Rabbi's Blog

Shanah tovah! Welcome to Rosh Hashanah, our Jewish New Year. I’m grateful for this opportunity to share thoughts from our tradition with you tonight, and I thank you for being here as we begin this holy time together.

Our services are made possible by many minds, hands and hearts: Cantor Re’ut Ben Ze’ev, our volunteer prayer leaders and shofar blowers, Leah Adler and all of the ritual committee, the board, Joanna Schnurman, Julio Ramos and Honor Edmands. Each has played a fundamental role in bringing us together yesterday, today, tomorrow and the High Holy Days ahead.

This is a wonderful beginning of the season of transformation, our Yamim Nora’im, our High Holy days.

Transformation, the recreation of the self, is what our tradition invites us to these days. We take leave from the world to embrace the possibility of transformation.

Now, I was seven and a half years old when I witnessed my first and most amazing moment of transformation – and that was… Clark Kent becoming Superman. As we had moved to Argentina, and settled in a tiny sleepy little town of 2,000 families, Pergamino, my parents decided to treat us, children, to an amazing experience – and took us to the movies. Superman was playing on the local cinema. The fact that he spoke English, and you had to read Spanish fast to catch up to the story, made no difference. I was smitten with the man of steel.

I mean, who wouldn’t? A completey good guy, someone who can fly faster than a speeding bullet, who is more powerful than a locomotive, and who, in a single bound, can leap tall buildings, can go backward in time, fix all problems and defeat evil. And to top it all, incredibly handsome. Blue, earnest eyes, and black waivy hair.

So it should come with no surprise that Mark and I, along something like 60 million other people worldwide, took our kids to see the new Superman movie this year. And as I revisited this powerful first example of transformation, I of course I hit the books, I learned something amazing: the man of steel was actually forged in the shtetl.

We all know Clark Kent is Superman, but I learned that both Clark Kent and Superman are Jewish. Books like “Up, Up, and Oy Vey” and “Is Superman Circumcised?” tell us a story that is actually hiding in plain sight:

In 1938, two Jewish kids from Cleveland, Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster, lived the immigrant story. Their families had fled Eastern Europe in the great Jewish migration of the late 1800s, and they understood what it meant to change your name, blend in, and yet never forget where you came from, who you were, which are your values. They made that story into a character: they called him Superman.

Siegel and Shuster imbued that creation with a deep, hidden identity. Consider the core elements of Superman’s story: his given name, Kal-El, is Hebrew for “voice of God” or “swift is God.” El is the ending of many names for angels in our tradition, that became regular names used by Jews and non-Jews alike: Michael, Rafael, Gabriel. Kal means swift, and Kol, which can be written as kal, depending on how you transliterate, means voice. Kal-El. What a Jewish name.

Now Superman, as a baby, was sent away from a dying world to survive. That world was a grand world, but is no more, there is no expectation of ever getting it back. There is no return to that past. Superman was destined to grow up hiding his true identity, he is raised by two good people who love him deeply, know he is a wonder, gifted, and yet do not understand him completely. Those adoptive parents have to be hidden themselves from the bad guys.

And his story is even more complex than that. Superman has a secret. He lives his everyday life as Clark Kent, the mild-mannered reporter of the Daily Planet in the city of Metropolis. Clark is quiet, a bit of a klutz, a little incompetent and clueless, and wears glasses. This the opposite of his heroic self. This duality — the public, assimilated persona of Clark Kent and the private, powerful, and truly unique identity of Superman — is a powerful metaphor for the Jewish American experience.

For many of us, our lives are a balance between these two worlds. We live as Clark Kent, fully integrated into American society, speaking its language, understanding its culture, and fitting in seamlessly.

Yet, within us lies a powerful, ancient, and divine identity — the Superman within. The question for us today is not which identity is real, but how we can embrace both. And all the other identities that happen inside the life of a person in America in the 21^st century.

Nearly a century ago, Rabbi Mordechai Kaplan talked about Jews living in two civilizations – two identities. Kaplan meant that a Jewish American person could maintain kashrut while embracing democratic values, celebrate both Sukkot and Thanksgiving as meaningful cultural moments, and draw from both traditions to create a rich, authentic life.

This framework back then liberated many of us from the false choice between assimilation and isolation. We were happy to be both 100% Jewish and 100% American. That rung true and powerful in 1920s, when he was writing.

Nowadays, however, we know that there are multiple identities for any person, and certainly any Jewish person. The binary does not work anymore – we have Jews that are Black, Asian, Latino, LGBTQ+, say nothing of the political expressions that are used as identities these days.

Our tradition speaks to these many identities in different ways – living in the Diaspora and its tensions with Jewishness is as old as the Bible itself. Consider a beloved Jewish holiday, Purim. The story is in the Book of Esther, the redemption from Haman is celebrated every year at Adath Israel, with reading the megillah and our Purim carnival. The entire story of Purim revolves around a hidden identity – and antisemitism.

Esther, a Jewish woman, becomes queen in the court of the Persian king, Ahashverosh. At the urging of Mordechai, her uncle for all purposes, she keeps her Jewish identity a secret. She is a perfect Clark Kent, blending in so completely that no one suspects her true origins. But when her people are threatened by Haman, Mordechai delivers a message that forces her to confront her true self: “Who knows if for such a time as this you have attained royalty?” (Esther 4:14).

Esther realizes that her identity is not a weakness to be hidden, but the very tool of her salvation. She sheds her Clark Kent persona, reveals her Jewishness to the king, and ultimately saves her people. For many of us, there comes a moment when our Jewish identity is called upon, not just for our own sake, but for a greater good. It is in those moments that our hidden strength is revealed.

Take the true story of Shai Davidai. He was a professor at Columbia University, and in his own words not very public about his Jewish and Israeli identity until October 7^th.

As an Assistant Professor in the Management Division of Columbia Business School, his research examined people’s everyday judgments of themselves, other people, and society. A very universal theme. I first heard him speak on a podcast called Israel Story, which features “wartime diaries”, by Mishi Harman. There, Shai Davidai explains that prior to October 7^th 2023 his Jewish identity was important but never “out there”. Shai even looks a little like Clark Kent. As a good professor, he wears glasses. In the army, he served as a medic for the Navy. He self-defines as a left winger in Israel, usually critical of the government. Living in Israel, he explains, makes your Jewishness paradoxically less intentional – it is like water for a fish. In America, he and his wife found out, for the first time, that to remain Jewish you have to be intentional about being Jewish. So they spoke Hebrew at home. They read the Israeli equivalent of PJ Library to their kids. They made time to observe some of  holidays. They talked about values.

But the atmosphere he witnessed on college campuses (and specifically at Columbia), compelled him to speak up and speak out against Hamas. And let me tell you that on Twitter, on October 6^th 2023, he had 900 followers, most people who are self-proclaimed nerds of universities, professors, talking about research in economics. But once a video of him speaking off the cuff, about his experiences on October 7^th, and the experiences of his family in Israel, and what was happening on the campus, all that changed.

By March 31, 2024, he had 30,000 followers. Nowadays he has almost 108,000. Having found his identity and his voice, he also lost his job at Columbia University. He has a podcast, entitled Here I am. Hineini. This is a powerful Jewish sentence.

