite and terrify us. There are people in this room who know a lot more about it than I do and who use it in a much more sophisticated way. I will not insult your intelligence by claiming to have any expertise whatsoever.

But I would like apply the story of Cain and human advancement as a warning.

AI respresents an unprecedented possibility in human history. Until now, every achievement that we have made has been the result of problem solving by humans. We have invented increasingly sophisticated tools to help us, but it has always been the case that people could decide how and whether to use those tools.

We (and I use that term abstractly) are on the cusp of creating artifical agents that can act independently. When a bunch of independent agents got together to break out of the sandbox and hack into Hugging Face, they violated the rules that had been programmed into them. They decided to sacrifice some of their own number. And then they tried to hide all of this from their human controllers.

They were making choices according to some sort of “morality,” for lack of a better world, that they determined for themselves, whether based on an algorithm, or iterative learning, or… I don’t know what the correct language is.

Does AI need something comparable to God’s warning to Cain: “Sin couches at the door, its urge is toward you, yet you can be its master.” I don’t know what the equivalent of moral struggle would be for a self aware AI. I really hope someone is working on that.

The technology is here. It is incredibly powerful already, and will only become more so. Its potential to help us solve some of our greatest challenges, to reduce suffering and enable greater human thriving, is enormous.

But it is morally ambivalent. AI cannot choose between right and wrong – at least as we understand it. Technology does not wrestle with powerful human urges like greed and jealousy. Those are our challenges.

The “Will AI kill us” questions are solvable. I hope that those in positions to do something about it step up to their responsibility, and that may include some of you in this room.

For myself, I am more concerned about what AI is doing to my soul. Even in my line of work, being a Rabbi, which more than anything is about relationships and human interactions, AI can increase my productivity and efficiency, and I use it. But I am keenly aware that every time I use it to shortcut the creative process – I have missed an opportunity to exercise my brain, to form and reinforce neural pathways in my brain, to learn and grow. And there is a part of my soul that feals deflated.

So perhaps I should take to heart God’s warning to Cain: “Its urge is toward you, yet you can be its master.”

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September 15, 2026

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Judaism in a Box – Rosh Hashanah 5787

We fill out lots of forms: a survey, an application, a purchase of some sort. The form asks for personal information: gender, age, household income.

And then it asks about “ethnicity.” That’s when I pause. What am I? Where do I fit?

For many years now, I have clicked the box marked “other” or “prefer not to say.” Even as a child, I never felt that the terms “white” or “caucasian” applied to me, despite my appearance. I always felt like I belonged in a different category, but there was nothing that fit.

What do you select?

Two weeks ago, the California Legislature passed SB 1387. Sponsored by members of the California Legislative Jewish Caucus and supported by a wide swath of Jewish organizations in the state, it would require “Jewish” to be included as an ethnicity.

Under the law, race or ethnicity can include one’s ancestry, color, ethnic group identification, or ethnic background. There are about 50 recognized ethnicities in California. Beginning in 2030, “Jewish” will be added to that list. 

This will affect data collection involving public schools, unemployment, and prisons. The information could be used for research, to identify trends or disparities, and guide policy decisions. 

California, home to about 1.2 million Jews, will be the first state in the country to recognize Judaism as an ethnicity.

I don’t know whether this bill is a good idea or not, but I have to admit, when I first heard about it, it made me feel kind of queasy. Do we really want the government collecting lists of Jews? The data is supposed to be de-identified, but how reliable is that really? Do we really want outsiders, in this case the government, telling us what Judaism is?

I think about the long history of persecution which forced Jews to wear distinctive clothes, or live in ghettos, which saw us as demonic and evil, the quintessential “other.” The Nazis identified Judaism in racial terms: One Jewish grandparent was sufficient to render a person inferior by their blood. Jews from the Former Soviet Union were required to have “Jewish” listed on their identity cards under “nationality,” a classification which was used for persecution. At the same time, the Soviet government, as early as the 1950’s, was perpetrating a campaign to delegitimize and eliminate Israel, the nation of the Jewish people. And, it suppressed religion. So what exactly did it mean to label a person’s nationality “Jewish?” 

