Pidyon Shvuyim – Bring Them Home – Lekh Lekha 5784

The Masorti Movement in Israel, along with the Conservative Movement here, has designated this Shabbat as Solidarity Shabbat. We stand with Israel and all the victims of the terrible attack against our brothers and sisters three weeks ago and the ongoing war. We unite in the face of hatred and proclaim our love and pride as Jews.

This Shabbat is also the fifth anniversary of the massacre at the Tree of Life Synagogue in Pittsburgh, the worst attack against Jews in the history of the United States. We remember the lives of those who were murdered then.

The massive increase in antisemitic and anti-Israel incidents in the United States, including some violence, are bringing up a lot of fear and anxiety here at home. We must always remain proud of being Jewish, proud of our tradition, and proud of our extended family. 

Parashat Lekh Lekha begins the story of the Jewish people. It is the story of a family struggling to find its place in the world. Avram and Sarai Follow the Divine command to a new land with a promise that it will one day become home to their descendants. They themselves are wanderers, struggling to find a place, to find peace.

Their situation is tenuous in the early years. They wander. They experience famine and become economic migrants. They eventually begin to prosper as nomads, but do not have access to sufficient land, forcing Avram and his nephew Lot to go separate ways. Lot pitches his tents outside the city of Sodom, in the verdant Jordan River valley, while Avram settles at the Terebinths of Mamre, near Hebron.

One day, a refugee comes to town with news that is of interest to Avram. A confederacy of Kings from the East came to attack five cities in the Jordan River valley, including S’dom. The leaders of those cities hid in caves, but the cities themselves were plundered, and Lot, his household, and all of his possessions were taken captive.

Without hesitation, Avram jumps into action, assembling a force comprised of 318 retainers from his own household. They travel a long distance, all the way to Dan, which is located in the northern Galilee, about 250 km away. Avram and his forces attack at night. They defeat the enemy, and pursue them for another 60 km or so, as far as Damascus, in order to rescue Lot, his household, all of his possessions, and the possessions that had been captured from the cities that were attacked. Afterwards, when he returns home with Lot and his family, Avram refuses to keep any of the plunder for himself, even when the kings of the towns offer him a reward: “not so much as a thread or a sandal strap.” All he wants is his nephew.

This is a story in which Avram puts absolutely everything on the line for his family. He puts his own life at risk, the lives of his entire household, and the Divine destiny which he has been following. There is no question, whatsoever, in Avram’s mind as to what he must do. Lot is family, and despite any differences they may have had in the past, he must be saved.

This story serves as the paradigm of the mitzvah of pidyon shvuyim, redeeming of captives. It is a religious obligation to every one of us to rescue our fellow Jew from captivity. Listen to how Maimonides describes this commandment.

The redemption of captives receives priority over sustaining the poor and providing them with clothing. [Indeed,] there is no greater mitzvah than the redemption of captives. For a captive is among those who are hungry, thirsty, and unclothed and he is in mortal peril.

To emphasize how significant redeeming captives is, Maimonides goes on to list all of the mitzvot that a person violates if they fail to act. First come the negative commandments:

If someone pays no attention to his redemption, he violates the negative commandments: “Do not harden your heart or close your hand” (Deuteronomy 15:7 , “Do not stand by when the blood of your neighbor is in danger” (Leviticus 19:16 , and “He shall not oppress him with exhausting work in your presence” (ibid. 25:53).

Next, Maimonides lists the positive commandments that a person violates if they fail to act:

And he has negated the observance of the positive commandments: “You shall certainly open up your hand to him” (Deuteronomy 15:8), “And your brother shall live with you” (ibid. 19:18), “Love your neighbor as yourself” (Leviticus 19:18), 

In total, Maimonides lists six distinct mitzvot from the Torah which all pertain to the obligation of redeeming our fellow Jews who are taken captive. Then, to put an exclamation on the matter, he concludes with a quote from Proverbs:

“Save those who are taken for death” (Proverbs 24:11) , and many other decrees of this nature. There is no mitzvah as great as the redemption of captives. 

Maimonides, Gifts to the Poor 8:10

Maimonides’ description of pidyon shvuyim feels personal. And we know that these are not mere words. Jewish history is filled with examples of communities setting absolutely everything aside to free their fellow Jews. Throughout the middle ages and into modern times, Jewish organizations were established to raise funds to ransom captured Jews. When sufficient local funds could not be raised, fundraisers were undertaken to collect money from Jews living abroad.

A 16th century French traveler expressed surprise that, during his travels throughout the Ottoman Empire, where slavery was legal, he never encountered any enslaved Jews. Explaining this surprising discovery, he wrote that Jewish solidarity “never permitted one of their people to remain in servitude.”

So it should not surprise any of us to witness how Jews all over the world, religious and secular, Israeli and non-Israeli, have mobilized to demand that the approximately 220 Israelis taken captive be brought home now. 

Sadly, terrorists know how personal it is for Jews, how hard we will work for the release of Jewish hostages, how high a price we will be willing to pay. For decades, they have taken hostages to further their aims.

Hamas and their ilk are a cult of death. They celebrate suicide bombers, use their own people as human shields, and rejoice over the murder, rape, and torture of civilians.

The commandment to redeem captives is indicative of how much Judaism values life. We cannot rest until captive Jews are freed.

Halakhah (Jewish law) on redeeming captives developed at a time when Jews were living as minorities without the capacity to rescue captives. So the Jewish laws deal mainly with paying ransoms, trying to walk the tightrope between rescuing Jews and not encouraging further hostage taking. But Avram offers us a more forceful example: a man who acted with conviction and purpose to rescue family. 

By now, I am sure you know all about the current situation. There are approximately 220 hostages, among them 30 children, even babies. Four hostages have been released. One of those who was taken is named Omer Neutra. Born and raised in the United States to parents from Israel, he celebrated his Bar Mtzvah at Midway Jewish Center in Syosset, New York. He went to Young Judea summer camp and was a counselor at Camp Ramah Day Camp in Nyack. Omer was the Regional President of METNY USY, and was captain of his soccer, volleyball and basketball teams at the Schechter School of Long Island. After high school, Omer took a gap year, and then decided to put off university and enlist in the IDF as a Lone Soldier. He became a tank commander.

Omer is believed to be one of the more than 220 souls taken captive by Hamas on October 7. Omer turned 22 two weeks ago. As is his family custom, his parents,  Orna and Ronen, and his brother Daniel, had a cake for Omer with 23 candles – 1 extra. They did not blow out the candles. They let them melt into the cake while they recited prayers for their son.

This Shabbat, we set a symbolic seat for Omer in our shul, and pray for his freedom and the freedom of all our brothers and sisters in captivity and distress.

Who we are, and whom we are meant to become – Bereishit 5784

All week I have been dreading this moment of having to say something in front of the congregation. We have all been struggling with disbelief and anger, grief, fear, our hearts ripped open; emotions too raw to express in words. 

And of all Torah portions to read this week, we have Bereishit. The beginning. This is a parashah which lays out the core aspects of what it means to be a human being. As a Rabbi, I turn to our tradition, our words.

Let’s look at five details, five snapshots that tell us who we are and what we are here for.

