These are the speaking notes for talks I shared at Congregation Ohr Ha-Yam—The Keys Jewish Community Center, in Tavernier, FL, during the High Holydays of 2024–5785.

Some are topical, others have longer horizons. To facilitate concentration, the lengthier talks were divided into smaller segments over the course of the service, with the breaks indicated by a dash mark ( —).

A Table of Contents is below. Click on a title and jump to the talk indicated or read them one by one. The word counts are approximate.

I hope you find them worthwhile. Thoughtful comments are always welcome.

Shalom—Peace!

Rabbi Richard Agler, DD

 
 

“I Thought I Was Israeli” | “I Thought I Was Jewish”

There is not a Jew in the world who has not been impacted by the events that began last October 7, with the Hamas massacre. So we’ll be speaking a lot about Israel during these holidays. Trying to get some perspective and hopefully making some sense of it all. 

The Israeli novelist Dorit Rabinyan, shortly after October 7 said, “We used to be Israelis. Now we are Jewish.” That may sound almost a bit silly. Of course Israelis are Jewish! But that was a thought that occurred to many Israelis. And we should understand why.    

My friend and colleague Rabbi Philip Graubart observed that by “Israelis,” she meant a sovereign people among other sovereign peoples; normal, not only in national aspirations but in politics, economic incentives, dreams, and relationships. Many Israelis saw themselves as human—no more, no less. To that we can add that Israeli self-identity was proud, independent, innovative, secure, and strong. 

But “Jewish” carries different valences. To be Jewish is to be steeped in a far-reaching historical narrative, memory, history, culture, and myth. Israelis have a vibrant, pluralistic culture, one that goes back, let’s call it, one hundred twenty-five years, one hundred fifty years at most. But for Jews, 150 years barely scratches the surface. “Jewish” is a much older and deeper identity than “Israeli.”

On October 7, much of Israeli narrative and identity were overrun by the long arm of Jewish history. And plenty of modern Israelis, however they might have identified before, suddenly understood that they were more Jewish than they may have realized. It seems that the establishment of the modern State of Israel did not mark the end of Jewish history—and that came as a shock to many.

There’s a flip-side to this story. A little over twelve months ago, a young American Jewish man flew to Tel Aviv. It was his first trip there. He was going to work in a business office. When the hell of October 7 broke out, something dawned on him, “I thought I was Jewish,” he said. “Now I realize that I am Israeli.” 

In a way that it may not have been last Rosh Hashanah, it should be clear to us today that we are all Jewish and we are all Israelis. Even if we do not think so, much of the world does. And there is really no escaping it. 

This has come as a shock to many of us, too. We see ourselves as proud American Jews. And pretty much since the end of the Second World War, we have felt safe, blessed, and grateful to live in this country as we do. 

As has been the case in few, if any, countries before, here, American Jews have been accepted into most, if not quite all, of society’s upper echelons. We hold places of accomplishment and honor in government, the arts, sciences, medicine, law, commerce, education, and more. There is scarcely a field in which we have not taken the opportunity that America has given us to excel—and done so. It has been a phenomenal ride. 

We all know, or should know, enough history, American history, Jewish history, and American-Jewish history, to know that even here, this was not always the case. In the 1950s an influential book by Will Herberg titled Protestant-Catholic-Jew gets credit, pretty much just from its title, for depositing us directly into the American mainstream. Smaller in number than the Protestants and Catholics to be sure, we nevertheless became one leg of the American religious triad. Anti-semitism did not disappear, but it did crater. And that is more or less the America we’ve been living in since. 

We didn’t challenge Herberg’s formulation, but it was never as good as it looked. Because religious identity is only a part of Jewish identity. And it has always been. Judaism as a religion pretty much achieved full acceptance in America. But once the antisemites figured out that in addition to being a religion, we are also a People, things changed. Hating a religion may be condemned pretty much across the board, but hating a people? That never seems to go out of style.

So it’s not our Judaism that’s the issue. It’s that we are Jews. Some of us may have thought we were Jews and not Israelis. Some of them may have thought they were Israelis and not Jews. Now it should be clear. We are all both: a People and a People of faith. 

In the 4000 years since Abraham, this is who we have been. We accept it. We honor it. We love it. And come what may, we are in it together.

——

October 2, 2024 | Erev Rosh Hashanah 5785

——

"how does this end?"”

I have an Israeli cousin, Rachel, who is more or less my contemporary. She came to the US as a young adult, married a wonderful man, has children and grandchildren, and though she lives here, remains deeply connected to family and friends in her home country. 

This has been a doubly difficult time for her, both as an Israeli and as a Jew. Her English is fine, but she prefers to communicate with me in Hebrew. Since October 7, she has asked me several times, “מה יהיה בסוף”—Mah yiyeh ba-sof? How does this end?” 

Some question! For a while, I took it as rhetorical and left it at that. But she persisted in asking. As if she expected a good answer. As if I could give her one.

Eventually, I quoted a verse from the Book of Amos (7:14) “Lo navi anochi v’lo ben navi anochi—I am neither a prophet nor the son of a prophet.” In plain English, “How am I supposed to know how it’s going to end? I don’t see into the future!” I knew that was lame, but it was the best I could do. 

This summer I was at a conference and met a man named Nachman Shai. The name may ring a bell. He was the IDF spokesman during the 1991 war when Scud missiles from Iraq were raining down on Israel. He was praised unanimously, no small thing in Israel, for helping the population keep calm while under missile attack. He later went into government, serving as a member of the Knesset and in government Cabinets. He was recently named the Dean of the Jerusalem campus of the Hebrew Union College–Jewish Institute of Religion, the seminary where I was ordained, and the sponsor of this conference. 

In between sessions, I had the opportunity to ask him my cousin Rachel’s question. “Mah yiyeh ba-sof?—How does this end?” Unlike me, he had the answer immediately: “!בסוף,יהיה טוב—Ba-sof, yiyeh tov. In the end, it will be good!” And he said it without the least hint of doubt. 