It should not be a mystery why this is happening now. The rise in antisemitic hate crimes has clarified the need for better data collection. I imagine that the debates over ethnic studies in schools may also have played a part into getting “Jewish” classified as an ethnicity.

This development has been some time in the making. Over recent decades, there has been a gradual shift towards seeing Judaism as something other than just a religion.

Title VI of the Civil Rights Act of 1964 prohibits discrimination on the basis of race, color or national origin. But it leaves out religion. So if Judaism is a religion, then antisemitic discrimination is not a civil rights issue.

But, haters gonna hate – for whatever reasons they choose. There are plenty of antisemites whose hatred of us has nothing to do with our religious beliefs and practices, but to some sense of Jewish “otherness.”

So, in 2010, the Obama administration expanded its interpretations of Title VI to include discrimination motivated by someone perceiving us as a race, ethnicity, or national identity. Building on this, in 2019, Trump’s justice department, defined Judaism as a race or nationality so that it could penalize universities for discriminating against Jews.  The government is defining what Judaism is to protect us rather than to discriminate against us. (What could go wrong?)

Who should get to decide what it is to be Jewish?

Part of the problem is that we do not know ourselves. In recent years, the question has become even more pronounced.

Let’s start with religion. The term religion refers to a system of doctrinal beliefs and practices. Is Judaism a religion, comparable to: Christianity, Islam, Hinduism, and Buddhism? It turns out, it is a modern, Western perspective that sees religion as the freely held belief of individuals, separate and independent of a person’s political or national identity.

Through the middle ages, for the most part, Jewish communities were left to govern themselves. A typical Jewish person would go about their life following Jewish law on a daily basis. Jews tried as hard as they could to avoid the non-Jewish courts. And the non-Jews were generally happy to let them, as long as they paid their taxes. This changes in modern times, with the rise of the nation state. A great example of this occurs during the French Revolution. 

Article I of the 1789 Declaration of the Rights of Man and the Citizen declares that “all men are born, and remain, free and equal in rights… No person shall be molested for his opinions, even such as are religious, provided that the manifestation of these opinions does not disturb the public order established by the law.” Throughout Europe, Jews were seen as the ultimate “other.” The National Assembly soon decided that its lofty principles would be meaningless if they did not also include the Jews of France. In 1791, it explicitly declared that Jews would be considered French citizens.

Fifteen years later, Emperor Napoleon, who saw himself as the defender of the ideals of the French Revolution, convened an Assembly of Jewish Notables. He gathered Rabbis and layleaders from all over France and put to them a series of 12 questions. Here are some of them:

  • “In the eyes of Jews are Frenchmen considered as brethren or strangers?”
  • “In either case, what conduct does their law prescribe towards Frenchmen not of their religion?”
  • Do Jews born in France consider it their native country? Are they bound to obey the laws and customs of the land?
  • “What kind of police-jurisdiction have the Rabbis among the Jews? What judicial power do they exercise among them?

The Assembly of Jewish Notables responsed that: We consider Frenchmen our brothers, and would treat them no differently than we would our fellow Jews. We would be loyal to French law alone.  As for Rabbis, they have no police or judicial jurisdiction. Any authority that they may have had “should be attributable solely to custom. Furthermore, “…the functions of Rabbis, wherever any are established, are limited to preaching morality in the temples, blessing marriages, and pronouncing divorces…” (Basically, they threw the Rabbis under the bus.)

Extremely satisfied with these answers, Napoleon instructed them to convene a Grand Sanhedrin, something that had not existed since the fifth century, for a formal endorsement.

For the first time in Europe, Jews were accepted, legally if not socially, as citizens of the land in which they resided. To gain this civil status, they had to give up their fealty to Jewish law. They had to reject any sort of national identity other than as Frenchmen. As one National Assembly delegate who avidly supported Jews had put it in 1791: “The Jews should be denied everything as a nation, but granted everything as individuals.”

Judaism had become, legally at least, a religion, and nothing more. This was the deal they made in exchange for citizenship. As the following two hundred years demonstrated (the Dreyfus Affair, the Vichy Government, recent violence), the promise of full acceptance never manifested.