First comes creation. God spends six days making heaven and earth. As the Torah opens, we learn that the primordial state is one of chaos—tohu vavohu—with the spirit of God hovering over the deep. Reading on, the earth and sky form when God pushes out the watery chaos, the forces of evil and destruction. God divides them above and below, and from side to side. There, those waters, with their monsters and evil dragons, wait, eager to rush back in to reawaken the chaos. As the final creative act, God forms human, male and female, in the Divine image. God blesses them, us, and assigns us responsibility of dominion over the earth, the sea, and all they contain. Humanity is God’s partner, our duty unique among the rest of Creation. Our job is to keep those waters of chaos and evil at bay, to allow the rest of the world to flourish.

The next snapshot is in the Garden of Eden. God forms the first human out of the dust, and almost immediately declares lo tov heyot ha-adam levado – “It is not good for the human to be alone.” The solution is to divide the human into two, male and female, to serve as one another’s companions. We learn that humans are social creatures. We rely upon one another in the most fundamental ways. 

The third snapshot is also in the Garden of Eden. God had planted the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, with instructions to not eat from its fruit. You know what happens. The woman and the man eat the fruit, and thereby gain moral knowledge. They experience something new: shame, as they hide their nakedness from one another, and from God. Their punishment is to be expelled from the Garden. 

The fourth snapshot is of their children: Cain and Abel. When God favors Abel’s sacrifice, Cain is overwhelmed with jealousy and anger. God warns, “Sin couches at the door. It’s urge is toward you, but you can be it’s master.”

Cain does not master his rage, and he murders his brother. 

“Where is your brother Abel?” God asks.

“Am I my brother’s keeper?” is Cain’s response. I believe his question is an honest one.

God does not answer the question with a simple yes or no, but with an expression of horror and disbelief. “What have you done? Hark, your brother’s blood cries out to Me from the ground!” Cain’s punishment is to wander the face of the earth, marked with the sign of a curse. 

The final snapshot: Zeh sefer toldot adam —“This is the book of the generations of Adam. When God created man, God make him in His likeness; male and female He created them.” What follows is a geneaology of the children of Adam and Eve, covering the ten generations to Noah. The Talmudic Sage Ben Azzai declares this verse to be the fundamental principle of the Torah. All human beings are descend from the same origin. All of us carry the divine image. All of us are brothers and sisters.

These five snapshots merge into a portrait of the human condition. We human beings are God’s partners in Creation. It is our responsibility to keep the waters of evil and chaos at bay. There is a moral purpose to the universe, and we play a critical part…

…and we are morally imperfect. We have the capacity to know the difference between good and evil. We have the capacity to overcome sin, but we are no longer living in Eden. “Am I my brother’s keeper?” Cain asks. It is the dominant moral question of the entire book of Genesis, perhaps even the Torah. The ultimate answer is “yes. I am my brother’s keeper.” But violence and bloodshed are a constant presence.

And despite this all human beings are brothers and sisters. And we are stuck in this world, outside of Eden, that is filled with love and hate, peace and violance, order and chaos, grief and joy. And we need each other. And God does not want us to be resigned. All of this from our Torah’s opening parashah.

We have been witness to all of these humanity this week. I simply do not have words to talk about Hamas’ murderous rampage one week ago, last Shabbat, the morning of Simchat Torah, other than to call it pure evil, the worst of what humanity is capable of. There have been those that have tried to say that “they are not humans. They are animals.” I disagree. They are humans, and we know all too well that humans are capable of such evil.

This is the forces of creation ripped apart by chaos. Human beings utterly shirking their obligation to be partners with God in creating order and goodness. The blood of our brothers and sisters still cries out from the ground. It demands our grief, and our response. 

We have also seen inspiring acts of human connection. Jews everywhere around the world experienced last week’s horrors deeply. Israelis immediately set aside their differences to come together in shared grief. They did everything imaginable to help victims, to protect and defend their fellow citizens. Jews around the world gathered in mourning and solidarity, demanding the freeing of our captive brothers and sisters. We have sent our financial support, and marshalled our political and social resources.

We have received outpourings of support from friends and allies around the world – those who rightly see the other as their brothers and sisters in shared humanity.

Astonishingly, there has been silence from too many, not to mention those who celebrate and cheer the torture, murder, and kidnapping of innocents.

Parashat Bereishit shows us exactly who we are, and it begs us to be who we are meant to become.

I have been thinking all week about how we are going to respond ritually to the demands of this moment.

This week has been filled with laments of grief, outpourings of rage, demands for vengeance, expressions of hope. Prayer helps us put what we are feeling into words. Prayer can sometimes be a statement of faith. Sometimes it is not a statement of faith but it is as a way of expressing ourselves when we cannot formulate the sounds on our own. It gives us the words when we do not have the words.

So, we are going to add prayers to our services. This morning, and probably for quite some time. This is what I could come up with for this morning. Our feelings and emotions may change in the weeks ahead and our prayers may change also.

Sarah’s Howl – Rosh Hashanah II 5784

How did the ram’s horn get its name?

Because you can hear it from shofar away.

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

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

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

Numbers 29:1

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maimonides, Laws of Repentance 3:4

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

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

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

Babylonian Talmud, Rosh Hashanah 16a

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

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

Pirkei DeRabbi Eliezer 32:8

A few words of explanation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jeremiah 31:15

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

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

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

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

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

The Cure for Loneliness – Rosh Hashanah I 5784

What is the number one public health challenge in America?

Loneliness.

That is not something that we typically associate with health.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gun violence is exacerbated by loneliness and isolation.

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

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

How did we get here?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Genesis 21:10

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

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

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

I Samuel 1:8

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

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

I Samuel 1:15-16

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rabbi Sacks even posits the existence of 

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

Jonathan Sacks, Morality, 313-314

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

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

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

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

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

Be The One to Take the First Step – Ki Teitzei 5783

One of my personal favorite mitzvot appears in this morning’s Torah portion. It is called hashevat aveidah – the return of a lost item.

I love it so much because I know what it is like to lose something that is important to me, and to despair about ever getting it back.

When someone, out of the blue, brings that lost item back to me, the feeling transcends the mere restoration of an item of value. It is a reminder of the potential goodness in a random stranger. What a gift to be able to be that stranger for someone else.

Parashat Ki Teitzei is notable for containing the most number of mitzvot, commandments, of any portion in the Torah: 74. Like many of the Torah’s law codes, the topics range widely, covering ritual obligations, business law, criminal law, as well as personal and family ethics. 

One of these laws is hashevat aveidah. This is how it is introduced:

If you see your fellow’s ox or sheep gone astray, do not ignore it; you must take it back to your fellow. 

Deuteronomy 22:1

The Torah continues to specify that we have an obligation to take the lost animal home and care for it if the owner cannot be immediately identified or located. It then expands beyond animals to include garments, or any other item that we may find.

Twice, the Torah emphasizes that we are not allowed to remain indifferent, using the expression v’hit’alamta mahem – which literally means “and hide yourself from them.” If I find a lost item, I must return it.

A corollary mitzvah follows this one, also with instructions to not “hide yourself from them.”

If you see your fellow’s donkey or ox fallen on the road… you must help him raise it.

Deuteronomy 22:4

I have always liked these two mitzvot. Being part of the covenanted community of the Jewish people means more than just treating one another properly. Our obligations extend to one another’s possessions as well. Consider for a moment what these mitzvot are saying. I incur an obligation simply for my discovery of an item, even when I do not know to whom that item belongs. I am obligated to a mystery person such that I commit a sin if I do not step up.

