Thoughts on the Tu B’Shvat

I write this, it is Groundhog Day and Tu B’Shvat!

The American Sage, Punxsutawney Phil, has predicted another 6 weeks of winter. It is incredible where we get our news!

More importantly, I would argue that this is the 15th day of the month of Shvat, Tu b’Shvat. This day marks the beginning of the new year for trees.

It is about the rebirth that will come from life that has gone dormant during the winter within the greater cycle of the year. We could not have a more apt metaphor for what is happening in our lives. The brutal and violent transgressions of the Federal Government through ICE and the Border Patrol, as well as the multiple assaults on human dignity and respect, seem to have seeded the birth of a popular uprising against these violations of our rights.

As spring approaches, the trees will blossom, and warmth will fill the air. But the rededication to our ideals requires us to act. Our tradition teaches that we are partners with God in the ongoing work of creation. Now is our time to commit to this sacred task. We must each ask ourselves what we are able or willing to do, and get to work.

In the harshest, coldest, and darkest times, hope arises that something better is coming. The Jewish tradition and the founding principles of our country require us, in the words of Abraham Lincoln, to work to ensure “a government of the people, by the people and for the people shall not perish from the face of the earth.”

Wishing you a happy Tu b’Shvat.

Rabbi David

History should be Embraced

Trying to rewrite history cannot deny its truth.

Slavery is a moral stain on the United States. No matter how much bleach we use, we cannot scrub it out, nor can we pretend the stain doesn’t exist. Removing historically accurate plaques that teach the fullness of our history at the President’s House exhibit on Constitution Mall, the paradox of Freedom and Slavery, does not make the events they depict any less true. The attempt to deny our past keeps us from learning and growing from it. Our challenge is to rise above it, not to define ourselves by it and remain mired in it.

The fear of some who see this as an attack on our country and turn a blind eye is baseless. I am ashamed of slavery and the hatred it embodies, while remaining proud of the aspirations our vision embodies. We have a long journey ahead of us to right the wrongs and heal the lingering pain and injustice. But we are better off when all are better off. When every person is treated with justice, dignity, and respect. These are the principles of this nation, principles we must remain dedicated to championing.

When we hide from things that make us uncomfortable, we miss the chance to engage with and learn from them.  We are better than slavery.  It is our history.  But it does not have to be our legacy.  We are better than that.

 

 

Pharaoh’s Hardened Heart: How Power Becomes Incapable of Change

One of the most theologically challenging chapters of the Exodus narrative that Pharaoh’s heart is “hardened.” Where is the moral choice or free will that characterizes Torah? If God hardens Pharaoh’s heart, how can Pharaoh be held responsible for his refusal to free the Israelites? How can punishment be just if repentance has been removed as an option?

This reading loses sight of the metaphor at work and the timeliness of the teaching. This is not merely a portrayal of an obstinate ruler; it is about how entrenched systems of power function, how the primary focus becomes remaining in power, how moral authority is lost, and how meaningful change to the system that maintains that power is resisted, ultimately doomed to collapse under the weight of its own corruption.

Pharaoh is that political system.

As the plagues begin, Pharaoh himself refuses to change. As the plague of frogs subsided, Pharaoh’s heart hardened when relief came.  This was a political reflex, not Divine intervention. The system reasserted itself once the pressure on it was alleviated.  The relief was the excuse to revert to the status quo, a squandered opportunity for repentance.

When the text starts using the phrase that “God hardens Pharaoh’s heart, “ the Rambam comments that persistent injustice can erode and stop the capacity for repentance itself . As choices become character, character hardens into destiny.

Ibn Ezra reinforces this structural reading. Commenting on God’s declaration that Pharaoh’s heart will be hardened, he emphasizes that Pharaoh’s political role makes concession impossible. Releasing the Israelites would dismantle the economic foundations of Egypt. Pharaoh’s refusal is therefore systemic self-preservation rather than mere personal obstinacy.

Torah reinforces this interpretation through metaphor. Pharaoh’s heart is described not only as hard but as heavy (‘kaved’). Weight creates inertia. A system burdened by injustice loses its ability to pivot, respond, or change course.

This imagery reaches its climax at the Sea of Reeds. Pharaoh’s chariots sink “like lead in the mighty waters.” Collapsing under its own weight.   Egypt falls not because God waged war, but because the structures that sustained its dominance render it incapable of survival in a transformed moral landscape.

Midrash sharpens this idea through the principle of measure-for-measure. Shemot Rabbah teaches that just as Pharaoh hardened his heart, so God responded in kind. The plan to drown babies in the Nile creates the punishment of the drowning of the chariots and army in the Reed Sea.  Power collapses according to its own internal logic; the methods used to preserve control become the mechanisms of downfall.

The prophets later universalized Pharaoh into an archetype of political absolutism. Ezekiel depicts Pharaoh declaring, “The Nile is mine; I made myself.” This arrogance and pride further erode any legitimacy of that power. Once power views itself as self-originating, accountability disappears, and reform becomes inconceivable. Seen in this light, the hardening of Pharaoh’s heart is not a theological puzzle but an enduring warning, repeatedly ignored yet played out throughout human history and confronting us today.