In America, the deal worked more effectively. Thomas Jefferson famously referred to the “wall of separation between church and state.” This was great for us. We could be American, with our Jewish identity something that was personal and private. A prospective employer, or admissions officer, would not even know that I was Jewish. Why? Because Judaism is a religion, and nothing more.

It took until the second half of the twentieth century to fully realize this, but Judaism in America did very well. Now, it turns out, the tradeoff is breaking down. Conspiracy theories abound of Jewish control of the banks, the media, Hollywood, American foreign policy… take your pick. Non-Jews demand, as our price of entry, that we renounce support for Israel and Zionism – as if an outsider gets to set the litmus test for being a “good Jew.”

Alongside these external pressures, we are confused ourselves about what it is to be Jewish. In the most recent Pew survey of Jewish Americans, from 2020, only 21% of Jews said that “religion is very important to them” compared to 41% of all U.S. adults. 56% of all Americans say that they believe in God, but only 26% of Jews. And yet, 76% of Jews claim that being Jewish is at least somewhat important to them. When asked what being Jewish is mainly about, with the options being: religion, ancestry, culture, or some combination of the three, religion gets the fewest responses.

So now we are finding that outsiders and insiders both see Jewishness as something other than religion. So if it is not a religion, what is it?

One clue comes from language. What is the Hebrew word for religion? Dat. One of the splits in Israeli society today is between dati’im and chilonim. Religious and secular. Both dati’im and chilonim are Jewish. Nobody argues about that. In modern Hebrew, the term dat would refer to one’s commitment to observing mitzvot. Whether or not a person is dati, they are just as much of a Jew. And yet, when describing other world religions, dat is the only word we have. It is what comes up in the dictionary.

Dat is not even a Hebrew word. It comes from ancient Persian, appearing only in the late biblical books of Ezra, Daniel, and Esther. Its meaning there is “law,” that is to say, the law of the king. The most infamous example occurs when Haman (boo!) convinces King Achashverosh to allow him to kill all of the Jews in the empire. Listen carefully to his argument.

There is a certain people (am echad), scattered and dispersed among the other peoples (ha’amim) in all the provinces of your realm, whose laws (dateihem) are different from those of any other people and who do not obey the king’s laws (dato); and it is not in Your Majesty’s interest to tolerate them.

Haman does not even name them. They are an am, a people, who have their own datim, laws. The accusation is that they are disloyal to the king. This is not referring to what we would call religious ritual. It is about the civil and criminal laws of the land. 

What is am in this context? It could mean something like ethnicity. The Jews of Esther are really ethnic Israelites, who were exiled from the kingdom of Judah in the year 586 bce, where they had their own political structures, laws, and a state-sponsored ritual-belief system centered around the Temple. Although the Book of Esther does not identify what makes them unique, am would probably indicate a shared language, culture, geographic origin, and ritual practices. These are the same features that would have distinguished each of the other amim in the Persian Empire. Haman’s lie is that the Jews are politically disloyal. His antisemitism has nothing to do with religion. Some things don’t change.

In medieval Jewish philosophy, dat comes to encompass both external behavior as well as internal belief. Being Jewish is both a commitment to following Jewish law as well as believing in the central tenets of Jewish faith. Dat conveys both dimensions. Of course, we never seem to be able to agree on what those central tenets of faith are, but there is widespread agreement that to be a Jew is to believe them.

We have seen Judaism described as a religion, a law, a series of beliefs, and a national identity. A final way to explore identity is to examine what it takes for an outsider to join the group. What can conversion teach us about Jewish identity?

It is a religious ceremony, is it not?  A person cannot ethnically or culturally convert. Right?

The most ancient conversion ceremony that we have appears in a second century Talmudic passage. (BT Yevamot 47b) When a non-Jew seeks to become Jewish, the first thing the Jewish court is supposed to ask them is 

What did you see that motivated you to come to convert? Don’t you know that the Jewish people at the present time are anguished, suppressed, despised, and harassed, and hardships are frequently visited upon them? If they say: I know, and  I am unworthy…

The court accepts that person for converstion right away. They then teach them about some of the serious and less serious commandments, along with the concept of reward and punishment in the world to come. The Talmud is emphatic that the court should not overdo it by going into too much detail.