I recently discovered a commentary by a medieval Spanish sage, Rabbi Baḥya ben Asher. Rabbeinu Baḥya, as he is known, wrote a commentary on the Torah that offers allegorical, midrashic, and mystical interpretations. In his discussion, Rabbeinu Baḥya offers three explanations for these commandments to take responsibility for the property of our neighbors.

First, he cites the Talmud. The Torah repeats Hebrew words hashev teshivem, “Return you shall return.” This does not merely emphasize our obligation to return a lost object. It conveys that we must keep returning it, even 100 times in a row, if necessary.

Imagine my neighbor has a donkey that keeps wandering on to my property. As many times as it wanders over, I must still make the effort to bring it back home, however annoying or inconvenient it might be. That is a fairly conventional midrashic interpretation.

Rabbeinu Baḥya then explains that this kind of behavior is midarkhei haḥesed v’haraḥamim – among the ways of kindness and compassion. This is how people who are all descended from the same human ancestor ought to treat one another. We each have an interest in the success and well-being of one another, he says. As such, we must go beyond the obligation to merely care for the “things” belonging to our neighbor. It is not just about stuff. If I find myself in a position in which I have the ability to protect another person from financial loss, I must do so. I may not “hide myself.”

The principal behind this responsibility, says Rabbeinu Baḥya, is v’ahavta l’re’ekha kamokha, which we usually translate as “You shall love your neighbor as yourself.” But here, Rabbeinu Baḥya understands it as “You shall love that which is your neighbor’s as if it were your own.” It is quite an extension of the principle.

His second explanation is a theological one, focusing on the warning against “hiding yourself.” He notes that it is easy to look the other way and pretend not to have seen a wandering donkey, or a lost item. Who is going to know?

The answer is “God knows.” And just as we are commanded to return that which is our neighbor’s, God will one day return that which is ours.  That is to say, God will return our souls to our bodies. And here, Rabbeinu Bahya goes into a description of the Jewish concept of the resurrection of the dead, which will occur after the coming of the mashiaḥ. The point is, how can we expect God to return our souls to us if we fail to return that which is our neighbor’s?

The third explanation is the one that most took me by surprise. Rabbeinu Baḥya notes that these mitzvot in Parashat Ki Teitzei are a reiteration of mitzvot that first appear in the the book of Exodus, but with a significant distinction. Where Deuteronomy uses the word aḥikha, “your brother,” to describe the person whose donkey has wandered off and gotten into trouble, Exodus uses the word son’ekha, “your enemy.”

That is a pretty significant difference. What does it mean? At first, we might think that this merely indicates that it does not matter whether or not I like the owner of the donkey. I am still obligated.

Rabbeinu Baḥya suggests that there is a deeper lesson to be learned. If I assist my enemy with their fallen donkey, they may come to see me differently, and my enemy may transform into my brother. The assistance I offer may be the very thing to cause the hatred to be forgotten and the love that unites us to be remembered.

What an inspiring—and difficult—observation.

I suspect Rabbeinu Baḥya may be talking about more than just a wandering donkey. When there is conflict, it can be really hard to be the one to take the first step at reconcilliation. Our egos get too involved.  How often do we get into fights with other people when we forget the reason for the conflict in the first place, and it becomes all about the hatred, the negative feelings which are reinforced every time I hear that person’s name.

What would be so terrible about swallowing my pride and taking that first step to do something that helps out my enemy? Perhaps that is the very act to shatter the hostility.

As we prepare for the new year, this is the time when we are supposed to be examining our relationships, reviewing our deeds. We engage in teshuvah, repentance. Our tradition teaches us the only way to do teshuvah for sins between ourselves and another person is to appease that person directly.

Rabbeinu Baḥya offers us an approach to repair broken relationships. Swallow my pride, do not wait for them to apologize first. After all, they are probably waiting for me to apologize first. Just take the first step. Perhaps this will be the year that my enemy becomes my friend.

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

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

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

It turns out, this is nothing new.

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

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

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

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

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

Deuteronomy 18:18-19

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

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

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

Deuteronomy 18:20

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jeremiah 20:14-18

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jeremiah 28:2-4

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

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

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

Jeremiah 28:8-9

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

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

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

Jeremiah 28:11

Jeremiah confronts Hananiah once again, 

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

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

Jeremiah 28:15-17

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

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

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

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

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

BT Bava Batra 12a

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

Rabbi Yoḥanan offers a different insight.

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

Ibid.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Deuteronomy and the American Dream – Parashat Re’eh 5783

What is the American Dream?

The term was first used by the historian James Truslow Adams in his 1931 book, The Epic of America. This is how he describes it: The American Dream is

that dream of a land in which life should be better and richer and fuller for everyone, with opportunity for each according to ability or achievement.

…It is not a dream of motor cars and high wages merely, but a dream of social order in which each man and each woman shall be able to attain to the fullest stature of which they are innately capable, and be recognized by others for what they are, regardless of the fortuitous circumstances of birth or position.

He complained that although society tends to measure a person’s achievement of the American Dream by economic success, it was originally about quality and spiritual values. He warned that “in our struggle to ‘make a living'” we were neglecting “to live”.

It seems to me that we often conflate the idea of the American Dream with the idea of meritocracy. Under American meritocracy, the goal is to be “the best.” The most educated, most committed, most accomplished, most disciplined. These people are rewarded with success, which we measure by income and wealth.

The corollary is that someone who does not have income and wealth must not be someone of merit. They must be deficient in some way. It must be their fault.

Maybe some of you are familiar with the HR practice of “Up or Out.” I understand it is quite common in Silicon Valley. A worker is given a certain amount of time to prove themself, and is then either promoted or laid off. Fortunately, this is not practiced in the rabbinic world.

Such extreme focus on merit produces some pretty rigid social hierarchies. In a recent article, David Brooks writes about one of the major self-perpetuating measures—education—which has become one of the real dividing lines in society. He writes:

We built an entire social order that sorts and excludes people on the basis of the quality that we possess most: academic achievement. Highly educated parents go to elite schools, marry each other, work at high-paying professional jobs and pour enormous resources into our children, who get into the same elite schools, marry each other and pass their exclusive class privileges down from generation to generation.

While the American Dream, as an ideal, offers anyone with a strong work ethic the prospect of rising to a higher social class, the reality is often quite different. If the American Dream were a reality than we would see high levels of social mobility. Social mobility refers to the likelihood that a child born into a poor family will be able to rise into a higher economic level.

A 2020 report by the World Economic Forum measured social mobility by country. It used an index that measured education, access to technology, healthcare, social protection and employment opportunities. It found that the countries with the greatest levels of social mobility were in Europe, primarily the Nordic countries. The United States was 27th, second to last among the G7 nations.

This is an issue that appears prominently in this morning’s Torah portion, Re’eh. In the first half of chapter fifteen, Moses offers some instructions and pronouncements to the Israelites regarding the obligation to care for the poor. In so doing, he offers some pretty contradictory messages about the presence of poverty within the community. First, he says:

Efes ki lo yihyeh l’kha evyon— There need not be any poor among you—since the Lord your God will bless you in the land that the Lord your God is giving you as a hereditary portion—

Deuteronomy 15:4

In other words, God has not only the capacity, but also the willingness, to bless us sufficiently so that we can eradicate poverty.  A few verses later, Moses acknowledges that this might be too lofty an ideal.

ki yihyeh v’kha evyon—If, however, there is a needy person among you, one of your brothers in any of your settlements in the land that the Lord your God is giving you, do not harden your heart and shut your hand against your needy kin. Rather, you must open your hand and lend whatever is sufficient to meet the need.