It was on that podcast, Here I am with Shai Davidai, that I heard the story of Debra Messing. Having been born in Brooklyn, but moving next to a farm in Rhode Island, Debra Messing had many encounters with antisemites. She was called names in second grade, her grandfather’s car was vandalized with a swastika and she was taunted by the other kids when she observed Yom Kippur. So she hid. She began lying to other children, telling them she was sick every time she had to stay home for a Jewish holiday. “I had decided I am just going to hide,” she explained. “I’m going to hide my identity. I’m gonna try and just blend in because that’s the safest way.”

Sounds like a great Clark Kent to me.

But for college she went to Brandeis University. That shook her awake, because the school is, I am quoting her here, “Jew U.”

She explained that not only they “had off for Yom Kippur, but everyone talked about Shabbat and all of the sudden I felt seen. And I over the years became proud and decided that I wasn’t going to hide anymore and that I was going to embrace my heritage, and be loud and proud.” Debra Messing has emerged as a prominent voice against antisemitism in recent years, as a side to her activism regarding marginalized communities seeking equity and inclusion. She also chose to say Hineini, here I am.

And this sentence, here I am – Hineini,  is a powerful Jewish sentence. Abraham is the first human to use it, as the Torah reading of today has told us: here I am. I am present at this moment – unapologetically Jewish. Now all of us can see the Superman behind the glasses. The Clark Kent persona was no longer.

None of them: Esther, Shai Davidai, Debra Messing, Superman are hiding their strength – they are all showing their essence, their soul.

This brings us to a second Jewish source for this morning, the very essence of Jewish existence. The Zohar speaks of the Neshamah, the soul, and the Guf, the body.

The body is the external vessel, the public-facing part of us that interacts with the world. But the Neshamah is the inner, divine spark, our true, spiritual self. Our soul. It is this hidden essence that connects us to God and to our tradition.

Our Clark Kent self is the Guf, navigating the complexities of the modern world in diaspora, in America of the 21^st century. Our Superman identity is our Neshamah, the part of us that remembers our covenant, our history, and our sacred obligations. It never forgets. It remembers its deep devotion to Life, with capital L.

In that, we are no different than our ancestors in other great Jewish Diasporas, like Spain in the early middle ages, like Poland in the 13^th century with the statute of Kalisz, when Jews were so accepted and integrated in the general community that they had to be intentional about their Jewish identity and practices.

The Jewish challenge has always been to ensure that the Guf never completely overshadows the Neshamah, but rather serves as its protective shield, a way to move through the world while keeping our deepest identity intact, coming out when needed to connect with the Transcendent, to defend Jewish peoplehood.

The thing is, we are different. We straddle two worlds: the world of religion and the world of peoplehood.

When a convert comes in, they are not signing up just for a set of beliefs and actions, they are signing up for a collective destiny: in Nazi Germany, for instance, a convert, even if they were 100% Aryan, had the same end as a born Jew.

But our Jewish identity cannot be constructed just by antisemitism. We can’t be Jewish just because others hate us. Ours is a tradition in which the main life-long intellectual exercise is to know enough to have a dialogue with the tradition. A few of my non-Jewish friends express surprise when they learn how alive and full of opinions Jewish Law really is, how diverse. This is because Christians come from a tradition, particularly if they are Catholics, that prizes agreement with tenets, and a collective path of decision making – in the Catholic tradition the Pope is the presence of God in the world.

But not us. The Shechinah, God’s presence, according to the rabbis, resides whenever one, two, three, ten people are studying and debating together. God’s presence is inside every Jewish soul, lovingly beconing us to be our best selves, using our traditions and our mitzvot as a vehicle to survive in the world.

And Jewish peoplehood gives us a lesson too.

Look at our history, look at the history of the Jewish people. Time and again, we have been a people who were seemingly scattered, weak, and without a homeland, yet we have defied all expectations. We are a miracle in time: the Assyrians, the Babylonians, the Egyptians, the Romans –  not one of those remain, their cultural influence makes up bits and pieces of the Western culture, but they are not here.

We, on the other hand, can say – hineini, in Hebrew, here I am. Or Ich bin doh, in Yiddish – here I am. Or that phrase in any of the several other Jewish languages in the world, like ladino, judeo-arabic, judeo-Malayalam….

We, my friends, we are the ultimate Superman, a people that has survived against all odds, creating a powerful spiritual and intellectual tradition that has shaped our presence in the world through Torah, mitzvot and community.

This strength did not come from our public persona, did not come from our Clark Kent, but from our hidden resilience, our Superman, our emunah our faith, about which I will be speaking about tomorrow – I know, shameless plug – and from our unwavering commitment to our identity and the right of being us. The right and the beauty of being different.

Ours is a strength that is so profound, it often takes an outside observer to see it. It is the kind of strength that shows up in moments of great crisis, but it has been building inside us all along, being nurtured by our commitment to our values, ideals and texts.

Let us learn from Superman’s duality. Our Jewish identity is not something to be forgotten or compartmentalized. It is our greatest strength, our moral compass, and our source of resilience. We can be Clark Kent, fully present in the world, and we can be Superman, powered by the strength of our Neshamot, our souls.

The challenge, and the opportunity, is to let our Superman self—the one who draws from thousands of years of tradition, from the Torah, from our sacred texts, and from our collective soul—guide our actions as Clark Kent. As a reminder, you all received a seal of Superman – remember who you are.

So here is to a year in which we all have the strength to live as both Clark and Superman, finding the right moment to reveal our true selves for the good of our people and all of humanity. May we finding the strength to do so, and the courage to learn so as to be a meaningful part of our people. Le Shanah Tovah tikatevu. May we all be inscribed in the book of a life well lived.

This week’s reading is the longest in Torah – it is the combination of Matot and Masei. The two readings together, which happens almost every year, have 253 verses and it is the longest reading of the Torah. The longest portion is Naso, with 176 verses, followed by Pinchas, with 168 verses. But Matot and Masei, which are very frequently combined, have together 253 verses.

The portion of Matot begins with Moshe explaining the laws of vows and oaths, including how they can be annulled. It then details the Israelites’ war against Midian, outlining the laws regarding the spoils of war. Finally, it addresses the request of Reuben and Gad to settle outside of the Promised Land, a request that Moses initially rejects but ultimately grants under specific conditions.

The portion of Masei summarizes the Israelites’ journey through the wilderness, delineates the borders of the Promised Land, and outlines the laws regarding cities of refuge and inheritance for women. It also details the Israelites’ 42 stations in the wilderness, from Egypt to the plains of Moab.

Love and Limits: Photo by Lera Ginzburg on Unsplash

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In the middle of Matot, there is a troubling command: God tells Moshe: “Avenge the Jewish people against the Midianites – and after that you will be gathered to your people.”

What the Midianites did to the Jewish people in the desert is described in the previous portions, at the end of parashat Balak and the beginning of parashat Pinchas. It was a sexual trap to get the Israelites to worship a deity called Ba’al Pe’or. A plague followed, as a punishment to the people. This plague was the greatest death in the 40 years in the desert, surpassing even the Golden Calf. This plague had 24,000 people dead, and is only stopped by the equally troubling actions of Pinchas.

The idea that our ethics and morals extend to our sexual behavior is present in the Ten Commandments, for instance, with “do not commit adultery” and on Yom Kippur afternoon reading. Kedushah, holiness, is defined by elevating the physical, and guarding it with limitations: the idea being that God created a physical world and us, physical beings, elevate that to the realm of a day-to-day spirituality.