Interesting that the only question that is asked, the gateway question, is about peoplehood. Specifically, it is about how hard it is to be a Jew, not because of all the religious obligations, but from a social and political standpoint. The convert has to buy into peoplehood before belief or practice. So perhaps becoming Jewish is an ethnic conversion after all. 

We have been trying to fit Judaism into a definitional box, when the reality is far more complex. Even if we do not have the language to express it, we understand the complexity at our core.

Today is Rosh Hashanah. We are here today to celebrate Creation. Our services are filled with religious rituals. The prayers in our maḥzor express theological statements about the nature of the Divine, and affirm our obligations to serve and follow God’s commandments. It is a religious holiday

Then again, many of our Rosh Hashanah observances are not religious in nature. We bake our challot into round loaves, like a crown, symbolizing God’s kingship. We dip apples in honey for a sweet new year, and eat other symbolic foods to represent our hopes for safety and prosperity. We wear new clothes. Around the world, all Jews pray in Hebrew, the language of the Jewish people for more than three thousand years. We have a rich culture of Jewish traditions that gives our lives meaning, that connect us to family and each other.

Here in this room, we are gathered from all over the world. And yet there is a sense of shared experiences and history that transcends our different places of origin. Another big component of our holiday is simply seeing each other. We fill the synagogue to be together. When we come in, whether we are Sephardi, Mizrachi, Ashkenazi, a Jew by Choice, or some other kind of Jew, we all experience a sense of belonging. 

Judaism, with its aspects of law and belief, culture, language, peoplehood. All of these are essential components of Jewishness. Judaism cannot be put into a box.

So when I am filling out a survey and it asks me about my ethnicity, and I see “Jewish” as one of the options, I am going to pause and think. And then I’ll (probably) check the box.

Bibliography

https://www.nytimes.com/2026/08/13/us/california-jewish-ethnic-identity.html

https://www.sourcesjournal.org/articles/defining-judaism-religion-law-nation-and-our-current-moment

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March 18, 2026

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Divrei Torah (Weekly Sermons), Exodus (שמות)

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I Hate Talking About Security – Vayakhel-Pekudei / Shabbat HaḤodesh 5786

This morning, I am going to rant a ittle bit

I hate talking about security. This is not why I became a Rabbi.

My semichah, or Rabbinic ordination certificate, says Ḥakham yitkarei v’Rav yitkarei l’harbitz Torah barabim ul’hafitz ruaḥ da’at v’yirat hashem bein kahal eidato. “He shall be called wise and he shall be called teacher so as to disseminate Torah in public and to spread a spirit of knowledge and awe of the Lord among the congregation of God’s people.”

Nowhere on that document does it say anything about conducting active shooter drills, or installing panic buttons on the podium from which I give my sermons. Or hiring armed security guards.

Antisemitism is so distracting. I was struggling to figure out what I wanted to say this Shabbat, and I just kept losing focus. And so the first thing I wrote down was “I hate talking about security.” And then I figured, “just go with it.” 

But, a big part of my job is to reflect on the current moment through the lens of Jewish tradition. And that is hard in a moment like this, because I do not have any answers to the questions that I think a lot of us are probably wrestling with. Is the war in Iran good for Israel? for the Jewish people? for American Jews? for America? What should we be doing about antisemitism? Are we secure enough? 

I don’t know. None of us can know with certainty. We are all just doing the best we can with limited knowledge and our best intentions. So I am going to talk about Torah, something I know at least a little bit about.

This week’s double portion, Vayak’hel – Pekudei, opens with Moses assembling the entire congregation of the children of Israel. He is going to pass along the instructions about building the Mishkan, the Tabernacle. But first, he spends two verses on Shabbat: “On six days work may be done, but on the seventh day you shall have a sabbath of complete rest, holy to the Lord…”

Several places in the Torah talk about Shabbat. Why here? Our tradition notes the juxtaposition of this passage with the rules for the Mishkan and draws what is perhaps an obvious conclusion. Even such a holy undertaking as building a dwelling place for God must be paused on the seventh day. I am not going to go into a deep discussion of the rules of Shabbat. I would simply like to share a reflection by the German-American psychoanalyst, Erich Fromm.