I was blown away. I immediately WhatsApp’ed my cousin and let her know what he said. She wrote back that she hoped he was right because there was no other way. I took my phone with her text and showed it to Dr. Shai. He took it from me and texted her back. “Rachel, this is Nachman. Yiyeh tov—It will be good. Ha-she’elah, Matai? The question is, “When?” Okay, fair enough. It made my cousin a little happy. And maybe me a little bit, too. 

And then I wondered. Where did he get that from? How does he know that everything is going to end well? He is not a prophet or the son of a prophet either. Yiyeh tov, indeed!

Eventually it dawned on me that he knows this because he has to know this. He knows this because the entire State of Israel is premised on the belief that it must be good, that it must succeed, that in the end, yiyeh tov—things will be alright—even if there is a price, a high price, to be paid. His whole life, and the life of most Israelis, is dedicated to the proposition that the one place on the planet where Jews can live out their history is going to work. It has to work. There is no other answer. 

Yiyeh tov is not a prophecy. It is something better, and even more predictive. It is a motivating belief. And Israelis hold onto it with every drop of their being because they know Jewish history. They understand that the State of Israel is essential to Jewish survival. And it is essential to ours as well. Because we are all Israelis. And we are all Jews. 

There is a teaching of Rabbi Nahman of Bratslav that says this prescriptively: It is forbidden for Jews to despair. In other words, Ba-sof, yiyeh tov. In the end, all will be well.  

Am Yisrael Chai. The people of Israel live—and we will continue to. L’shana tovah. 

October 2, 2024 | Erev Rosh Hashanah 5785

 

Anti-Zionism and Anti-Semitism | Part I

This year, anti-Zionism and antisemitism climbed to heights not seen in years. One of the most painful parts of it has been antisemites not simply crawling out of the woodwork, but jumping out of it. Immediately after the massacre on October 7, before there was any Israeli retaliation, the diatribes, the calumnies, and the hatred simply vomited out. 

And it wasn’t just words. The next day, Hezbollah, with its missiles, rockets, and drones, made it essentially impossible for something like 100,000 thousand residents of Northern Israel to remain in their homes. They were evacuated to other parts of the country—where they remain to this day. Which is why there is war there now. And lest anyone forget, Israel did not occupy one inch of Hezbollah or Lebanese territory or, for that matter, Gaza’s. They were on their side of the line, we were on ours, but that wasn’t enough. Israel’s existence was enough of a pretext for attack. 

America was given the grace of a “September 12” moment, when most of the world rallied to our side in the aftermath of the attacks on the World Trade Center and Pentagon. (And we should remember that the September 11 terrorists were products of the same anti-Western ideology that attacked Israel on October 7.) Israel got some post-attack consideration but relatively little, and it was over almost as soon as it started.

—

As Jews, we are not ignorant of our history. And we often don’t have to pick up a book to learn it. Our families have lived it. From wherever we came, most of us know what the previous generation, or two, three, or even more, went through in order to reach lands of freedom and safety.

On a scale of 1–10, with the Holocaust being 100, a government-sponsored pogrom being 8, and most of the second half of twentieth-century America being a 2, it seems to me that in the U.S. we are now at about 4, maybe a little higher, maybe a little lower. In many places around the world, including a number of Western democracies, it’s higher. 

Here, we’ve lived through anti-semitic violence in Charlottesville, Pittsburgh, Poway, Colleyville, and other places where attackers were stopped before the worst could happen. Armed security is a fact of Jewish life today. When I visit churches that are open to the four winds and to all comers, as most of them seem to be, I shake my head in envy. 

It has been more uncomfortable and seemingly less “American” for us lately. We don’t like being the outsiders. We don’t like being considered as “other.” We thought we were past that. This is our country. We are at home here. Yet too many who don’t think so have lately been emboldened.

—

The safety training that all of us in Jewish institutions have had to learn is sometimes reduced to three words: “Run. Hide. Fight.” In that order. If there is an active shooter, God forbid, it’s the right advice. 

But for non-emergency situations, we should think about reversing the order. And putting plenty of distance between the first two. When confronted by anti-semitism, we need to fight, not hide, and not run. 

Too often in history, Jews have tried to hide, and even to run. Covering up our Jewishness, distancing ourselves from the community, even converting to other religions, all in desperate attempts to “pass.”

It was a losing gambit. Nobody bought it. Most often, they laughed at it. No matter what we think or how we act, we remain Jews. 

And if that were not reason enough, what a horrible thing to self-alienate from one’s heritage and identity. That is never healthy psychologically, emotionally, or spiritually. There are better ways. 

We will stand up for who and what we are. We will neither run nor hide. We will fight. With strength and with pride. There is no other way. 

—

The anti-Zionism and anti-semitism ignited by the Hamas attack began immediately after October 7. And once Israel actually responded to the massacre, as any country in those circumstances would, the criticism only intensified. 

The destruction in Gaza is horrible and tragic. And we will discuss it in due course. Nevertheless, there is no question that in Jewish terms, this is a milchemet mitzvah—a war that must be fought. In Christian terms, it would be called a “just war.” Because a war of self-defense, a war following an unprovoked attack, is by definition, in any culture, legitimate.

Now, we should all understand that the calculus doesn’t end there. As Jews, we aspire to reach beyond what is merely legitimate. We are covenanted to a higher standard. 

At the same time, everyone should understand that the Hamas attack took place entirely within the pre-1967 borders of Israel. Ironically, the main targets were kibbutzim and settlements who were among the most sympathetic to Palestinian claims and a two-state solution. That was then, I’m not sure about now.

But let’s be clear. The October 7 attack was not about borders. It was not about one state or two states. It was not about you on that side and us on this side. The attack was about Israel’s existence—within any borders. The founding charters of both Hamas and Hezbollah call for Israel’s elimination by violence. The same is true for the Houthis in Yemen. As well as the sponsor of each of them, Iran. And they have made it more than clear that they mean it. 

—

The Arab-Israeli conflict did not begin on October 7, 2023. It has been going on for more than a century. And when people who are knowledgeable about the history, details, and context of it speak, whether we agree or disagree, their voices carry weight. 