We create holy days, like Shabbat, by refraining from certain actions, and not working. We create holy relationships, with our parents and partners, by honoring them – and some of that honor is expressed by not doing certain actions, like deception, cheating, cursing. Maimonides will add to the concept of holiness also the idea that we elevate food: both the laws regarding what animals we eat or not, and the death we cause to animals by making sure that they are killed in the quickest way – both of those ideas he inserts in the part of “laws of holiness” in Maimonides’ code. How we refrain our impulses regarding food is holiness too. To be a holy people, we elevate the mundane,and sexual behavior is part of that. Judaism is about finding ways of elevating our daily life towards holiness – we are called a holy people. The Midianites, the story in the Torah tells us, entrapped the Jews precisely through making them believe that there are no limits for sexual behavior.

The text continues, however, by telling Moshe that as soon as this war is done, he, Moshe, will die. The people of Israel at this point are poised to go into the promised land, and we know that all the leadership of the desert would not get into the land. Moshe is the last of the three siblings: Miriam and Aharon have died. And the text has said that as soon as this battle is waged, he will die. A normal person will understandably balk at such a command, and try to postpone it. But Moshe is giving us a lesson in leadership – he immediately gets the people ready for this war. He knows that he has to give up on his life so that the people can move forward in their story.

Great leaders are those who put the needs of those whom they lead before their own needs. Moshe is not just giving up leadership, and letting Joshua take over, but he is also giving his very existence so the people can go into the land. It is rare, nowadays, to find that type of leader, the leader that will put the collective well being above his or he personal desires, his or her personal interests, his or her political interests.

I have told this story a couple of times, so let me tell it to you too. As a freshly minted rabbi, I went to what can be describe as a job fair for rabbis. Conservative synagogues looking for new rabbis and fresh off the school rabbis meet, have interviews and from there, if the interviews are good, the rabbi goes to visit communities and see if they would be a good fit. I interviewed with several of communities, and got to visit four of them, one on each following weekend.

There was a community looking for an assistant rabbi. The pay was excellent, they had a nice house for the assistant rabbi, and the community seemed nice. So I was not the only new rabbi trying for that assistant position, and visiting it. And suddenly, before any of us received a yes or no, the congregation closed that position without giving an explanation. The explanation came on the papers next day: the senior rabbi had stolen 100,000 dollars from the congregation for his own personal use. And what was the use? To bring his mistress over from another state! I’ll let that sink in for a moent. The rabbi, of course, lost his license to be a rabbi, went to jail for a few years and then became an used car salesman. I do not have to tell you how traumatic that experience was for the community itself, how they had to pick up the pieces afterward, how long and difficult the healing process was.

Whenever leaders put their own personal interests above the needs of the community, in our people, tragedy ensues. This Shabbat we begin what is called the nine days, which is the period between Rosh Chodesh Av and Tishah beAv, the nineth day of the month of Av, when we remember the destruction of the Temple. That destruction happened for many reasons, say the rabbis. One of them is the infighting between the leaders – every single group during the second temple period had a position that can be described as “my way or the highway”. Every individual that was significant, even if they were not a leader, had their own desires front and center, not caring about the needs of the nation, the people, or even Jerusalem. Not caring about limits. This is called ‘sinat hinam’, translated as ‘senseless hatred’, the most famous of those stories is Kamtsa and Bar Kamtsa.

Senseless hatred is an odd concept, if you think about it. When you listen to people who hate, they all think that they are being very sensible. They all have logical reasons to hate and to put their own actions forward with complete disregard for the other, with complete disregard for the consequences to their families, communities and people. They all have logical reasons to want to have no barriers towards their objectives. It is my way or the highway. So I don’t think that senseless hatred is a good translation of ‘sinat hinam’. A better translation is ‘hatred freely given, without regard for consequences’.

Whenever we give in to hate, there are consequences. When we decide that we have a pass on hateful actions because the ends justify the means, that is sinat hinam. When we somehow rationalize our hate driven actions, after all we are only looking for our own interests, that is sinat hinam, hate given freely without thinking of the consequences. The names in the story, Kamtsa and Bar Kamtsa, can be translated as Locust and Locust Junior.  Now think about the destruction locusts bring – and yet each locust is doing precisely only their own interest: to eat as much as possible in the shortest amount of time, they only focus on their selves. They destroy everything, there’s nothing left for the next generation. The hatred between Locust and Locust Jr destroyed the temple, say the rabbis – because it was just each looking for his own interests, and disregarding the collective.

Holiness, our portion reminds us, is to be searched throughout our lives, in every moment, in every action. This means regarding the other, listening to them, accepting limits, understanding and taking in consideration the needs of those we share our lives with, the needs of our friends and families, the needs of our communities, cities, people and nation. The needs of the collective, as Moshe exemplifies to us. Sinat hinam, consequence-free hatred, is the complete opposite of that.

So may we take to heart these lessons, may we see the needs of others and take them in consideration, and may we, after the Nineth of av, find the true consolation of Ahavah hinam, Love that is given freely. Shabbat shalom.

Summary: “Naso,” means “Count” // it is the longest portion in verses // Completing the headcount in the desert. We read the laws of sotah, who is the woman suspected of adultery by her husband; the laws of Nazir, the person who decides to abstain of grape products, cutting hair and attending to dead bodies; the blessing of the kohanim: yevarechecha hashem. The 12 tribe leaders, princes, called nesi’im in our portion, bring gifts to the Tabernacle. All gifts are the same but they are repeatedly described by the text.

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There was once a Hasidic disciple of the Toldot Aharon (Aharon the rebbe of the Karlin dynasty) who decide he need to elevate his soul even more. He was a young man deeply devoted to his spiritual growth but felt that it was not enough just to be a devoted hasid. He took a Nazirite vow. He stopped cutting his hair, stopped touching or consuming any grape products, and distanced himself from any source of spiritual impurity.  You might think this is easy, but have you noticed how much grape products we consume, at every holiday and every Shabbat? Even challahs can have raisins. So he refrained from staying for kiddush, did havdalah by himself, and was never there if the lechayims included wine, which was common at the Karlin court. He also stopped going to cemeteries and visiting shiva houses.

His life became one of solitary holiness, with prayer, Torah study, and deep introspection being the core of his routine. After some time, he began to feel disconnected from the world around him. One day, he asked to see the Rebbe and explained his situation, feeling that his path was at a crossroads: Must his spiritual connection with God be at odds with people? The Rebbe of Karlin listened patiently and said:

“You have made yourself pure, but in doing so, you have distanced yourself from the community. Holiness is not only a solitary endeavor. That is easy. The real challenge is to use holiness to transform both yourself and the world around you. True holiness shines through when you bring light to others.”

The young man was puzzled. He asked, “But Rebbe, how can I bring light to others when I am separated from the world?”

The Rebbe responded: “This is the teaching of the Nazir. While the Nazir refrains from certain pleasures, she or he is still part of a greater community. The sanctity of the nazir is not for the individual alone — it is to serve as a model for others, a conduit of blessing. If you truly wish to elevate yourself, you must learn to blend your inner purity with the needs of the community.”

A short while later, the Hasid found himself in a position where he was called upon to serve as a part of the kohanim, giving the blessing during Rosh Hashanah.