Deuteronomy 15:7-8

A few verses after that Moses just gives up.

ki lo yeḥdal l’kha evyon—For there will never cease to be needy ones in your land, which is why I command you: open your hand to your poor and needy brother in your land. (15:11)

Deuteronomy 15:11

In just a few verses, we descend from the possibility of eradicating poverty, to being commanded to respond to poverty if it appears, to resignation to the fact that poverty will never be eliminated.

Within these pronouncements, Re’eh offers three policy statements. Three mitzvot incumbent on the Israelite.

The first is to cancel all debts every seven years. Universal debt forgiveness.

The second is to offer loans to the needy among you—”whatever is sufficient to meet the need”—with a warning not to hold back out of knowledge that the loan will be cancelled if still unpaid in the seventh year.

The third commandment refers to someone who has become enslaved due to their inability to pay back their debt. That person must also be freed in the seventh year. Furthermore, the owner is prohibited from sending the freed slave away empty-handed. They have to be paid.

These three commandments are essentially a form of economic redistribution of resources from the rich to the poor. It would take the form of the rich helping out the poor financially when the poor fall upon hard times, and then offering loan forgiveness so that people do not suffocate under a mountain of debt that they can never dig themselves out of. (Some of that may sound familiar.)

While there are similarities here to mitzvot appearing in other parts of the Torah, Deuteronomy adds some unique points. In Exodus, the warning is against oppressing the widow, the orphan, the poor, and the stranger. If we do, God will hear their cry and punish us.

Deuteronomy takes it a step further. Now, failure to actively help will result in God’s curse or, conversely, God’s blessing. Not offering the loan, failing to free the debt-slave, or refusal to cancel the debt, is the moral equivalent of oppressing them – from God’s vantage point.

In Exodus, the debt slave merely goes free in the seventh year. In Deuteronomy, the owner has to pay him. He cannot be sent away empty-handed. 

The passage ends with a familiar refrain:

Bear in mind that you were slaves in the land of Egypt and the Lord your God redeemed you; therefore I enjoin this commandment upon you today.

Deuteronomy 15:15

God made sure that the Israelites went free from slavery in Egypt with vast wealth, taken from their former masters. This reminder, as the punctuation to the warning against not letting the freed debt slave leave empty handed, is not merely a command for compassion and empathy. It contains a veiled threat. The slave owner is in the same relative position as the Egyptians. When the Israelites left Egypt, they took all sorts of treasures from their former masters, at God’s direction. The warning here is that if the owner fails to provide for the freed slave, God will again take the situation in hand. 

This system operates under the assumption that neutrality regarding the poor is insufficient. Simply leaving them alone is a recipe for a return to the former state of poverty and inequality. To break the cycle requires an additional step on the part of those at the upper end of the socioeconomic system. 

It is easy to take the position that as long as I am leaving my neighbor alone, not actively doing anything to hold them back, then my responsibilities have been met. Another person’s success or failure in life is up to them, and really has no bearing on my own situation. 

But Deuteronomy introduces the idea that failure to take pro-active steps to help the poor is the equivalent of oppressing them. It offers a model for breaking the cycle of poverty.

But this is a bitter pill to swallow. We do not like to be forced to part with our hard-earned possessions to pay for what we often see as somebody else’s mistakes.

So Deuteronomy goes beyond the financial obligations. It also legislates an attitude. Over and over, it uses the word achikha – your brother – to refer to your fellow Israelite who has not been so fortunate. To be clear, in this text, there is a definite distinction between the obligations one has to fellow Israelites and obligations to non-Israelite residents. Regarding the unfortunate Israelite, the Torah says, you have to see this person as your brother.

This focus on achikha, the theme of brotherhood, reappears throughout Deuteronomy.  In chapter one, Moses instructs the judges to “hear between your brothers and rule justly between a man and his brother or between his foreigner.” (1:16) In next week’s portion, as Moses addresses the Israelites about the future monarchy, he tells them that they are to select someone from among their brothers to be the King. (17:15) And the King is warned against acting haughtily towards his brothers. (17:20)

Deuteronomy calls out positions in society which could lend themselves to unequal social divisions: the wealthy, the judges, and the king (i.e. the politicians), and knocks them off their pedestals. They must relate to the those people upon whom they would be most inclined to look down as brothers.

This goes way beyond a mere economic obligation. It is mandating social relations. There must be mixing between classes. There must be true social mobility. Looking at it through a contemporary lens, the American Dream must not be just a myth. 

And it is clear in these texts that God takes the side of the poor over the rich. We are blessed—or cursed—to the extent that we do not ignore the poor and suffering. So when Moses says— 

There need not be any poor among you—since the Lord your God will bless you in the land that the Lord your God is giving you as a hereditary portion—

Moses is giving us a challenge. But which comes first. Does God bless us in the land so that there will be no poverty? Or, will the land be blessed only if, or when, we eradicate poverty?

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Rabbi Shai Held, The Heart of Torah, Volume 2, pp. 230-234.

https://www.weforum.org/reports/global-social-mobility-index-2020-why-economies-benefit-from-fixing-inequality/#what-does-it-do-that-other-indices-don-t

David Brooks, “What if We’re the Bad Guys Here?”, New York Times, August 2, 2023

https://www.vox.com/policy-and-politics/2019/10/24/20919030/meritocracy-book-daniel-markovits-inequality-rich

Rise, O Daughters of Priests and Levites – Emor 5782

As you know, Congregation Sinai is a traditional, egalitarian, Conservative synagogue. There are a range of religious practices within the Conservative movement. Sinai, from a liturgical perspective, tends to be on the more traditional side.  Our service is entirely in Hebrew. We chant the full Torah reading, rather than using the triennial system. We do not abbreviate our service in many of the ways that one might find in other Conservative synagogues.

Like almost every Conservative synagogue, we are egalitarian. Any Jew above the age of B’nei Mitzvah counts towards making a minyan. There is no distinction by gender in leadership roles during services. We have the same expectations, and teach the same skills and knowledge, to all our children. Every child in the religious school wears a head covering, and all B’nei Mitzvah wear a tallit. For many years, our practice has been to accept, without judgment, any Jew according to their preferred gender identity.

I am aware of only one way in which our practice has not been fully egalitarian, and that is our treatment of kohanim and leviim — of priests and Levites.

According to tradition, Kohanim are descendants of the first High Priest, Aaron, and Leviim come from the ancient tribe of Levi. They officiated in the Tabernacle when the Israelites were in the wilderness, and in the first and second Temples. This morning’s Torah portion, Emor, addresses specifically the laws governing the kohanim, including restrictions they had to follow, as well as privileges that they enjoyed.

While Jewish identity is passed on matrilineally, one’s status as a kohen or levi is determined by patrilineal descent.

In keeping with Jewish tradition, Sinai’s practice until now has been to call up the son of a kohen for the first aliyah and the son of a levi for the second aliyah. I have been clear and open over the years to anyone who has asked that we would not consider changing this practice until someone to whom it affects comes forward with this request; in other words, someone with “standing.”