But when others, with little or no understanding of history, reduce it to slogans, banners, and bumper stickers or shoehorn it into pre-cut political philosophies that somehow, no matter what else, manage to put the Jews into the camp of the villains, those voices carry far less credibility and still less respect. 

My favorite example has been the group “Queers for Palestine.” Perhaps you’ve seen their banners. They’re at a lot of protests. Do our dear LGBTQ+ brothers and sisters have the remotest idea what would happen to them if they tried to march with that banner through the streets of Gaza? Or, for that matter, any Islamic country? Equal rights? Love who you love? Let me welcome you to Planet Earth.

For good measure, Israel is the one country in the Middle East that actually has Pride marches. It is the one country in the region where it is safe to parade and celebrate a non-heteronormative gender identity. If this is your issue, dear children, Hamas is not remotely your friend. They are, more accurately, your mortal enemy. Likewise, if your issue is women’s rights, civil rights, voting rights, religious rights, the rights of the accused, and lots of other rights we take as for granted in the West, they are not by any stretch of the imagination on your side. 

We should take particular note of the right to free speech. The marchers obviously believe in it. But if they lived in Gaza, under Hezbollah control in Lebanon, or Syria, or Yemen, or Iran, and voiced so much as a peep of dissent regarding the way they have waged this war, for example, by stationing combat forces, military targets, and tunnels in and around schools, hospitals, and homes, the knock on your door in the middle of the night would be only the beginning of your nightmare.  

Before this year, I confess that I harbored something of a conceit. Namely, if we could somehow just educate people enough and give them a fuller history of the circumstances surrounding the Arab-Israeli, now Iranian-Israeli conflict, they would not necessarily stand up and sing Hatikvah but might at least gain an appreciation for the difficulties of Israel’s position as well as an understanding that statecraft is never morally pure—for any State. I have been disabused of this conceit.

Too many, even most, of the anti-Israel voices seem entirely uninterested in becoming either better educated or better informed. They seem to be far more interested in virtue signaling, fitting in, or trumpeting their righteousness on social media. 

I ask the anti-Israel protesters, “Seriously now, is medieval Islamic law your idea of a template for a free and just society? Are religiously and politically repressive dictatorial regimes really the ones you want people to live under?” Pray tell. I’ll wait.

—

Most of the protests frame themselves as anti-Israel. But anti-semitism (which has always been a ten-dollar word for Jew-hatred), is inescapably involved. It is coming from the far left and the not-so-far right. And we should understand the role that it is playing.

Yossi Klein-Halevi, an American-Israeli writer and teacher, offered this context. “Antisemitism is the symbolization of the Jew into whatever a given society or civilization regards as most objectionable. In other words, in Christendom, we have been the Christ-killers. In Islam, the killers of prophets. To a Marxist, we are capitalists. To a Nazi, we are race-polluters. Etc.”

He continues, “And now, in this era of international human rights where the most detestable qualities are apartheid, colonialism, and ethnic cleansing, the Jewish State gets accused of all of these and becomes uniquely hated.” 

To be clear, none of these contemporary accusations are any more true than the older, “traditional” anti-semitic canards. But they fit quite snugly into the pattern of the last two thousand years. Historically, antisemitism is a shape-shifter. It morphs itself into whatever a given society abhors the most.

We should know that a prominent former, and possibly future, presidential strategist recently stated in a published interview, “The future of American Jews, not just their safety but their ability to thrive and prosper as they have in this country, is conditional upon one thing, and that’s a hard weld with Christian nationalism.”

In other words, it would be best to align yourselves with Christian nationalism, because if we see you as something other than that, we just might conclude that you are something less than trustworthy. He might as well have said, “That’s a nice Jewish community you’ve got there. It’d be a shame if anything happened to it.”

Message received. And we are anything but reassured. Because such proclamations, throughout history, have been all too hazardous to Jewish health. And since that interview surfaced over the summer, we’ve heard more and worse.

But this is where we are, my friends. We cannot take refuge at either end of the political spectrum. Whatever our personal predilections may be, the truth is that we have always done best when the center, the political, social, and economic center, holds. My suggestion is that we all work to see that it does.

—

None of this is meant to suggest that Israel has been perfect or blameless in its statecraft or its handling of the conflict going back decades. 

But as Klein-Halevi has also said, “Victimhood and virtue do not automatically go together. If you are a member of an oppressed minority, it does not automatically make you virtuous or correct.” This is worth keeping in mind. 

As is the always helpful reminder from the famed Isaac Asimov (d. 1992), who wrote, “Anti-intellectualism has been a constant thread winding its way through our political and cultural life, nurtured by the false notion that democracy means that, ‘My ignorance is just as good as your knowledge.”(1980)

That’s an insight that goes well beyond the current war. But it fits here too. 

Again, Israel is not without fault or sin. Its government, like every government, is made up of human beings, and during the High Holydays in particular we are reminded that there are no perfect ones. A significant majority of Israelis, have at one point or another, questioned one aspect or another of their government’s conduct in this war. 

But if you are marching and chanting, “From the river to the sea, Palestine will be free,” which we should all understand is code for the destruction of Israel; if that is your battle cry, and you are calling on Israel to fold up its tent and scatter its citizens to the four corners of the earth, you have no idea what you are talking about or with whom you are dealing. We Jews have been powerless and at the mercy of unmerciful majorities in far too many lands and for far too many years. That suggestion carries with it absolutely zero appeal.

—

Now, could this just war have been fought more justly? Could Israel have shown greater regard for civilian life—in Gaza and now in Lebanon? Those are entirely fair questions.

Because even when fighting a just war, to the extent that it is humanly possible, the goal for us, as Jews, is to at least try to fight it as justly as possible. The IDF code of conduct demands ethical behavior from its combat soldiers and operations. It is not always perfectly adhered to. It is not always possible to—but it is there and it matters. 

At the same time, no one wants to see civilian casualties. We will talk more about that next week. But for today, we must understand that it is/was Hamas’ strategy, and also Hezbollah’s, with malice aforethought, to put their own people in harm’s way: over, around, and under military targets, by the thousands and tens of thousands. Never mind as human shields, better we should think of them as human sacrifices. With the express intention of ensuring that Israel would be pilloried in the court of world opinion when the inevitable occurred. 