That year, the hasidim told the rebbe: what an amazing moment! Each and every one of those present, men and women, felt an overwhelming sense of peace, and some even reported feeling a tangible presence of divine energy in the air. The moment of Birkat Kohanim was unlike any they had experienced before! The very heaven seemed to have opened in the shul. Many felt impelled to review their deeds and be kinder to those around them.

The rebbe then called the young nazir, and told him: now it is time for you to see that you can actually raise holiness among people. Look what happened: when you raised your hands they became channels for a deep spiritual power – because you were able to help others with the energy of devotion, restraint and self-discipline.

The young man then embraced the end of his Nazir vow, as he understood that holiness is not about retreating from the world, but about bringing God’s presence into the world, sharing blessings with others.

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What seems to be the pinaccle of these gifts?

Why is the last verse in our reading important, and what do you think it teaches us?

Behar-Behukotai

Summary: Behar and Bechukotai come very frequently together. In a 19 year cycle, they are read together 12 times. Behar (“On The Mountain”) details the laws of the sabbatical year (Shemita), when working the land is prohibited and debts are forgiven. It also sets out laws of indentured servitude and of the Jubilee year (Yovel), when property reverts to its original ownership. Bechukotai (“In My Laws”) is the final Torah portion in the Book of Leviticus. It begins describing blessings that follow obedience to God’s laws and curses that come with desecration of them. It ends with laws of vows and consecration of people and property.

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In the parsha of Bereshit, God poses two questions that end up being fundamental for our existence – Ayeka – where are you? and Ey Hevel achicha – where is your brother Abel?

We know that siblinghood is fraught with problems in the entire book of Bereshit. Kayin and Hevel are the first ones, but it does not get a whole lot better as we move through the story. Ishmael is banned to give space to Itzchak, whom he might have tried to kill, according to some commentators. Esau threatens to kill Yaakov, who has definitely pulled the wool over his eyes, as only brothers can do to one another. Rachel and Leah have a relationship defined by competition. The sons of Yaakov pretend their brother Yosef is dead.

Really, the only two siblings that get more or less along are Aharon and Moshe, and even then their relationship is not easy.

When you have that in mind, it is quite jarring to read the Hebrew of our portion, and not see the word achicha, your brother, jumping out, almost screaming. In the whole of Leviticus, “your brother” will appear 8 times, five in our reading. If you add achiv, “his brother”, as in “he will redeem his brother” that will appear 9 times in the entire book of Leviticus, but 5 of those will be in our reading. If you have been keeping count, of the 17 times brother appears in the book, ten of those times are in our reading. So the idea of siblinghood, at this end of the book, is really important.

In part, it is because we are reading the laws of the Yovel, the Jubilee year. And our reading depicts a person falling progressively into poverty, first selling their land, then living with relatives and finally selling themselves as slaves, either to other Jews or to non-Jews. At all points, that person’s siblings are supposed to come and help, to redeem the land and the person. And then an interesting shift happens, which is as the slave is free with the Yovel, the Jubilee year, they are supposed to, and I quote “return to their family”. The text has slid an expansion of the term “brother” – the brother is not whom you share a bloddline with, but the brother, the sibling, is really just another person that is part of our people. The obligation for caring for them is expanded as if they were siblings.

We easily see and feel that we have deeper relationships with those in our family, that those with whom we share a personal history have a claim on us, and us on them. The idea that if a sibling has fallen into poverty and we should help them is easily accepted, as it is the first circle of obligation. But the text wants more: the text wants us to accept the obligation as the circle expands to all the persons in our people. You could, and probably should, that the web of obligation is stronger among the members of one’s family, and weaker among the members of one’s people. But the text is very clear: do not imagine it does not exist. There is an obligation to the other, those who are not your family.

But do we stop there? Just on our people? The Torah, having told us the stories of all the siblings in Genesis, is actually asking us to see a little deeper and a little more expansive. Remember, the second question that God asks a human being is “where is your brother?”

We all, at a certain point, quoted the answer “I don’t know! Am I my brother’s keeper?” because we intinctively know that yes, we are the ones taking care of our siblings, just as they are taking care of us. But let us remember that Kayin is not just the universal figure for the first homicide and fratricide. He is the universal figure of not caring.

The Torah can really be seen as the response to that question. In Deuteronomy, for instance, there is no such a thing as “the poor” as a separate entity than “us” (chapter 15). Every time the poor are mentioned, they are mentioned as your sibling somewhere. The text in Deuteronomy goes so far to remind us that “you are all children of your God” (14:1).

But we, my friends, we do not live in Torah times, we live in the 21^st century. Our understanding of our interconnectedness has grown, and we all have seen the idea that we can always be connected to anyone in the world with 6 steps. This is one of the beauties of social media – we learn that we are, indeed, connected to all.

In the Talmud, in Baba Metzia, we read that our circles of obligation begin in our family, but they never stop there. In Sotah we learn that we support the non-Jewish poor together with the Jewish poor, the sick Jews along with the sick non-Jews, the Jewish and the non-Jewish deceased are all to be taken care for together.

We, Jews, are called to care. Not just about our family, not just about our people, not just about our town, not just about our state, not just about our country. We are called by the text to care. For all. Not equally, but care for all.

It is only by answering God’s second question: where is your brother? with a significant answer, and not the flippant answer of Kayin, that truly, we can then know the answer to the first of God’s questions: where are you?

May this week we be able to answer “hineini”, here I am, to both of those questions.

Shabbat Shalom

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Shabbat morning:

~ What things can be made sanctified, ie, consacrated, specified for use in the Temple, according to our reading? What are the exceptions?

~ What is the power of saying that something is for the use of the Temple?

“Acharei Mot,” means “after the death of”

“Kedoshim,” means “holy”

Following the deaths of Nadav and Avihu, God warns against unauthorized entry “into the holy” – this is a place, inside the tabernacle in our story and later, inside the Temple, where incense is offered. Only one person, the kohen gadol may, once a year, on Yom Kippur, enter the innermost chamber in the Sanctuary to offer the incense. The rest of the reading is the description of Yom Kippur in the Tabernacle, with the two goats, and we read that on Yom Kippur morning.

The Parshah of Kedoshim begins with the statement: “You shall be holy, for I, Ad-nai your God, am holy.” This is followed by many mitzvot through which a Jewish person enters in this holy relationship with God. Kedoshim is famous because of one line: “Love your neighbor…”

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Recently I learned with R. Jeni Friedman that philosophical and ethical concepts can be either thin or thick, depending on how we use them.

One example is “good”. When we say “oh, he’s such a good person” – this is a thin concept, because there is no real description behind this “good”. It is very different if I say “he’s courageous”, because courage is a thicker, more define, concept than just “good”. If I say “he’s good, he’s generous with his time” I am providing you with a thickening of this general, undefined “good”.

Holiness, I think, works the same way as “good”. We don’t think about what being holy means, as we are pretty far away from the times when the Torah was written and feel even farther away from God.

Reading the text of Kedoshim, that begins with “you shall be holy because I, Ad-nai your God am Holy”, we have a progressively thickening of this concept. Firstly, there is not being holy only internally, without an action that brings about holiness in the external world. This is the first and most important piece: a person needs to act. Holiness is not a given, holiness is not a inherent quality of anyone, and cannot be achieve without effort. The parsha, which is fairly short, has 51 mitzvot, which is a fair amount in the total number of mitzvot.