It has taken many years, but that person has finally come forward. In the interest of full transparency, that person is my daughter, Noa.

I speak today wearing several hats.  I am the Rabbi of Congregation Sinai. I am a kohen. And, I am the father of a daughter.

As the Rabbi of the congregation, I serve as mara d’atra, literally “master of the place.” I have the responsibility to decide on questions of Jewish law and ritual practice. The Committee on Jewish Laws and Standards, the CJLS, is a Conservative institution that addresses questions of halakhah, Jewish law. A local mara d’atra can rely upon a decision of the CJLS for their own community.

The CJLS, in a 1989 teshuvah written by Rabbi Joel Roth, approved extending the first and second aliyot to daughters of kohanim and leviim. I will explain the reasoning behind that decision in a few minutes.

I should add as well that there are CJLS teshuvot that allow for a congregation to dispense entirely with the kohen, levi, yisrael system. Many Conservative synagogues follow that practice.

As a kohen, I have had many significant religious experiences over the years in synagogues and communities around the world. It is an important part of my family identity, passed down by my father. Needless to say, I am called up to the Torah a lot, probably receiving more than 50% of all first aliyot at Sinai.

As for the answer to whether Sinai will call up a bat kohen for the first aliyah, I will have to be able to look my daughter in the eye and explain my decision.

You already know my answer. We are expanding our practice to call for the first and second aliyah anyone, regardless of gender, whose father is a kohen or a levi.

Before I start to explain why, I want to be clear about a few points. We are talking only about being called up for the first two aliyot. Questions around women’s involvement in Jewish ritual are not a single halakhic issue. Counting in a minyan, leading services, chanting Torah and Haftarah – each of these has been dealt with independently. Further, the priestly and levitical lines are passed only through the father. This decision does not apply to birkat kohanim, the Priestly Blessing. That is a separate issue which could potentially be dealt with at another time.

I would like to make one additional comment. Ritual is extremely personal. The prayers we recite, the melodies we sing, how we conduct services— these evoke strong feelings.

A change in any long-held practice can be difficult. Let’s keep in mind that every ritual that feels to us like it is mi-sinai – going all the way back to Mt. Sinai, actually started in a particular place by a specific person.

There was once a first Shabbat when someone thought it would be a good idea to read the Torah in public. There was a first time when someone said a blessing before that reading. There was one Shabbat when a person decided to divide the reading up into seven parts. Someone once thought it would be a good idea to honor people in the community with each of those readings.

There was a first time when a woman was called up to the Torah, which, by the way, occurred many centuries ago. There was a first Shabbat here at Congregation Sinai when a woman was called to the Torah.

Every time such an innovation occurred, it replaced a practice that preceded it. And you can be sure that there was always someone who was uncomfortable with that change.

The other thing I would like to mention is that some practices which might seem to be quite ancient are actually relatively recent innovations in Judaism.

So, why do the first and second aliyot go to Kohanim and Leviim?

The Mishnah, dating from the second century in the land of Israel, states the following:

These are the matters [that the Sages] instituted on account of the ways of peace: a priest reads first, and after him a Levite, and after him an Israelite, on account of the ways of peace…

Mishnah Gittin 5:8

This is the earliest description of the practice of kohen, levi, yisrael. A few questions arise. First of all, why? This tradition almost certainly reflects an innovation that developed after the destruction of the Second Temple, when kohanim and leviim were unable to perform their sacred responsibilities.

Second, what does the expression “on account of the ways of peace” — mipnei darkhei shalom — mean?

The Gemara addresses the first question by offering several alternative biblical verses as the imputed origin of the practice. The fourth verse suggested is by Rabbi Chiya bar Abba, who posits a verse from this morning’s Torah portion, parashat Emor

and you must treat him as holy, since he offers the food of your God; he shall be holy to you, for I, the Lord, who sanctify you am holy.

According to Rabbi Chiya, this means that in any matter of sanctity, a kohen should go first.

A Sage from the school of Rabbi Yishmael derives from this instruction to treat the kohen as holy that he should be accorded with the honor of speaking first in the study hall, leading the birkat hamazon, the grace after meals, and serving himself first at a meal.

What is the nature of this holiness which merits such special treament? There are essentially two possibilities. Either, they derive from the special sacrificial responsibilities of a kohen. Or, kohanim have a general sanctity independent of their duties in the Temple.

If it is based on their ritual duties, than we would expect that a kohen who was unable to perform those duties would not be eligible to receive these special honors. Specifically, this morning’s parashah states that kohen who has a physical defect, such as someone who is blind, or lame, or has a limb that is too short or too long, or a broken arm or leg, or a hunchback, a growth in his eye, and so on. A kohen with any of these physical disabilities is unqualified to participate in the Temple rituals. To even enter the sacred precincts would profane them.

If the privileges specified in the Talmud, such as receiving the first aliyah, derive from the kohen’s eligibility to perform the Temple service, than we would expect a physical disability to disqualify him from receiving the first aliyah as well.

But the Torah specifies that he is able to eat from kodashim, from sanctified food which is a perquisite of the kohanim. So he would seem to have some degree of inherent kedushah that is independent of his fitness to serve.

Rabbi Ephraim Oshry, a mid-twentieth century Orthodox Rabbi, ruled in the case of a kohen who received a disfiguring injury in the Holocaust was eligible to receive the first aliyah. He concludes that

the elements of priestly prerogative are not contingent upon his serving at the altar at all, and even where a priest is not entitled to serve at the altar, as a [disfigured priest], he nonetheless retains the sanctity of the priesthood, and the verse “he shall be holy” applies to him.

Rabbi Oshry concludes that kohanim receive the first aliyah due to their inherent sanctity.

Now back to the Mishnah. It indicates that the kohen should read from the Torah first “on account of the ways of peace.” What are these “ways of peace?”

Originally a kohen could forego his right to the first aliyah in favor of it going to a great sage or other dignified person. What you could imagine happening happened. People started to quarrel over who merited receiving the kohen‘s giving up the first aliyah. “Why did he allow this guy and not me?”

So the Sages enacted a ruling to prohibit a kohen from ever giving it up. The first aliyah must go to a kohen to prevent fights from breaking out in shul. (Incidentally, there were many times over the centuries when Rabbis agreed to find a way around this requirement – often for fundraising purposes.)

Finally, we come to b’not kohen – daughters of priests.

Do daughters of kohanim have any sanctity, and if so, what is the nature of that sanctity? While there was no ritual role played by the daughters of kohanim in the Temple, perhaps they have some degree of inherent sanctity. And if so, does that sanctity accrue to them only when they are in their father’s household, or does it remain with them after they are married?

In his teshuvah, Rabbi Roth points to three areas in Jewish law in which daughters of kohanim retain their rights even when they are no longer living in their fathers’ households. In other words, does a kohen’s daughter become a regular Israelite after she gets married?

One of the perquisites of the priesthood was the right to eat Terumah, a kind of Temple tax that Israelites gave. Remember, kohanim could not own land, so they relied upon farmers for their sustenance. Terumah is in a status called hekdesh, sanctified, and can only be eaten by kohanim and their households. If someone else consumes hekdesh, they have to pay for what they ate, plus a penalty.