We should also understand their belief that the men, women, and children who die in this way instantly become shaheed—martyrs, each with their own ticket to heaven. “Win-win” as far as Hamas was concerned. Now you tell me who is doing the evil. 

I’m available to talk with anyone interested in discussing both sides of this moral equation. It is complex, to say the least. I am not available to waste time with anyone who says there is only one side. Either side. 

Now, could all this have been ended sooner? Was there another way to bring the hostages home alive? I don’t know, maybe. But leaders always have agendas. Also always, the uppermost priority is self-preservation. At some point, the battle may cease to be about military objectives and begin to be about political survival. 

There are plenty of Israelis who are opinionated on this point. We’ve seen them demonstrating. There are plenty of Gazans also. We haven’t seen them demonstrating, again, for reasons we’ve noted.

War is the ultimate failure of human relations. And the High Holydays are a time to reflect on that. And maybe, just maybe, if we think and pray hard enough, we’ll come to a deeper and better understanding of how to, and how not to, live with our fellow human beings without resorting to mass slaughter. 

We will have more to say on Yom Kippur. In the meantime, once again, let’s remember the words of Rabbi Nahman of Bratslav, “It is forbidden for Jews to despair.” On Rosh Hashanah especially, it is important to conclude with hope, and we will, after the Torah reading and before the sounding of the shofar.

L’shana tovah.

October 3, 2024 | Rosh Hashanah I

 

"Meat and Salt"

Mindy and I love the Keys. We loved living here. And for years before we lived here, we loved to play here. And although being close to our children and grandchildren in southern California is priceless and there is no question that it was right for us to move, we miss living here. 

We miss this community, the KJCC—now Congregation Ohr Ha-Yam, as well as other friends we made. We especially miss how uniquely beautiful it is. I’m touched, as we all are, by the ocean, the bay, and by the abundance of nature’s beauty that simply stares us in the face. And when from time to time I look and try to take it in, I will sometimes ponder “the meaning of it all.” 

It’s one of the things I do: ask broad, open-ended, and probably impossible-to-answer questions. To me, they’re the best kind, and maybe the most honest kind. What makes them impossible?

According to author Martin Amis, "We are another six or seven Einsteins away from an intelligent understanding of the universe." Amis was a writer, not a scientist, but that’s still an amazing statement. We know how fundamentally one Einstein changed our understanding of the universe. And to say that it will take six or seven more before we get to the real nub of the matter is more than humbling. 

And yet, these days, we are surrounded by voices who tell us that they have all the answers to our questions and problems. “Listen to me,” they say, "and don’t waste your precious time on things like ‘critical thinking’ or ‘contemplating.’”

Er, no. As a young man, it was wondering about these kinds of questions that led me to the rabbinate. And I am grateful to have followed that path. I’m no longer a young man. But I find the questions that nature puts before us no less fascinating now than they were then. 

So I’ll share one of my Rosh Hashanah questions with you. “Should we consider all of this worldly beauty, all the exquisite wonder with which nature surrounds us, in the Keys or most anywhere else should we take the time to look—is that life’s salt or is it life’s meat?” In other words, is nature’s power and beauty something we should glance at from time to time as a spice to our lives, or should it occupy a more forward, or even central position in our consciousness? 

We took a cruise last fall. (The ship asked me to serve as its rabbi and I didn’t want to disappoint them. ;-) The ocean is nothing if not vast, and being in the middle of it for any length of time, brings questions like this to the fore. For most of us, a sea voyage, or any vacation, is life’s “salt.” It’s an enhancement to the “meat” of our lives that we lead the rest of the time.

But, just for the sake of wondering, let’s ask, “Do we have it backward?” What if looking out at the sea and the sky, at the clouds and trees, the heavens and the earth, at nature and all of its wonders, and contemplating the questions they raise about our place in the universe, maybe that should be the meat, and whatever else we do to fill our time should be the salt? 

Would it be a better world, a less warlike world, a safer world, a more compassionate, empathetic, understanding world, a friendlier world, if it was the other way around? And if that’s too much, and it probably is, if we wondered just a little bit more about the great questions, would that help us to keep things in better balance?

The Jewish New Year, Rosh Hashanah, which we call the birthday of the world, is given to us, among other reasons, to contemplate Creation and our place in it. And any similarly large questions we may care to ponder. Because no one can get through life, certainly not as well as we might otherwise, without wrestling with such questions, at least sometimes. 

It can be a solitary pursuit but it is not a lonely one. Artists and philosophers, poets, and spiritual souls in every land, age, and culture have wondered about them. As do young people dreaming about their future. As do older people, reflecting on the rivers they’ve crossed and how they might manage to make it over the next one.

People wonder about these things, in part, because finding that just right, proper balance between life's meat and life's salt can be elusive. Where is the sweet spot? What is the solution? 

Once again today, I have no answer for you. Because it’s a different answer for each one of us. And we are the only ones who can find the one that is best for us. Maybe the answers are six or seven Einsteins away. Maybe they are closer. There’s only one way to find out.

I wish us all happy pondering during the next ten days—and beyond.

L’shana tovah.

——–

October 3, 2024 | Rosh Hashanah I, 5785

 

Plan, Fall, Pray

On October 4, 2023, the foreign affairs columnist Thomas Friedman wrote, "This was not the plan.” 

The plan, which was more of a hope as an actual plan, was that with the fall of the Soviet Empire, the world would snap to its senses. The fall of communism would mark the “end of history.” Egos would deflate. Myths of ancient glories would crumble. There would be no more religious fanaticism, no more xenophobia, the world would embrace liberal democracy and every country would want to be and act like America. 

Sigh, no. 

It turned out that communism wasn't the only, or even the main problem. Other, just-as-harmful ideologies stepped in to fill the vacuum. It turned out that the main problem was things that have been around a lot longer than communism: egoism, fanaticism, xenophobia, fear, and ambition—to name just a few.

Those lesser qualities of our nature proved more than capable of surviving the Cold War. And as Biblical history makes clear, they are capable of surviving, more or less intact, through just about everything history throws at them. Not only do they survive, they often manage to move in and take over. 