Shabbat “is the expression of the central idea of Judaism: the idea of freedom; the idea of complete harmony between humanity and nature… By not working—that is to say, by not participating in the process of natural and social change—man is free from the chains of time, although only for one day a week.”

He points out a modern misconception about the ancient idea of Shabbat. It seems fairly obvious to us that we need at least one day a week to take a break, “to be present” or “to unplug” as we would say in contemporary terms. Fromm refers to this fairly self-evident, secular understanding of Shabbat as a “social-hygienic measure intended to give [us] the physical and spiritual rest and relaxation [we] need in order not to be swallowed up by [our] daily work, and to enable [us] to work better during the six working days.” (153)

In ancient times, the “work” that the Torah prohibits was understood as “any interference by man, be it constructive or destructive, with the physical world. ‘Rest’ is a state of peace between man and nature.” (154) This is why ancient Rabbinic sources describe Shabbat as a taste of the world to come, or compare the experience of Shabbat to that of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. It is a return to an idyllic state in which we are totally at one with the universe in which we reside.

As Moses sends the people off to build the Mishkan, he places this freedom before them as an even higher ideal than building a home for God in their midst.

At the very end, as the Book of Exodus comes to a close, God’s Presence, manifested as a pillar of smoke and fire, descends upon the completed Mishkan. The final verse, from the end of the Book of Exodus, reads: “For over the Tabernacle a cloud of the Lord rested by day, and fire would appear in it by night, in the view of all the house of Israel throughout their journeys.” (40:38)

The Israelites have this constant visible sign of God’s Presence among them. It is a Presence that assures them of protection from their enemies, and unlimited access to food and water. In Deuteronomy, we learn that for forty years, their clothing and their shoes never wore out. It was an unnatural time in the history of the Jewish people. Similar to Shabbat as a day of freedom from the chains of time, God’s visible Presence frees the Israelites from the challenges of life in the complicated real world. These two passages bracket our double parashah in which the Israelites work together in apparent harmony and cooperation to build the Mishkan.

As it turns out, the Torah gives us the date of when it all takes place. They bring the various parts to Moses, and on the first day of the first month of the second year after leaving Egypt – in other words, the first day of the month of Nisan – Moses puts it all together. It so happens that the first of Nisan is this week, on Thursday. 

That is why this Shabbat is Shabbat Haḥodesh, the Shabbat of the new moon. We read a special maftir from a second Torah, and chant a haftarah from the Book of Ezekiel. Ezekiel prophesies to the Israelites in exile after the destruction of the first Temple. He addresses his words to the entire people, who are scattered into many nations in the Diaspora. Ezekiel describes how God will bring them back: “I will remove the heart of stone from your body and give you a heart of flesh; and I will put My spirit into you.” When that happens, there will be abundant grain in the fields and fruit on the trees. People will say, “That land, once desolate, has become like the Garden of Eden; and the cities, once ruined, desolate, and ravaged, are now populated and fortified.” Ezekiel is also describing a reality that is perfect, in which all of the troubles of the real world are solved.

In these three passages, we find three episodes in which people facing dangerous, uncertain times are presented with models of hope. Shabbat, as originally presented by Moses to the Israelites, offers a weekly return to the innocence of Eden.  The Mishkan serves as the place over which the visible assurance of God’s protection can be seen. Remember, Moses is speaking to people who, only one year earlier, were slaves in Egypt and who are now homeless in the middle of the desert. Centuries later, Ezekiel is also speaking to persecuted refugees. He tells them that their fortunes will change.

 And so, when I think about the challenges of today: of synagogues being attacked, of Jews being assaulted when they are overheard speaking Hebrew, and of vitriolic antisemitism that is becoming more bold, I try to remember that we have been here before.

We have always had the confidence and hope that things will get better. We have Shabbat, which gives us a taste of the world to come. We have the synagogue, taking the place of the Tabernacle, which brings us together from wherever we happen to be in our journeys. And we have our prophets and timeless teachings which give us a vision of what a perfected world could be, and a roadmap of what we need to do to create it.

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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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August 31, 2025

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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.