When a bat kohen marries an Israelite, she loses her right to eat Terumah. If she does so inadvertently, however, the Mishnah clarifies that she does not pay the penalty that an Israelite would have to pay. Why not? This morning’s Torah portion states “no stranger may eat the sacred food.” Since she is not a ‘stranger’ to Terumah, she does not have to pay the penalty. (Sifra Emor 6:2)

Another perquisite of kohanim were the matanot kehunah, the gifts for the priests. According to the Talmud, a bat kohen retains her rights to eat these gifts even after she gets married and leaves her father’s household. (Rashi on BT CHullin 131b)

The final case speaks of both daughters of kohanim and leviim. According to the Torah, a first-born male child belongs to God. It must, therefore, be bought back, or redeemed, by God’s representative, a kohen. This occurs during a ceremony called pidyon haben. Parents give five silver shekels to a priest on the thirtieth day if their first-born child is a boy. There are exceptions. The son of a kohen, a levi, a bat kohen, and a bat levi do not have to be redeemed.

A Talmudic Sage explicitly ties this exemption to the actual womb of the mother. Exodus states, “whatever opens the womb among the children Israel.” In other words, there is something inherently holy about the womb of a bat levi and a bat kohen.

On a related note, a Talmudic anecdote refers to the Israelite husband of a bat kohen who regularly accepted the five silver coins for pidyon haben on account of his wife’s status. (Tosafot on BT Pesachim 49a)

These are three examples of ways in which a bat kohen has inherent sanctity that is not limited to when she is under her father’s household.

So if the approximately two thousand year old tradition of the first aliyah going to a kohen is based on the inherent sanctity of a kohen, independent of his service in the Temple, and if a bat kohen also has a measure of inherent sanctity, there are grounds for an egalitarian service to include any child of a kohen for the first aliyah.

But should we?

Historically, questions such as these have been difficult for Congregation Sinai. I arrived here shortly after the community decided to become egalitarian. Part of that decision, as many of you know, involved a compromise whereby our liturgy retained many of the elements of a traditional service while including women in the minyan and in leadership. The resulting traditional egalitarian service was one of the things that drew me to Congregation Sinai.

These are important values for me. Sometimes, a conflict arises between values. 

There have been incredible advances in gender equity. While not all the way there, we do not tolerate, by law or by accepted social norms, discrimination on the basis of gender in the workplace, in politics, or in society. Denying a person a job or advancement because of their gender is not only illegal, we now understand it to be wrong and immoral.

Today, a religion that does not give women the same opportunities as men must deal with a dilemma: Why do we accept something in our house of worship that would be intolerable out in the world? Any community that holds on to non-egalitarian practices must have an answer to that question.

That answer will be acceptable for some folks, and will most certainly be disappointing to others.

In the context of our practices at Congregation Sinai, the question of calling up the daughter of a kohen or levi for the first two aliyot is a really minor issue. It affects an incredibly small portion of our membership, and does not involve any change in our liturgy. It is now many years that we have called up men and women equally to the Torah.  

That is why I have decided, as the Rabbi of Congregation Sinai, that we will begin to call up daughters of kohanim and leviim for the first two aliyot during services. This brings us in line with the practices in a majority of Conservative synagogues.

This ruling applies to any person born Jewish whose father is a kohen. Like b’nei kohanim, A bat kohen cannot received aliyot two through seven, and like b’nei leviim, a bat Levi cannot receive the first aliyah, nor aliyot three through seven.

1200 Years of Jews in Ukraine

I have been thinking a lot about my grandmother this week. Baba Fania, zikhra livracha, was born in a city called Kamenets-Podolsk, in Ukraine.  She moved with her family to Kremenchug when she was a girl.

Her father died when she was young, so she and her sisters were left to be raised by her mother, my great grandmother, Chana. It was the 1930’s and so she received a good Soviet education, in Yiddish. She came home one day and told her mother that there was no God. Her mother smacked her, and declared emphatically, “I don’t care what they are telling you out there.  In this house, there is a God.”

As I was eating challah last night, I was thinking of a story that she told.  At times, they could not get any eggs. In order to get the golden color, they would take used tea bags and brush them over the dough.

My Baba escaped from Ukraine in 1941, just before the Nazis came into town. Her sisters and mother did not make it out, and were murdered along with the rest of her family. Dana and I named our son after my grandmother’s cousin, who died in the Holocaust.

Over the last several days, as we have observed the tragedy unfolding in Russia’s invasion of Ukraine, I have been thinking a lot about my Baba Fania. I have never been to Ukraine, but it is has felt very personal to me. I know that I must have distant relatives there, who are surely fearing for their lives.  I do not know how far back my own family’s history extends, but for sure it is many centuries. 

The history of Jews in Ukraine is a long one, and has gone through dramatic ups and downs, often at the same time.

Jews first arrived in Ukraine in the eighth century as refugees fleeing from the Byzantine Empire, Persia, and Mesopotamia. The earliest written reference to Jews in Galicia, Western Ukraine, is from 1030 CE.

Some time in the centuries that followed, the territory that is today modern Ukraine was taken over by the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth. As part of their administration, they would settle wealthy Polish Catholic nobles in Ukraine, and then encourage Jews to immigrate and serve as merchants. Jewish life prospered financially and culturally, and the population grew.

As might be expected, the local Ukrainian population, which was Eastern Orthodox, was kept in serfdom.

Resentment grew until, in 1648, as the Kingdom faced growing internal and external threats, Bogdan Chmelnytsky launched a Cossack rebellion. This led in 1651 to the incorporation of Ukraine by the Russian Tsar as a protectorate.

The Chmelnytsky revolt was devastating. Blaming the Poles for selling them “as slaves into the hands of the accursed Jews,” the Ukrainian Cossacks and Crimean Tatars murdered between fifteen and thirty thousand Jews and destroyed three hundred Jewish communities. The population declined dramatically, as many more Jews fled as refugees or died of disease and starvation.

But within a few decades, the tide would turn. The early 18th century saw the birth of Yisrael ben Eliezer, otherwise known as the Baal Shem Tov, the founder of Chasidism. Heavily influenced by Kabbalah, Jewish mysticism, Chasidism was incredibly popular and spread through much of Eastern Europe, making a huge and lasting impact on Ashkenazi Jewry.

By the end of the 18th century, the Russian Empire had completely annexed Ukraine, which created a problem, as Jews were not permitted to live in Russia. This led Catherine the Great to create the Pale of Settlement, which encompassed, among other areas, all of present day Ukraine.

Jewish life thrived through the eighteen hundreds, with the population growing and Jewish religious and cultural life expanding. At the same time, antisemitism was brutal. In 1881, Jews were falsely blamed for the assassination of Tsar Alexander II. With the encouragement of the authorities, pogroms were launched against Jewish communities throughout the Pale of Settlement, including in Ukraine. 

Tsar Alexander III introduced the May Laws in 1882 that imposed systematic discrimination against Jews, establishing quotas for educational and professional positions. This led to even more widespread poverty and mass emigration. The 1886 edict of Expulsion forced the removal of Jews living in Kyiv.

Another intense wave of pogroms in 1905 led to another wave of emigration. Multiple blood libels cases occurred between 1911 and 1913.