The poet Yeats said, 

“The best lack all conviction, 

And the worst are full of passionate intensity.” 

That may be an observation for the ages. 

—

The paleo-anthropologist Donald Johanson was one of the discoverers of “Lucy." Remember “Lucy?” That was the name they gave to the partial skeleton of one of our earliest human ancestors, uncovered in East Africa in the early 1970s. In the years since, Dr. Johanson has had time to think about Lucy—and her relation to the rest of us. 

He recently offered, “As a species, we are overly focused on ourselves. I call us ‘Homo Egocentricists.’” Note how that differs from Homo Sapiens—the name we’ve given ourselves that emphasizes our intelligence. (Sapient = “wise” or “intelligent.”) 

Most of Rabbinic wisdom is with Dr. Johanson on this one. We are primarily focused on ourselves. And all too often, not in a good way. One of the reasons we are in shul on Rosh Hashanah is to try to decenter that focus, even just a little bit.

There’s a story about a young rabbinic student who was preparing to lead High Holyday services for the first time. He was poring over the machzor with great concentration to be sure that he knew every word and would be able to lead with authority. His rabbi saw him and asked what he was doing. “Putting the service in order,” he answered. “Never mind the service, said the Rabbi. The order is the same as it was last year. Put yourself in order—and the service will follow surely enough.” 

We fret about our world. As we should. It needs loving care, and we need to help repair it. But Rosh Hashanah reminds us that the world’s ills are a symptom, not the cause, of our own. 

Perhaps, like the student in our story, we should take some time during these ten days to put ourselves in order. Because that might help us to better put the world in order, even just a little bit.

When we are in order, we are kinder, more caring, and more considerate. When we are in order, it distances us from the egoism, fanaticism, fears, and ambitions that keep us apart, individually and collectively. 

We cannot cede the playing field to the worst and their passionate intensity. Putting ourselves in order gives our better selves their best chance to prevail. And that is something we can pray for.

L’shana tovah.

October 4, 2024 | Rosh Hashanah II, 5785

 

Our Governments

Kings vs. Prophets is a major theme of the Hebrew Bible—the Tanakh. We learn that even the most renowned Kings of Israel, like David and Solomon, had significant shortcomings in character. The worst of them, and there are many contenders for the title, had more.

The Prophets had the unenviable task of keeping the kings, and sometimes queens, behaving properly. Ideally, Israelite royalty would follow God’s highest commands and rule with justice, righteousness, humility, fairness, and honesty. But because the Prophets didn’t have armies, they could only appeal to the Rulers’ better selves. We are not surprised that they failed far more than they succeeded. 

Autocratic rulers are not, as a rule, trusted or admired by our tradition. Think of Pharaoh, Ahashverosh, the Roman governors. Think of kaisers, dictators, czars. No matter how honey-sounding and inviting they make their words, which is typically how they gain power in the first place, we are not the least bit surprised when they act selfishly, venally, illegitimately, etc.  

The Book of Psalms says, “Put not your trust in princes.” (Ps. 146:3) It is advice that has aged well.

—

In every Siddur and Machzor, there is a “Prayer for the Government.” We say it here. It is said pretty much everywhere. It typically follows the Torah reading, when attendance is highest. 

The origins of this prayer may go back to the Mishnah, where it says, “Pray for the welfare of the government—for were it not for fear of it, men would swallow each other alive.” (Pirkei Avot 3:2) In other words, if there is no strong government, there is anarchy, which brings along with it “might makes right” and “devil take the hindmost.” Not exactly the Torah’s blueprint. 

But our prayers for the government take its existence as a given. They are reminiscent of the Prophetic call for it to embody higher values. Even though we understand how often they fall short.

On a Shabbat morning in 1983, I was in shul in Leningrad, in the former Soviet Union. A colleague and I were visiting refuseniks, Jews the government had denied the right to emigrate and then oppressed for having the temerity to ask to leave in the first place.

The official Soviet version of the prayer, which was of course the only one permitted, read, “May God bless and protect the government of the USSR, ‘Magein ha-shalom ba’olam—Shield of Peace for the World.’” There’s a lot of irony there—which we can unpack another time. But the Rabbis in the synagogue had to say it. Most of the congregation knew better than to believe it.

Even for us, the prayer for the government is aspirational, not necessarily expectational. It expresses our hopes, our standards, perhaps even our demands. The government is not only there to keep us from one another’s throats. It is there to facilitate better lives, and peace, for one and all.

Unlike in a monarchy, a dictatorship, or an illiberal society like the USSR, in a democratic republic, we have a considerable say, perhaps not as much as we would like, but considerable nonetheless, in the course that our governments take. And we cherish that. History shows that decent governments are fragile. We should never take them for granted. 

L’shana tovah.

October 4, 2024 | Rosh Hashanah II, 5785

 

How to Matter | Part I

We need to matter. It is core to our humanity. And yet, the feeling that we may not matter, at least not as much as we would like, is one that most people experience from time to time.

Dr. Gordon Flett, a professor at York University, has written a book called The Psychology of Mattering. He says, “You…won’t be a happy person if no one notices you when you enter a room…[or] if you are not missed when you are not there.”

We can take that observation further. In order to matter, people must feel not only noticed but valued — heard, appreciated, cared about. Professor Isaac Prilletensky of the University of Miami (co-author of How People Matter), takes it to the next step, “If we are going to feel valued, we need to add value.” In ways that make us feel capable, respected, and trusted.

There we have it—a pretty simple solution to a critical life issue! In order to be someone who matters, all we have to do is walk into a room and find a way to add value to it. Which, as we will see tomorrow, the Mishnah says can be as simple as asking someone how they are. There are other ways, but common to most of them is putting forth our best selves. By doing so, in time, and maybe not much time, we will matter. And fulfill this core human need. 

—

Sometimes doing things that seem small can matter in a big way.

Mindy and I were in New York this summer and one of us left a backpack on a train. It contained valuables, including jewelry, medications, and a laptop computer. A call to the MTA lost and found yielded the information that it would take them a week to ten days to return it—but only if someone turned it in in the first place. (Evidently this happens hundreds of times a day.)