The mitzvot described in our portion are either acts between us and God, or between us and other people. We, moderns, would imagine that if the Torah is talking about holiness it will inevitably focus on what we call ritual actions, but that is not so. The very first action in the list offered by Kedoshim is to revere parents – the rabbis will expand this to any parental figure you had in your life, not just a mother and a father. So shout out to the mothers and mother figures out there! Now, we all agree I believe that we would say that this is a mitzvah that is between people. You can’t revere your parents or parental figure if you are alone in an island.

Many mitzvot that are found in the Torah need us to be in contact with others to actualize those mitzvot.

And yet, in the same line, in the same sentence that we read about revering parents, we read that we are supposed to keep Shabbat. Now that one, we all agree, can be done without someone around: it can be actualized alone in a remote island. It is with those two mitzvot that this section telling us how to be holy opens: you need both mitzvot with God and mitzvot with people for this project.

And yet, if you go around counting and separating the mitzvot only on those two categories, you have 32 mitzvot between people and 19 between us and God. The clear weight of holiness is as we act with each other. Holiness, in Judaism, cannot be achieved alone: every person you meet is a portal for you to find the path of holiness. To be holy is a path of the everyday, it is not a path for the saintly person living alone at the top of the mountain.

By not lying, by refraining from gossip, by having honest weights and measures, by treating the stranger as you would treat yourself, because, says the text, you know how oppressed a stranger is, given that you were strangers in Egypt. By giving tzedakah to the poor, by supporting those who have less than you, by paying your workers on time, by not embarassing anyone. All those are examples from our text, all those are moments when we progressively become holy.

The crowning glory of Kedoshim is “love your neighbor as yourself”. Very famous sentence, repeated everywhere. Less famous is what the rabbis will do with it: love your neighbor – act lovingly towards those around you, whether in your home or in the market. Because for Judaism, love cannot be just a feeling, it is not enough for it to be inside, love has to come outside, out of the closet of our hearts, in all its glory to the outside, to the other.

The same happens with holiness: we have to act towards the other in holiness, and then we will achieve this level. It is Maimonides who will insist that we have to pay an enormous attention to what we do because, he says, we become what we habitually do. To be holy, says the Torah, we need people around us. We need community. We need to engage with one another. We need to give to others, without expecting to be repaid. Holiness, for such a lofty concept, is actually in our hands.

Shabbat Shalom.

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Shabbat morning:

Look at the mitzvot we will be reading as part of the holiness code. Besides positive and negative, how else can you divide them?

[Between people and people, between God and people, between people and the land (orla), between people and themselves (cutting skin for the dead)

Pekudei –

Summary: “Pekudei,” means “Accountings of”. This is what the Parsha deals with: an accounting is made of the gold, silver and copper donated by the people for the making of the Mishkan. Betzalel, Oholiav and their assistants make the eight priestly garments—the apron, breastplate, cloak, crown, hat, tunic, sash and breeches—according to the specifications communicated to Moshe before, in Tetzaveh.

The Mishkan is completed and all its components are brought to Moshe, who make it stand and anoints it with the anointing oil, markign that every single piece is now holy. Moshe initiates Aharon and his four sons into the priesthood. A cloud appears over the Mishkan, signifying the Divine Presence that has come to dwell within it.

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In a small village, far from the great centers of Torah learning of Poland, lived a simple Jew named Shmuel. He was neither a scholar nor a wealthy man—just a carpenter, he made his living by building houses. His hands were rough from years of labor, and his back hurt from carrying wood. He never felt the center of anything, and always thought of himself as a background figure.

Shmuel often thought of the Mishkan, the holy sanctuary built in the wilderness. He loved listening to the Torah portions detailing the construction. He marveled at how each material—gold, silver, wood, wool—was carefully accounted for, and how every craftsman, from the most skilled to the simplest, had a role in its creation.

One day, news spread that the great Rebbe of Mezhibuzh, the Baal Shem Tov, was visiting a nearby town. Though the journey was long, Shmuel felt an irresistible pull to go. “Perhaps,” he thought, “I will hear a teaching that will lift my soul.”

Upon arriving, Shmuel found the Rebbe surrounded by scholars and wealthy patrons, all seeking his wisdom. Shmuel stood quietly at the back of the crowd, listening intently but feeling small. What could a simple carpenter like him contribute to such a gathering?

The Baal Shem Tov suddenly looked up, his piercing eyes scanning the crowd. “Tell me, my friends” he called out, “is there a carpenter among us?”

The people turned, surprised, when Shmuel hesitantly stepped forward. “I am a carpenter, Rebbe.”

The Baal Shem Tov smiled. “Tell me, beautiful soul, when you begin preparing boards for building  a house, do you ever find a board that seems crooked or unfit for use?”

Shmuel nodded. “Yes, Rebbe. But I do not discard it right away. Sometimes, I find that it fits perfectly in a place I did not expect.”

The Rebbe’s face lit up. “Aha! And so it is with us. In the great structure of creation, some souls seem crooked, unworthy, or unimportant. But Hashem, the Master Builder, does not cast them away. Instead, God knows exactly where they belong.”

A hush fell over the crowd. The great scholars, the wealthy patrons—all of them suddenly understood that just as the Mishkan needed all the willing participants to be there, even those who seemed small and unnecessary, in the world too, very person has a place, even those who feel unworthy.

Tears welled in Shmuel’s eyes. He had always felt like an unnoticed worker in the background, but now he saw the truth: in Hashem’s divine accounting, no one is extra, no one is wasted. Every person, every effort, is counted.

As he left, his step was lighter, his heart full. He would return to his work with new strength, knowing that in the great building of Hashem’s world, his hands—and his soul—mattered.

That night, he had a dream: the Mishkan stood in front of him. But it was not the mishkan of the Torah text. An angel explained to him: “Shmuel, what you see is the spiritual reality of the Mishkan, the mishkan above. Every good deed, every pure thought, every time you hold back from speaking ill, every tear you shed in prayer — all these are pieces that come together in this Mishkan, the one that all the souls of the Jewish people help build, in this reality above. And Shmuel, there is one piece missing… and it is yours to place.”

From that time on, Shmuel never again saw himself as small. He understood that in Hashem’s divine accounting, every action of every person who yearns for for God’s presence is a fundamental piece in the spiritual reality of the Jewish people.

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Shacharit

~ When was the Mishkan completed? When is that this year?

~ What is Moshe’s reaction when all is said and done? Why, in your opinion? What does he do?

~ Can you find connections between the mishkan and the story of creation, back in genesis?

Summary: Bo means “come”, as in “come to Pharaoh”, even though the translation will say ‘go to Pharaoh’. And this is God commanding Moshe to talk to Pharaoh after the announcement that God has, indeed, hardened Pharaoh’s heart. We read the last three plagues: locusts, darkness and the plague of the firstborn. We read the very first collective mitzvah – establishing a calendar. We read the first passover of all times, with the lamb and the blood on the mezuzot. Passover specifics are given: not bread, no leaven for seven days, eat matzah, tell your children. The commandment of tefilin is also given.