For context, this is the time period of Fiddler on the Roof. A lot of new ideas were spreading through Europe at this time, and Jews were attracted to some of the new ideologies that suggested an answer to the problems they were facing, that seemed to never go away. Jewish thinkers and revolutionaries were attracted to ideals of the enlightenment and internationalism. Jewish revolutionaries embraced socialism and became Communists. Others embraced Zionism, with many making aliyah to Palestine.

After World War One, during a short time period of 1917 to 1921, while the Russian Revloution was taking place, the Ukrainian People’s Republic presented a hopeful, albeit short-lived, moment for Jews. It was an independent socialist state that emerged in the wake of the Bolshevik Revolution.  Yiddish was an official language, even appearing on currency. All government posts and institutions had Jewish members and all rights of Jewish culture were guaranteed. It was the first government to establish a Ministry for Jewish Affairs.

But the backlash was severe. Anti-communist Ukrainian nationalists went to war against the Soviets, and in the process killed approximately one hundred thousand Jews in pogroms between 1918 and 1921.

By 1921, Ukraine had been conquered by the Soviets, becoming one of its republics. The 1920’s saw brutal efforts to eliminate Jewish religion and leave it with only a secular cultural identity, explaining why my grandmother learned in Yiddish that there was no God.

The Holocaust was devastating. More than one million Jews were murdered by the Nazis and many Ukrainian collaborators.

In 1941, there were 2.7 million Jews living in Ukraine. In 1959, that number was 840,000. By 1989, there were less than 500,000 Jews living in Ukraine.

Ukraine gained its independence in 1991, and this led to continued changes in the situation for Jews living there. Hundreds of thousands of Jews emigrated, most making aliyah to Israel.

At the same time, throughout the 1990’s, Jewish life began to reemerge. There was a lot of interest from Jewish communities in Israel and the West to support Ukrainian Jews and help them come back. The government has returned dozens of old synagogues and other buildings to the Jewish community which had been confiscated by the Nazis and the Soviets.

While antisemitism seems to have declined in the past thirty years, there have certainly been many instances of antisemitic attacks.  A far right Ukrainian nationalist party gained more than ten percent of the popular vote in 2012. On the other hand, last year, in 2021, the Ukrainian Parliament adopted a new law defining antisemitism and providing compensation for victims.

Attempts to determine the number of Jews currently living in Ukraine are wildly varying. Questions of Jewish identity, after 70 years of Soviet suppression, make it difficult. A 2020 census estimated 43,000 self-identifying Jews, but 200,000 would qualify for aliyah under the Law of Return. The European Jewish Congress claims that there could be as many as four hundred thousand people with Jewish ancestry in Ukraine.

Most Jews live in the cities Kyiv, Dnipro, Kharkiv, and Odessa. Those who live in villages tend to be elderly, and extremely poor. There are multiple synagogues, Hebrew schools, day schools, mikvaot, kosher restaurants, and six Jewish community centers. There are Jewish summer camps, which were able to resume this past summer after closing for Covid restrictions.

Ten Jewish newspapers are published in Kyiv alone, four of which have circulations of more than ten thousand. A weekly television program, Yahad, is shown on state television.

Most of these Jewish institutions are run by Chabad-Lubavitch. The Reform movement is active in 20 cities.

The Conservative movement has also been active in Ukraine since independence. Through Masorti Olami, the global branch of the Conservative Movement, Ramah, and the Shechter Institute in Jerusalem, it runs programs supporting communities in multiple cities. It sponsors youth groups, and has been operated a Camp Ramah since the early 1990’s. There are several Masorti Rabbis serving Ukrainian communities.

Right now, some members of the Ukrainian Jewish community are fleeing to the West.  Others are staying where they are, praying for peace and trying to survive. Not surprisingly, the Jewish Agency is receiving many inquiries lately about making aliyah.

And of course, we must mention Volodymyr Zelensky, who was elected President of Ukraine in 2019 with 73% of the vote. Zelensky is Jewish and the descendant of Holocaust survivors. At the time of his election, the Prime Minister of Ukraine happened to be Volodymyr Groysman, who is also Jewish. For a few months, Ukraine was the only country in the world other than Israel with a Jewish President and Prime Minister.

I encourage you to watch President Zelensky’s passionate appeal for peace to the people of Russia right before the invasion. I also encourage you to watch the forty second selfie video that he took with other members of his government on the streets of Kyiv Friday night as the city was preparing for being attacked. He insisted that they are not going anywhere. If you have not seen them, I encourage you to do so. And keep in mind the long history of Jews in Ukraine. To see the Jewish President of Ukraine speaking so courageously on behalf of all Ukrainians is astounding. It gave me chills to watch it. After over a thousand years, with all of its ups and downs, to see this, someone courageously standing up in the face of brutality and such danger is incredible.

If you have the capacity to do so, there are organizations that are trying to support people in Ukraine who are fleeing, and there will certainly be a tremendous need to support refugees in the months ahead.

I made a donation yesterday to Masorti Olami. The immediate cause they were trying to support was a group of one hundred fifty children who had fled to Lviv, in Western Ukraine.

I would like to close with a prayer for peace that was delivered at a service hosted by the Masorti movement on Thursday night. 

Iron in the Shul (After Colleyville) – Yitro 5782

I had the opportunity to learn, earlier this week, from other Conservative Rabbis, which helped me process last week’s hostage taking at Congregation Beth Israel in Colleyville, Texas. Some of what I am going to say this morning was inspired by what I learned from my colleagues.

One thing that I want to say from the outset is that there are a lot of really smart and insightful people who have a lot to say about these specific attack, as well as larger trends in antisemitism here in the United States and around the world. I am sure that you have read and heard a lot that you have found to be educational and meaningful.

I cannot hope to match the expertise of others in our Jewish community who specialize in these areas, nor is that my goal. All I can do is speak from my one particular vantage point as the Rabbi of Congregation Sinai.

A hostage crisis during Shabbat services is just about the scariest thing that I can imagine. It is a horrible scenario that has occupied my mind on many occasions over the years. To hear about it happening last weekend, especially with the prominent, courageous role played by Rabbi Charlie Cytron-Walker, really hit home for me.

It makes me sad, scared, and angry that we have to deal with such things. I don’t think there are any faith groups in the United States that have had to institute such stringent security measures at their houses of worship. It is not something that we should have to do. Simply put, it is not fair, and the need to do so directly contradicts the purpose of a synagogue.

At the end of Parashat Yitro, God delivers a few more commandments to the Israelites through Moses. One stands out. Here is the translation from our Etz Hayim Chumash:

If you make for me an altar of stones, do not build it of hewn stones;

כִּי חַרְבְּךָ הֵנַפְתָּ עָלֶיהָ וַתְּחַלְלֶהָ

for by wielding your tool upon them you have profaned them.

Exodus 20:22

The actual Hebrew word that has been translated “tool” is charb’kha, which actually means “your sword.”

The Mekhilta, an ancient midrash collection, quotes Rabbi Shimon ben Elazar.

The altar was created to lengthen a person’s years, but iron to shorten them. [Iron is the material of weaponry and killing.] It is not appropriate for that which shortens life to be wielded upon that which lengthens life!

Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakai then draws a connection between the altar and peace.   In a passage parallel to our verse, Deuteronomy instructs

אֲבָנִ֤ים שְׁלֵמוֹת֙ תִּבְנֶ֔ה אֶת־מִזְבַּ֖ח ה’ אֱ-לֹהֶ֑יךָ

With whole stones shall you build the altar of the Lord your God.