To make a long story short, a week and a half later, the backpack was returned. Everything accounted for, contents undisturbed, not a thing missing.

I wondered how people had to do the right thing for that backpack to make it back to its rightful owner. First, there was everyone who saw it unattended and didn’t take it. There was the person who realized it was lost and called someone-in-authority’s attention to it. There was the person who transported it to the lost and found, the person who cataloged it, the person who put it on the shelf, the people who walked past it on the shelf without looking inside, and finally, the person who took it to the post office and mailed it back. How many that must have been!

However many it was, each one said, “I will do the right thing here.” In the end, each of those anonymous strangers mattered, greatly, to us. They saved us untold hours of inconvenience, expense, and stress. Not for nothing do the Torah and Talmud go into considerable detail about the importance of, and how to go about, returning lost property.

To matter can be as simple as doing an act of common decency. I hope that each one of the people we will never know is grateful to be living by the code they follow. We certainly are.

—

On the last day of the same trip, we returned our rental car. We gathered our luggage and headed to the airport terminal. On the walk over, I realized I had left my sunglasses behind. The garage was dark, the car interior was dark, and I didn’t see them lying there. It was a fairly nice pair, non-prescription, but with brand new lenses. I immediately went online, filled out a lost property form, included every relevant detail: the make, model, and license number of the car, and exactly where the sunglasses were. I uploaded the report within 30 minutes.

And, they said, they couldn’t find them. I am doubtful. I hope the person who did find them is enjoying them. This time, it took only one set of hands, to say, “I’m not going to do the right thing here.” The person who said that mattered—in a different way. And he/she became a lesser person in the process.

There are lots of ways to matter in this world. To be recognized and valued. For good or for ill. It can be quite simple. And it is entirely up to us. As the machzor teaches, each of us writes our own chapters in the Book of Life.

G’mar hatima tovah.

October 11, 2024 |Kol Nidre, 5785

 

Higher Questions, Higher Values

As we noted last week, the High Holydays are an auspicious time for asking questions, and the larger the question, the more rewarding it can be. We don’t ask great questions to drive ourselves crazy or to show how smart we are. We ask them because many of them point to one master question, a meta-question. And that question is, “How should I live my life?”

I’m going to assume that everyone here, watching online or reading these words later, is interested in living a life that matters—in a good way: a decent life, a kind life, an honorable life, even a praiseworthy life.

But not everybody is. There are people whose personal values are not higher values, who are more interested in wealth, power, or fame—not as means to a greater good, but as ends unto themselves—as paths to self-glorification. And they may have no compunction about trampling on any or all higher values to get there. On Yom Kippur, we can call this behavior a sin.

—

A member of a book club we attend in California was a five-term Congressman. We had the chance to ask him why so many legislators, judges, executives, and people who one assumes entered politics with at least some idea of furthering the public good often seem to support laws, programs, and people that they clearly did not believe in. 

He did not challenge the premise. He answered that for most people, being in Congress was “the best job they’ve ever had.” It made them feel important, often self-important. And, they would do anything in their power to hold onto that feeling. Principles, ethics, and values all took a back seat. Misplaced priorities? Lack of ethics? Sin? Sure. It is Yom Kippur and we can say yes. 

—

There may be additional explanation. Dr. Samuel Johnson, regarded as one of the greatest figures of 18th-century life and letters, said, “He who makes a beast of himself gets rid of the pain of being a man.” That is a statement worth considering.

Being human, especially if we want to do it right, is a challenge. Figuring out the right answer(s) to the question, “How should I live my life?” is rarely simple. And we are asked the question every day.

But why wrestle with any of that if you can find a shortcut, a hack, a cheat? And Dr. Johnson gives us one: just make yourself into a beast! Goodbye to the moral dilemmas, perplexities, and pains of being human. Just storm through life and bulldoze over anyone and everyone who gets in your way. 

We’ve all witnessed such behavior. Bullies pick on the most vulnerable. People join hate groups. Demagogues sow fear and loathing. Gunmen take aim at schools, music festivals, candidates, and synagogues. We’ve all asked, How can people act so reprehensibly? How can they make such horrific choices?

Psychologists and my friend the former congressman, may say it makes them feel important. The Bible may say that people sin. And Dr. Johnson says, “It gets rid of the pain of being human.” It seems they all have a claim on the truth.

Judaism’s way of doing life right is to hold on to our humanity for all it’s worth. It is to embrace the higher paths, one bit of hard-won wisdom at a time. There are already enough beasts in the world. The path to becoming one may be tempting. It may get rid of the pain of being human but it is covers us with shame and dishonor. It is the wrong way to answer to the master question, “How should I live my life?”

Whatever we do year-round, Yom Kippur is the perfect time to ask, “Am I doing life right? Am I bringing honor to myself, my family, my people, my heritage, my country, my God? How might I be doing better than I am now? How can I keep the pain of being human from turning me into a beast?”

The author Marilynne Robinson says, “You…have to live with your mind every day of your life, so make sure that you have a mind you want to live with.” Today is a day to put good things into our minds. And to toss bad things out of them.

In the sanctuary on Yom Kippur, there are no screens, no targeted ads, no pop-ups, no algorithms chasing us, and no attempts to further reduce our already diminished attention spans. Just the wisdom of the machzor, which, if we take the time to contemplate it, is considerable.

I wish us all a meaningful evening and day tomorrow. And a year to follow in which we matter, to ourselves and others, for good.

G’mar tov and Shana tovah.

October 11, 2024 | Kol Nidre, 5785

 

A brief thought on Suffering

The Israeli writer Etgar Keret tells a story about a crowded office in Israel in which several people were waiting. A young family was occupying a handful of seats, and one of the older children noticed a Holocaust survivor, identifiable by the tattooed numbers on her arm, standing alongside. 

Turning to the survivor, the young gentleman asked, “Would you like a chair?” She answered, “Why do you think I need one?” He responded, “I can see at least some of what you have been through, and I thought it right to offer.” “You are right,” she said, “it is. But let me tell you something. If we all were forced to stand here for three days without food or water, I would be standing long after all of you have fallen down.” 