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KS

The Kotzker Rebbe, Menachem Mendel Morgensztern of Kotzk lived from 1787 to 1859 in Poland wants to tell us an important point regarding our portion. He starts with, “Bo el Paro,” come to Pharaoh. Notice, he says, that the Torah does not say lekh, as in like Lekh Lekha to Abraham and Sarah. It could. And actually, good Hebrew would say it should read “lekh el Par’o, go to Pharaoh. But it doesn’t the Text says Bo, “come” to Pharaoh. The Kotzker will say that there is a reason for that, that the reason is that one cannot go from the Blessed Holy One – it is impossible to distance one’s self from God, because God exists in every makom or in English, “place,” in every place.

Every piece of reality we experience, the good, the bad, the ugly – there is God there too.

The Kotzker rebbe quotes Isaiah, which is a famous sentence if you come to shul on the morning: “Melo kol ha-aretz kevodo –  The whole earth is full of God’s kavod.” – that is, glory, majesty, honor. The Kotzker continues: “Therefore God says here, ‘come’, as if to say, ‘Come with me.’ Hineni it’cha, Behold, I am here with you wherever you go.”  Meaning, as the Talmudic rabbis say, the universe is not the place of God, God is the place of the universe. God is not a deity with limited location and powers, God is not a him, God is not a her either, God just is. Maimonides will say something to the effect that God is the background or ground of all meaning, of all reality. God is the touchstone of all morality and ethics. In other words, that God is not “a god,” but that God is the word our ancestors used to mean that reality that we need to acknowledge before we can do anything meaningful.

The Kotzker is saying is that Moshe needs to change his own paradigm about God. Moshe – and us, of course – need to stop thinking that God is going to take him by the hand and go somewhere with him, and fix all things. Moshe needs to understand that God, in the way that God wants to be known, is already with him and in fact also with Pharaoh, and that the responsibility is now entirely on Moshe to understand that truth and to do what needs to be done.

Another famous story of the Kotzker is him asking his bewildered students, “Where does God dwell? Where does God exist?” They say, “Well you taught us that Rebbe. You taught us that God is everywhere. The whole earth is full of God’s glory.” And the Kotzker answers “Not exactly – God is wherever we let God in.” In other words, there’s no place or person or thing or animal in whom God is not – there is no place in the world that is void of God’s presence.  But we, we can be void of the awareness of that reality, we can feel that God is not there because we do not acknowledge that reality.

In a way, the Kotzker is trying to disabuse us of a childishly idea of God, that of a superman (or superwoman) or that of a big daddy (or mommy) that will make it all better. It is fine to have that idea when you are a kid, but once you have some more years and experiences under your belt, that theology is a recipe for disaster. The notion that the Kotzker is advancing here is that God is the reality who is already here with you, and will be with you even in the frightening moments of your life  – in Moshe’s life, the moment of confronting a Pharaoh who has a hardened heart. In your life, think of whatever was the most frightening time you had – and God was there with you too, and God will be there with you. The only thing left for you to do is also the most fundamental: acknowledge and understand that reality.

So may this be a week of embracing this mystery: God is. In all of our experiences, God is, was and will be. Shabbat shalom.

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What are the mitzvot mentioned in our reading this morning? What are the connections that you can find between them?

[matzah, pessach, telling the story, sacrificing firstborn, tefilin] All hearken back to knowing we were slaves.

Summary: “Vayechi,” means “And he lived” – just as we had with Chayey Sarah, which means the life of Sarah but actually talks about her death, here too we will begin with Vayechi Yaakov – Yaakov lived, but we are actually seeing Yaakov’s last moments.

Yaakov will take the transformation of death haed on: he first make Yosef, or Joseph, swear that his body will be taken to be buried in the Cave of Machpelah; and then in a second scene he blesses Yosef’s children, Efrayim and Menashe. The third scene of his passing is where our triennial picks up: at the end of his blessings for each of his children. We read the blessing for Biniamin and an explanation for the request of being buried in the Cave of Machpelah. We will read the Egyptian rites for Yaakov and the Jewish ones. The portion will end with Yosef again assuring his brothers of his complete forgiveness, his death and making the descendants of Yaakov promise they would take his bones back to the land of Israel when possible.

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KS

There was once a man who lived a comfortable life in a quiet village. He had three close companions whom he loved dearly, each played an important role in his life.

One day, a royal messenger arrived at his home with startling news: “The king has summoned you to his court. Prepare yourself, for you must give an account of your life.”

The man grew anxious. “I have never been to the palace,” he thought. “I need support. I must ask my friends to accompany me.”

He turned to his first friend, the one he loved most. He said to the friend: “the king has summoned me. Will you come with me to the palace?”

The friend answered: “Are you kidding? I will stay in your house. Don’t you know what is written? “Riches profit not in the day of wrath” (Prov. 11:4).

The man felt a pang of sorrow. He then turned the second friend, whom he loved but paid less attention in life than the first friend and asked: “the king has summoned me. Will you accompany me and speak on my behalf?”

The second friend was a little better than the first, but not by much. He said: “I will come with you to the gates of the palace, but we cannot go beyond the gates. At the king’s court, you you are on your on. Don’t you know what’s written: “None can by any means redeem their brother” “For the redemption of their soul is priceless” (Ps. 49:7-8).

The man’s heart grew heavy. Finally, he turned to his third friend, which he had often neglected in the busyness of life. Hesitantly, he approached him. “My faithful friend,” he said, “I have not always tended to you as I should. But the king has summoned me and I am afraid. Will you come with me?”

The third friend, glowing with quiet strength, replied, “I have been with you all along, though you may not have noticed. Wherever you go, I will go. At the king’s court, I will even speak for you. Don’t you know what’s written? “Your righteousness shall go before you, the glory of Hashem will be your reward” (Isa. 58:8)

The man felt a deep sense of peace.

The first friend, his possessions, only help a person in this world. Even before burial, they are gone. The second friend, which are a person’s family and friends, can only help to escort a person to burial. Then they must take leave. But our good deeds, even though they are not always appreciated and even though they are the ones we least pay attention to, they are the true loyal friend. With their assurance, the man prepared for his journey to the palace, as we all do.

(Based on Pirkei deRabbi Eliezer, 34:8, on Ps 49:5)

Supporting sources

אָמַר לֵיהּ רִבִּי חִייָא רוּבָּא כְּדוֹן אִינּוּן מֵימָר לְמָחָר אִינּוּן גַבָּן וְאִינּוּן מְעִיקִין לָן. אָמַר לֵיהּ וְחַכְמִין אִינּוּן כְּלוּם לָא כֵן כְּתִב וְהַמֵּתִים אֵינָם יוֹדְעִים מְאוּמָה. אָמַר לֵיהּ לִקְרוֹת אַתְּ יוֹדֵעַ. לִדְרוֹשׁ אֵין אַתְּ יוֹדֵעַ. כִּי הַחַיִּים יוֹדְעִים שֶׁיָּמוּתוּ אֵלּוּ הַצַּדִּיקִים שֶׁאֲפִילוּ בְמִיתָתָן קְרוּיִין חַיִּים. וְהַמֵּתִים אֵינָם יוֹדְעִים מְאוּמָה אֵלּוּ הָֽרְשָׁעִים שֶׁאֲפִילוּ בְחַיֵּיהֶן קְרוּיִין מֵתִים. מְנַיִין שֶׁהָֽרְשָׁעִים אֲפִילוּ בְחַיֵּיהֶן קְרוּיִין מֵתִים שֶׁנֶּאֱמַר כִּי לֹא אֶחְפּוֹץ בְּמוֹת הַמֵּת. וְכִי הַמֵּת מֵת. אֶלָּא אֵילּוּ הָֽרְשָׁעִים שֶׁאֲפִילוּ בְחַיֵּיהֶן קְרוּיִין מֵתִים. וּמְנַיִין שֶׁהַצַּדִּיקִים אֲפִילוּ בְמִיתָתָן קְרוּיִין חַיִּים. דִּכְתִיב וַיֹּאמֶר אֵלָיו זֹאת הָאָרֶץ אֲשֶׁר נִשְׁבַעְתִּי לְאַבְרָהָם לְיִצְחָק וּלְיַעֲקֹב לֵאמֹר. מַה תַלְמוּד לוֹמַר לֵאמֹר. אָמַר לוֹ לֵךְ וֶאֱמוֹר לָאָבוֹת כָּל־מַה שֶׁהִתְנֵיתִי לָכֶם עָשִׂיתִי לִבְנֵיכֶם אַחֲרֵיכֶם.