Deuteronomy 27:6

Noting the word sheleimot – “whole,” Rabbi Yohanan ben Zakai states that these stones of the altar produce shalom – “peace.”  Then he takes it a step further. 

If these stones of the altar, which neither see, nor hear, nor speak, can create peace between the Jewish people and the Holy Blessed One, what about a person who fosters peace between a husband and wife, between one city and the next, between one nation and another, between one government and another government, between one family and another family – how much the more so will such a person not suffer adversity.

Mekhilta d’Rabbi Yishmael 20:22:1-2

It was during Yohanan ben Zakai’s lifetime that the synagogue replaced the altar as the central location for Jewish worship. But it retained the same essential function. The subject of all our prayers, at a fundamental level, is shalom – “peace,” or “wholeness.” It is what we gather in synagogue for, and it is what we should strive for in our personal lives.

The midrash recognizes that there is something symbolically perverse about mixing stone and iron. The altar, and its replacement, the synagogue, should not require the sword to perform its primary function of fostering peace.

But ideals meat reality. We have a security guard at the gate every Shabbat. Our synagogue courtyard is surrounded by black iron bars. We have a sophisticated CCTV system, panic buttons all over our campus, and fancy bulletproof films covering the windows. We hold an Emergency Preparedness Shabbat just about every year during which we actually evacuate the synagogue in the middle of services under the supervision of the San Jose Police Department.

Our synagogue, this house of peace, is not just figuratively hewn from iron, it is covered in it. To protect our sanctuary, we must profane it.

What a sad and unfortunate reality. This is not a subject in which I expected to gain expertise when I decided to become a Rabbi, nor is it one in which I received any training. But it is one which, by necessity, I —we all — have had to reluctantly embrace.  What a steep price we pay.  

Yes, there are financial costs, but the more significant price is spiritual. Nobody should have to fear for their physical safety when they come to shul to pray. Parents should not have to think twice about sending their children to Religious School.  

For years, when I come into this room, I think about escape routes. I look around and try to identify what I could use as a weapon. In a synagogue!

I am done with my harangue.

Rabbi Charlie Cytron-Walker did two really important things last Shabbat: he served tea, and he threw a chair.

You have probably heard the story by now. A man, apparently homeless, showed up on Shabbat morning a few minutes before the start of services. It was cold outside, and he seemed to be seeking a place to warm up. The Rabbi welcomed him warmly, made him a cup of tea, and introduced him to the President of the congregation. At the time, there was no evidence that he posed a threat.

As soon as services began, however, the stranger pulled out a gun, and thus began an eleven hour hostage ordeal.

Towards the end, as he became increasingly agitated, Rabbi Cytron-Walker saw an opportunity.  He indicated to the two other congregants who were being held that they should be ready to attempt an escape. At a moment when the hostage taker seemed distracted, he threw a chair at him and the three of them quickly escaped.

An act of compassion and kindness, and an act of courage and, frankly, violence. Both acts should inspire us. We can look to two biblical women, both non-Israelites, whose stories model similar behaviors.

In the Book of Ruth, after her husband, brother-in-law, and father-in-law all die, Ruth binds herself and her fate to Naomi, her mother-in-law.  They return from Moab to Bethlehem, arriving destitute at the beginning of the barley harvest.

As chapter two opens, Ruth informs Naomi, “I would like to go to the fields and glean among the ears of grain, behind someone who may show me kindness.”  (Ruth 2:2)

What does this simple statement reveal? That Ruth, a Moabitess, knows that this place, where she has never set foot, is one in which a poor, foreign woman can go harvest for herself on a field belonging to another. The Book of Ruth does not mention the Torah’s obligation to leave the corners of the fields unharvested, among other mitzvot pertaining to tzedakah.

The details of the laws are beside the point. What matters is reputation. These people of Bethlehem are known to practice kindness, so when Ruth declares her intention, Naomi responds “Yes, daughter, go.”

Being compassionate, opening up our doors to let the stranger in, makes us vulnerable. Letting a stranger into our shul is a risk. That is why behaving with compassion is an act of faith, but would we prefer a Judaism which did not welcome the stranger? What would we be if we put up barriers that kept everyone else out?

Of course, evil exists. We cannot be so naive as to think that there are not those who hate us simply for being Jews.  Last weekend was the third violent attack in a synagogue on Shabbat in America in just over three years.  There have been six deadly antisemitic attacks in the United States since 2016.

According to FBI statistics, over the last several years Jews have been the targets of around 12% of all hate crimes.  Nearly two thirds of religion-based hate crimes have targeted Jews.  And we are less than two percent of the overall population.

Antisemitism is real and growing. It is not confined to a particular political ideology. Those who hate us for being Jewish do not care whether we are Reform, Conservative, or Orthodox, Democrats or Republicans. Our preparation and readiness are not misplaced.

This brings us to our second non-Israelite heroine.

Last Shabbat, while our fellow Jews were being held hostage, we read in the Haftarah about Yael. The Canaanite King Jabin had subjugated the Israelites for the past twenty years, with Sisera serving as the commander of his troops. Under the spiritual guidance and encouragement of the Chieftain Deborah, Barak leads the Israelites into victorious battle against Sisera with his nine hundred iron chariots. 

The Canaanite General flees, seeking refuge in the tent of Yael, wife of Heber the Kenite.  She offers him hospitality, feeds him, gives him milk to drink, and covers him with blankets so that he can fall asleep. Then she takes a tent peg and drives it with a hammer through his skull into the ground. In her victory song, Deborah praises this heroine.

Most blessed of women be Jael,
Wife of Heber the Kenite,
Most blessed of women in tents.

He asked for water, she offered milk;
In a princely bowl she brought him curds.

Her [left] hand reached for the tent pin,
Her right for the workmen’s hammer.
She struck Sisera, crushed his head,
Smashed and pierced his temple.

At her feet he sank, lay outstretched,
At her feet he sank, lay still;
Where he sank, there he lay—destroyed.

Judges 5:24:27

Ours is not a tradition that would have us be passive when threatened or attacked. Judaism recognizes that evil exists, and that we have a duty to fight it, that there are those who hate us, and that we must defend ourselves. Sometimes that means we must use force.

This is the uncomfortable place in which we find ourselves. How do we embrace a message of hope and peace, of compassion and openness, while also protecting ourselves from the very real threats that exist?

We cannot afford to simplistically think that there is a satisfying answer out there, if only we can find it.  The Jewish people knows that the world is messy, that human beings are imperfect and often unreliable. That our loftiest ideals have a tendency to slam into disappointing reality.

I come back to our name as a people, the name given to Jacob after he wrestles with the unnamed angel.  Yisrael – for you have striven with beings Divine and human and stayed in the game. That is who we are, and who we must continue to be.

We pray for a time when we can tear down all of the walls, remove the panic buttons and cancel the evacuation drills. In the meantime, we are Yisrael – the people who struggle. We remain committed to each other, to acting with compassion and kindness, to keeping each other safe, and to pursuing shalom in our prayers and our deeds.

Think for a moment: what are the last two words that we recite at the end of every Shabbat morning service?

At the end of Adon Olam, which we typically invite our children to lead, the final words are v’lo ira, words are aspirational and declarative: “I will not be afraid.”