In a companion story, another young person, recognizing a Holocaust survivor, said, “It must have been brutal for you.” “Yes, it was. But in life, there are easy times and difficult times. We always hope for the easy times. But it’s through the difficult times that we grow.”

We don’t ask for difficult times. But we can’t get through life without experiencing them. It can be helpful to remember that when they come, that one way or another, we will grow through them. 

———

October 11, 2024 | Kol Nidre, 5785

 

Anti-Zionism and Anti-Semitism | Part II

(Note: A few points from Part I of this talk are repeated in Part II so that all who did not attend on both days might hear them.)

We spoke a good deal about Israel last week, about anti-Zionism and anti-semitism. I want to begin today by defining the term “Zionism,” because there is a lot of misunderstanding about it.

Unlike much in the Middle East, this one is pretty simple. If you support Israel’s right to exist as a Jewish and democratic State, within safe and secure borders, you can consider yourself a Zionist. Done!

Now, Israel itself is still trying to figure out exactly what “Jewish and democratic” means and also what “safe and secure borders” means. But these are questions that can be debated. But if you believe Israel has the right to exist, and has the right to try to answer those questions for itself, feel free to call yourself a Zionist.

For most of us, knowing Jewish history as we do, knowing how dreadful so much of that history was when we could only live by the sufferance of our neighbors, the decision whether or not to support Israel’s right to exist is pretty automatic. Most Jews today are Zionists, and we make no apologies for it.

Hamas, of course, in addition to being recognized as a terrorist organization, is anti-Zionist at its core. Its Charter calls for Israel’s complete destruction. As does Iran’s, as do all of the terror groups that Iran sponsors.

Similarly, the marchers who claim the moral high ground by chanting, “From the River to the Sea, Palestine will be free,” have a vision of the Land of Israel that would give Jews the same rights, privileges, and security they enjoy in Iran, Syria, and the lands that Hamas, Hezbollah, and their ilk control, that is to say, virtually none.

About half of Israel’s Jewish population is descended from people who fled Middle Eastern regimes like that. Most of the other half came from Europe, and we all know why. Zionism is the response to too much of the world, through too much history, using Jews as a scapegoat for its own shortcomings.

But the Zionist dream, liyot am hofshi b’artzenu —to be a free people in our land—is still a ways from being fulfilled. And not only because of Israel’s external enemies. It is because Zionism and Israel, like America, is about more than living behind a given set of borders. Israel’s purpose, ethos, and mission transcend that. 

Here, we are proud of our American ideals: a society that values freedom, democracy, and opportunity, with liberty and justice for all. After nearly 250 years, we’re still working on it. And though we’ve made enormous progress, we do not pretend to have completed the task. 

We also understand that those values define America, in our own eyes and in the eyes of the world, in ways that our borders do not. If America were half the size it is, those would still be our values, and we would still be America.

Zionists and Israelis aspire to those same values—along with numerous Jewish ones. After seventy-six years of independence, Israel does not pretend to have completed its task, either.

For Israel to live up to its ideals is no easier than for America to live up to ours. Especially considering that America has not had to be on guard against invasion and terror from its next-door neighbors for every day of its existence.

We recognize, particularly during the High Holydays, that it is not always easy for individuals to lead upright, moral, and ethical lives. It is exponentially more difficult for nations to do so.

So, how does a country live morally, especially while under ongoing threat? How do we marry Jewish ethics to Jewish statecraft? My answer, and I wish it was a better one, is imperfectly and fitfully. We have faith that somehow, in time, through democracy and with peace, as we said last week, “Ba-sof, yiyeh tov. In the end, it will be good.”

—

In the meantime we should also remember, as should the rest of the world, that no country that has had to fight to establish its independence has done so entirely morally. 

Every war since the beginning of the twentieth century, and there have been far too many of them, has been accompanied by mass civilian deaths and casualties. And going back further, was there ever a war that did not lead to rape, pillage, enslavement, and large-scale destruction of civilian life and property? And, when did one people ruling over another, brought about by whatever circumstances, end well?

With all that, how do we go forward?

The Israeli writer Etgar Keret has noted that in recent years, numerous peace initiatives with Israel’s enemies have failed. (Though treaties with Egypt and Jordan have been successful.) But because more recent initiatives have not succeeded, many in Israel, and many Zionists outside of Israel, have given up on the idea of peace altogether. 

They say things like, “The Palestinians don’t want peace. Let’s not even try. Instead, if we make them miserable enough, maybe they’ll just pick up and leave.” In other words, this group’s plans for an Israel without Palestinians is about the same as Palestinian plans for an Israel without Jews. 

Keret concedes that recent initiatives have not worked. But then he asks the zillion dollar question: “Nu, War has?!” 

When peace efforts fall short, it might be better to try new ways to find peace instead of new ways to start war. Because you have to be an imbecile to think that war is better.

—

If you are opposed to one policy or another of the Israeli government, if you don’t like the way the government is fighting this war, if you don’t like the government’s policy towards the territories taken in 1967, or the treatment of the people in them, if you think that certain government ministers have no business being in office, in short, if you have questions about Israeli policies, you are far from alone. And you are welcome to join the conversation. 

Israelis themselves debate these questions passionately. And they have been doing so since the State’s creation. What makes Israelis’ protests different from many around the world is that theirs are Zionist. Their goal is for the Jewish State to become its best self. The people chanting “From the River to the Sea,” on the other hand, are calling for Israel to disappear. This should not be a difficult moral distinction to grasp.

And let’s be real. Slandering Israel as colonialist, as anti-indigenous people, as a state of whites oppressing people of color…none of it withstands even the most superficial scrutiny. So fine, have fun chanting. Go turn a college campus upside down. But you won’t be doing a thing to further a just resolution to issues that we all agree need resolving.

Again, if you want to say that Israel can do better with the Arabs within her borders, or with the Arabs outside of her borders, and you have concrete proposals to put forward, I’m deeply interested. As are most Israelis. They’re not overjoyed with the situation either. (Although, and I bet no one had this on their Bingo card, in 2024, Israel ranked 5th out of more than 140 nations on the World Happiness Report. FWIW, the US was 23rd.) Anyway, Israelis have been trying to figure out what to do about “the situation,” with utmost seriousness, for more than a century now. 