(Proverbs.9.5) “The living know that they will die”, these are the just people, who even in death are considered living; “but the dead do not know anything;” these are the wicked people, who even in life are called dead. From where that the wicked even in life are called dead? It is said (Ezekiel.18.32) “For I have no pleasure in the death of the dead;” how can a dead person die? But these are the wicked who even in life are called dead. And from where that the Just even in death are considered living? It is written (Deuteronomy.34.4) “And He said to him: This is the land I had sworn to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, to tell.” Why does the verse say “to tell”? He said to him: go and tell the patriarchs that all I had promised I fulfilled to your descendants after you. Jerusalem Talmud, Brachot 2:3

״וְהַמֵּתִים אֵינָם יוֹדְעִים מְאוּמָה״ — אֵלּוּ רְשָׁעִים, שֶׁבְּחַיֵּיהֶן קְרוּיִין ״מֵתִים״, שֶׁנֶּאֱמַר: ״וְאַתָּה חָלָל רָשָׁע נְשִׂיא יִשְׂרָאֵל״. וְאִי בָּעֵית אֵימָא, מֵהָכָא: ״עַל פִּי שְׁנַיִם עֵדִים אוֹ עַל פִּי שְׁלֹשָׁה עֵדִים יוּמַת הַמֵּת״, חַי הוּא! אֶלָּא, הַמֵּת מֵעִיקָּרָא.

In contrast to the righteous, who are referred to as living even after their death, the verse states explicitly: “The dead know nothing.” These are the wicked, who even during their lives are called dead, as the prophet Ezekiel said in reference to a king of Israel who was alive: “And you are a slain, wicked prince of Israel” (Ezekiel 21:30). And if you wish, say instead that the proof is from here: “At the mouth of two witnesses or three witnesses the dead shall be put to death” (Deuteronomy 17:6). This is puzzling. As long as the accused has not been sentenced to death, he is alive. Rather, this person who is wicked is considered dead from the outset. Brachot 18b

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Morning – questions for discussion

~ Look at the burial practices of Egypt and of the Hebrews, both in our reading.

~ What is surprising? What can you tell about the pressures Yosef is under?

~ What do you make of the exchange between Yosef and Pharaoh?

I want to thank Adath Israel for the privilege to talk to you tonight. Much has happened since our last Rosh Hashanah together, and I am thankful to have us as a community to process the sadness, madness and miracles of the past year.

A story is told // about a shoemaker // who was a follower of the Rebbe of Ger, Reb Yitzchak Me’ir Alter. The shoemaker// approached the rebbe to know what he could do// about his prayer. “You see, rebbe,” he said, “I am poor. My customers are poor. They only own one pair of shoes. I pick their shoes to fix late at night, when they arrive from work, and I work on them for the night and a part of the morning, so I can deliver the fixed shoes to them before they have to go to work. How should I make my morning prayers? Should I just pray quickly in the morning, rushing, alone, with no intention, so I can go back to work and deliver the shoes? Is that even prayer?”

“What happens, asked Yitzchak Me’ir Alter, “when you can’t pray?” “Oh, rebbe, I raise my hammer every so often and sigh a great sigh, and say “woe is me, I haven’t prayed yet”. “Sometimes”, said the rebbe, “a sigh is more than prayer itself.”

A sigh – more than all the words in the morning prayer, but just sometimes.

And according to Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel, “God lives in a word.”  But, he added, “Words can only open the door, and we can only weep on the threshold of our incommunicable thirst after the incomprehensible.”

These words of Abraham Joshua Heschel and this story of the shoemaker have been in my mind a lot this past year, since the incomprehensible. I thirst to be able to approach God. And yet.

October 7^th weighted heavily througout the year.

And it still does – truthfully I only feel I have got used to the weight, but it is still there, a deep hole of despair and sadness that is reinforced with every hostage that is declared dead, with every interview with a survivor. To be completely transparent, my spiritual survival this year had a lot to do with our daily minyan. To be in community, even if it is to share in the flabbergastedness, even if only to share the heavy news as each day brought details, even if only to say kaddish for countless souls – that was a life saver. Or maybe a spiritual life saver.

And some people asked me – but rabbi how can you pray?

And the question is really not a “how” question. It is not a nuts-and-bolts question. This is a “why” disguised in a “how”.

How can you pray: that is a simple thing – you open your heart and you pour it out to the One that is always listening, even if you are hurt, even if you are angry, even if you are numb and can barely get any feelings out. How is a simple thing: Jews pray with words, most of the time. Either the ones our ancestors honed for the past 2100 years, or your own, or a combination, or a poem you find somewhere – or soetimes, like the shoemaker, Jews pray with a sigh. Tears can be prayer. Or laughter. Or joy.

The how, as I said, is simple – maybe not easy, but simple.

But the question is not a “how”. It is a “why”. Why do you pray, rabbi? Why, in front of such a disaster, do you pray?

The real problem is that we, humans, tend to hide so much of whom we are from other people, that when it comes to talk to God we are in real trouble, as we can’t even show to ourselves who we are – so what does it mean to open our hearts and pray?

And some can say – there is no God, rabbi, wake up, if there was a God, the Holocaust woudn’t have happened! If there was a God, October 7^th wouldn’t have happened!

Well, that is not a reason for God not to exist, I’m afraid. There is no reason why God should interfere with what people do to one another, do with one another. The fact is, we are still here.

We, the Jewish people. Through destructions, through expulsions, through pogroms, through massacres, /// here we still stand. If you need a proof of the existence of a miracle, look no further than our own people. The Egyptians? Gone. The Assyrians? Gone. The Babylonians? Gone. The Romans? Gone. But we, our Torah and our prayers? We remain. Ich bin doh, here I am, said the camp survivor visiting Auschwitz 40 years after the liberation. Hineini. Here I am.

When I was at camp Ramah this past summer, one of my classes was with eleven year olds, in which I would discuss theology and God.

Theology is a big scary word, so I changed it to “thoughts about God”. And I explained to them that we need to revisit what we think about God every so often. When you were five or six, I asked, what were your abilities in math? How big were the numbers you could sum? And in English? What kind of sentences did you know how to write? And they all agreed that, if now, at fifth or sixth grade they would present the same work that got them high praise when they were six, there would be no praise. If at age 15 you still think like when you were 10, that’s no badge of honor. Kids know this as “growth mindset” – and what I mean is: we will talk about what you think about God, but do not let this be calcified in your soul, in your heart, in your mind. Let it grow and develop. This is true, just as your growth in language and math is true. You learn, you appreciate, you live more – and you change, and so your relationship with God changes as well.