But don’t come late to the party, march and chant like you know what you are talking about when you don’t, and expect to be heard by anyone who matters. Instead, try to demonstrate some actual understanding. If you don’t, you’ll be correctly seen as either intellectually lazy or intentionally dishonest. I don’t know how far that gets you on campus these days, but I don’t believe it gets you very far in life.

—

Of all the anti-Zionist sloganeering, the charge of genocide is the most obscene. And it deserves its own response. 

It is clear from its recent use that people have little knowledge of the word’s meaning. Allow me. Genocide is the deliberate attempt to exterminate, in its entirety, another people. We kind of own the word, or at least invented it. It was created after the Second World War by Rafael Lemkin, a Polish Jewish lawyer who survived the Shoah and went on to serve on the prosecution team at the Nuremberg Trials. To repeat, genocide is a campaign to exterminate/eliminate a particular people.

The civilian casualties in Gaza have been horrific. And the same can now be said for Lebanon. And they touch anyone with a beating heart. As, of course, did the attacks against Israel and the hostage-taking on October 7. 

The civilian casualties in Gaza and Lebanon are tragic, without question. But the dead and wounded are not victims of genocide or an attempt to inflict it. They are, and I intensely dislike this phrase: collateral damage.

This next will be unpleasant, and I apologize for it in advance. But it’s important to understand.

Civilian casualties in war have been happening for a long time. Sometimes, they are inadvertent, and sometimes they are intentional, but there are no modern wars without them. As Americans, we saw both kinds, inadvertent and intentional, in Vietnam, Iraq, and Afghanistan.

We should also realize that during the final phases of the WW II, America targeted civilian populations in Germany and Japan. Not because they had military value or were near military facilities, but because, as General Eisenhower put it, “They need to know that they’ve lost.” General Sherman’s intent was essentially the same on his march through Georgia and the Carolinas during the Civil War. 

The morality of that can be debated. Can it ever. But it was not genocide. It was not an attempt to exterminate another people. It was the horror of war. So spare us, please, your groundless and disgraceful rhetoric. And spare yourselves, too. That kind of linguistic and moral corruption brings no credit to you, your teachers, or your schools. 

And kindly think this through as well. Do you sincerely want the likes of Hamas, Hezbollah, ISIS, and Iran, to rule over more people’s lives than they already do? Does their brand of theocracy really square with your commitment to freedom, liberty, or justice? Israel is the only counter in the Middle East to all of that. And Israel deserves the gratitude, not the condemnation, of the rest of the world for being free and democratic country, however imperfect, in the midst of a sea of dictatorships. 

—

When Israel was just a dream, the founder of the Zionist movement, Theodor Herzl, said he believed it would be “A State like any other State.” How did that turn out?

Well, it is a State run by people who make mistakes, sometimes tragic ones, who can act mistakenly and be compromised or corrupted by money, power, visions of glory, ego, ideology, etc. In that regard, mission accomplished. Israel is just like everyone else.

But there is another vision of a Jewish State—one from the Tanakh, the Hebrew Bible—that calls Israel to be a light unto the nations, a kingdom of kohanim-priests, a holy people. (Ex. 19:6; Isa. 42:6)

There is considerable tension, and distance, between these two visions. It is our job to help resolve the tension and shorten the distance. Once again, we are all Israelis, and we are all Jews.

We also look forward to the day when other words from our Prophets will be fulfilled: “They shall beat their swords into plowshares and their spears into pruning hooks.” When “Nation shall not lift up sword against nation, nor ever again, learn war.” (Isaiah 2:4) Ken yehi ratzon—May this be God’s will, and ours. 

G’mar tov and l’shana tovah.

———

October 12, 2024 | Yom Kippur 5785

 

How to Matter | Part II

In the Mishnah, tractate Middot (2:2), we are taught that on the pilgrim festivals, Passover, Shavuot, and Sukkot, when it was traditional to go to Jerusalem, people would climb the stairs to the Temple courtyard, and enter a gate. Most would turn to the right, circle the courtyard, and exit through the gate from which they entered. However, those who were carrying a burden (we’re not talking about luggage here, but a personal, emotional, or spiritual burden) turned to the left, and as they walked around, they were going, so to speak, against the traffic.

The custom was for those who were walking around from the right, to ask those who were coming towards them from the left, “What is your burden?” It could have been anything: “I’ve lost a parent, a spouse, a child.” “I’ve been treated unfairly.” “I’m not managing my troubles.” “My health is failing.” And after listening, the one who was walking from the right would bless the one who was approaching from the left.

We don’t know how, or honestly if, this was ever done in actuality. But no matter. Even if it’s a legend, it teaches powerful lessons. 

On festival days of celebration, people who had come to Jerusalem, with considerable effort, were confronted by their fellow citizens who were, for reasons with which we can all empathize, less than joyous. And the ones who were joyous had to interact with the ones who were not. They had to ask, they had to listen, they had to empathize, and they had to respond with heartfelt words. 

Note that the blessings did not come from the Sages, the Kohanim—the priests, or the Levites. They came from everyday people. Because we all have it within ourselves to comfort others. It only requires a caring ear and some menschedik words.

Talk about mattering. Talk about making a difference. Talk about putting our best selves forward.

And those who were less than joyous, who may have been feeling isolated, bereft, or alone, received blessing from those who, that year at least, were able to celebrate. We say, “that year at least,” because everyone understood that next time, the places might be changed. 

The Mishnah teaches a lesson on how community is built, and strengthened: by listening and caring with the spirit of kedusha—holiness. Those same principles apply today. In communities, in workplaces, and in our families. 

Asking: Why are you troubled? What is your burden? And then listening, openly and non-judgmentally. Then empathizing, how difficult it might be for someone. And finally, responding, with words from the heart. 

What healing, what blessing, and what shalom-peace, this could bring us all. 

G’mar tov and l’shana tovah.

———

October 12, 2024 | Yom Kippur 5785