And then I tell them the story of my grandfather – a wonderful, loving, beloved man who had no use for God whatsoever. I’ll give you the cliffnotes, as some of you may have heard this story before: when I was seven, I flew back to Brasil, seeing my grandfather for the first time in six months. And boy, was I excited to see him. I wanted to share all the wonderful things I had experience flying, all I had seen. He listened patiently, while I was sitting on his lap. And then he asked: but did you see God up there? And I had NO IDEA what he was talking about. That was one of the things that we didn’t do in my house: we did not talk about God. So I asked him what did he mean? And he asked again: well, did you see a man, with a long beard and a scepter, sitting on a throne, up there? And I said no, I had not seen anything like that. To which he replied: this proves to you: God does not exist.

And the funny thing was that already then I did not believe that image of God. And later, of course, I understood – this is an image that every four and five year old has about God. It is the image that the Sumerians had about the gods.

Any Sumerian god is a guy – that goes without saying – ten thousand times more powerful than you, so it makes sense to worship that god and hope he won’t create too many problems for you when he is angry, and hope that he will help you when you need help. That is a fine idea when you are 5 years old and in a concrete phase. You need mental images. But you see – that does not work so well after you are 5 or 6 years old, because life grows, things happen, in my grandfather’s case his father dies, he is left taking care of the family at the age of ten, in a poverty stricken situation so bad that he and his brother had to share one pair of shoes to go to school.

And then, if you are expecting that a supernatural being is going to come and make it all better, because you prayed, you begged, you asked so very well and so very much – I have a bridge to sell you.

That same theology, says Melissa Raphael, in her book The Female Face of God in Auschwitz, which is a comparison of women’s theology and men’s theology, that same theology of an “all powerful god that will come and save you and make his presence known as clear as the day”, that theology enables us to understand how come men, in a much higher percentage than women, went through the holocaust and become atheists. Men, she says, were given a theology of a great power that would intercede and make it all better. A hierarchical theology. God as a strong father who will take care of you if he’s not angry at you.

Women, she says, were given a theology that you find God as you help others in a worse situation than you. A horizontal theology. And do you know how many people in a worse situation than you you can find in a concentration camp?

It is not that God is not there – it is that you have to change your thoughts and your relationship to God, and the way you find God and the way you nurture that relationship and that closeness. To me, that also happens through prayer. Prayer is not about just asking things from God. Prayer is in part a moment that helps me to see who am I becoming, what are my deepest impulses, which ones I wish to curb and which I wish to develop. As I go through the 19 blessings of the daily Amidah, most of which are unabashed requests, I watch my impulses and my words regarding repentance, healing, judgment, peace. Where are my feelings? Where are my desires?

It is said that prayer really is our humble answer to inconceavable surprise of being alive. It is all we can offer in return to the Mystery by which we live. It is a small act – this devotion of mine is wrapped on gratefulness for being alive, able to experience a world that is exquisite in its complexity and beauty, dangerous and marvelous, in which hate and love coexist.

Prayer to me is also a hook my own soul to the chain of our ancestors. The words in the machzor were composed throughout our history, and I tend to use them because in difficult times, like this year in particular, they remind me that no matter how difficult my times look like, there is always a time when it was harder for us, Jews. And yet – hineini, here I am, living in a time when America is still the best of diasporas it can be and Israel is still the best of that the holy land can be.

Rabbi Dr. David Weiss Halivni z”l, a survivor of a labor camp called Wolfsberg, remembers being in the presence of a hazan, Naphtali Stern z”l, who transcribed the High Holiday prayers from memory with a pen, on paper torn from cement bags that he purchased at great risk in exchange for bread. Halivni, then 16, was present while Naphtali Stern led the inmates in the high holiday prayers. Halivni tells us that in the labor camps those who prayed did not create new prayers, the torture and fear silenced the creative urge. Those who prayed, prayed like their usual custom and manner. They sought some traditional prayer that would express their deep longing to overcome the forces arrayed against them, and their sense that the suffering and misery around them was the result of evil, of cosmic forces over which they had no control or influence. Halivni points out that they found such a prayer in the prayer “מְלוֹךְ עַל כׇּל־הָעוֹלָם בִּכְבוֹדֶךָ” (eloheinu v’elohei avotenu m’lokh al kol ha’olam bikhvodekha); “Our God and God of our ancestors, reign over all the world in your full glory…” In this prayer, which you can find in the Uvechen section of our Amidah for Rosh Hashanah, we ask God to reign alone, to take the reins of the universe completely, and not allow evil forces to prevail. Sounds about right, if you ask me.

And also – many new prayers and poems and songs have been composed by Jews since October 7^th. For all the terrifying things that this year brought about, both in the diaspora and in Israel, we are still able to be creative.

A rabbi friend of mine went to Catalonia, Spain, and he stood in what was the floor of what was once-upon-a-time a marvelous synagogue. And then he realized – when Jewish people prayed then and there, it was a wholly different Jewish experience. Jews in Spain had arguably the greatest of times in Jewish history – until the ascension of kings who did not like Jews or Judaism at all, and expelled all Jews in 1492. But, even before those kings entered, Jews prayed for centuries in Spain.

And when they prayed towards Jerusalem, it was not to a possible place. Sure, some Jews lived there. But going to Jerusalem, under the Otoman Empire, was not a thing, as they say.

And here we are, almost 600 years later, and if we want we can go – many do, and become part of the strand of our people that make alyiah, return, and experience a Jewish government with a Jewish land with a Jewish army in a Jewish capital. Jerusalem nowadays speaks Hebrew, mostly. And even that is kind of new – the last time we hung out in a Jewish Jerusalem, before the destruction of the Second Temple by the Romans, we were speaking Aramaic. But we were still praying in Hebrew.

In our many diasporas, the Jewish people created and absorbed many customs and spoke many languages: Judeo-Arabic, Ladino, Yiddish, Judeo-Malayalam in India, Lishan Didan in Urmia, Yeshivish in present day America and many others. And yet, the Hebrew in the prayer book and in the Mishnah was the great unifier, the one constant in all our diasporas.

But what you thought about God when you said those prayers? No so much of a unifier. A friend of mine in Brasil used to say – the only thing Jews agree on is that there is only One God… and we disagree about everything that follows that statement. And some disagree as to whether that One God exists.

So we are about to spend a few hours together throughout Rosh HaShanah. We will go through the Machzor and we will use some of the new texts in the booklet.

Take this time to refine your relationship with God. To refine your relationship with prayer. To refine your relationship with our people. And if you feel like the shoemaker, if you feel that only a sigh will do, then sigh with all your being. If only tears will do, then cry with all your being. If taking to the streets will do, then take to the streets with all your being.

In times of profound dissonance, in times of feelings of deep vulnerability, in times of deep dislocation, in times of radical disorientation – prayer begins with the machzor, but it does not end there.

Given what year we had, may we make this a better year than last year. LeShanah Tovah, no – let’s say this year LeShanah Yoter Tovah – may we all go on to have a better year.

LeShanah Yoter Tovah.