The Torah does not ask why Pharaoh did not repent; it teaches that power becomes incapable of repentance. Redemption comes not because unjust systems change, but because they cannot endure and ultimately collapse. The Reed Sea does not defeat Egypt—it simply allows Egypt to sink beneath the weight it chose to carry. These stark lessons are warnings for all of us.

 

 

Do You Care?

We are horrified that Temple Beth Israel in Jackson, MS, was firebombed. It is a violent act of hatred targeting Jews. As antisemitism continues, we find ourselves vulnerable and seeking support.

The community of Jackson, MS, has rallied around its Jewish community in wonderful ways. Many of us, however, feel abandoned by others across the country who have not expressed support for their local Jewish communities amid escalating threats. This is counterproductive, creating divisions and exacerbating tensions where they should not be.

Sadly, there is too much violence and hatred. It is impossible to respond to every incident. The Jewish communities could not meet that standard either. We would spend substantial time issuing statements of outrage and comfort instead of devoting ourselves to the important work of uniting against these blights and working toward changes in our society to create a safer space for all.

Too many understand the pain, often through lived experience. We need solidarity and action, not just words.

 

Shabbat Shalom

As we enter the last Shabbat of 2025, I share Auld Lang Syne, the famous song of this time of year, written by Scottish composer and poet Robert Burns.  It asks us to remember that our humanity and our kindness are expressed in our relationships with others.  As we move into the new year, resolve to love others, treat them with dignity, respect, and compassion. May we find ways to forgive others and ourselves.

Shabbat Shalom

 

Share your Blessings

Giving Tuesday flooded my email inbox. However, my inbox has been filled with so many “asks” that I now delete messages without even reading beyond the subject line. It may sound like cynicism and a bah-humbug attitude that could prevent us from giving tzedakah, but that is not the case. We are required to give and support others in need—clothing the naked, feeding the hungry, sheltering the homeless, and caring for the widow and orphan—these are at the heart of Jewish responsibilities.

Our great teacher and sage, Maimonides, taught us that we must give. It is clearly an obligation. But he asks: do we give our money to one cause or distribute it among many? Maimonides favors giving to many, even though the impact is smaller; it helps us to become more charitable if we make it a regular part of our practice.

Michael and Susan Dell recently announced a $6 billion gift to aid 25 million children. Inspired by the Save America plan to give $1,000 to each child born over the next two years, the Dells also aimed to support already born children up to age 10 with a savings fund. If you do the math, this amounts to about $250 per child invested in an S&P index fund. It might not seem like much, but it’s more than these children had before. It’s about instilling hope and providing a link to a system many of these kids aren’t connected to. Hopefully, other billionaires will follow suit and use some of their vast wealth to help those who are among the have-nots.

Now, for the billionaires among us this evening, I am confident you have already put these plans into action. Thank you. But the rest of us (who aren’t billionaires) can follow suit. A small contribution may not change the world, but it could help someone when they need it most. Chanukah is a time for Jewish renewal and rededication. Our commitment to helping others is central to our tradition. Support the causes you believe in. And by giving, we not only help others but also enrich ourselves by gaining a sense of purpose.

I fondly remember the Jerry Lewis Telethon. As a kid, I couldn’t wait to call in. I saved my allowance and made a $10 donation. I eagerly watched to see my name scroll across the bottom of the TV screen as donors were announced. I felt a rush of excitement as I waited for the moment it became official. And in that moment, I knew I had done something good.

We are taught ‘Kol Arevim zeh bah zeh,’ meaning we are all responsible for each other. When Cain questions God at the very start of our story, asking, “Am I my brother’s keeper?” God responds loudly and clearly, yes.

This holiday season,  make sure you give what you can to help others and yourself as well.

The Dead Child- a prayer from the ashes of October 7

As we remember the horror of October 7 and the aftermath, the words of Menachem Rosensaft bring us a somber resonance. Let this day of remembrance stir us to mercy for the child, not because we doubt our cause, but because we cherish our conscience.

“the dead child

in gaza city

khan younis

rafah

is cried over

with the same tears

by the same God

the same Allah

the same Adonai

as the dead child

in kfar aza

nahal oz

be’eri

and it is

for the not yet dead child

palestinian child

israeli child

muslim child

jewish child

that the killing must end

the war must end

the terror must end

the hatred must end”

—Menachem Rosensaft, from Burning Psalms: Confronting Adonai after Auschwitz (Ben Yehuda Press, 2025)

 

 

Does the kippah on my head place a target on my back?

With the increasing violence in public spaces, maybe the answer is yes. What should I do about it? I could cower; many people have said they remove their Jewish symbols, like a Chai or Magen David, because they fear being targeted.

I have been wearing a kippah for many years, and since the war started, I wear a kippah with the Israeli flag and the words “Am Yisrael Chai” stenciled inside. I am proud to show who I am and what I stand for. But does it come with any risks?

My kippah has actually been an invitation for people from all walks of life to approach me. At a Costco, on a turnpike rest stop, or while walking on the street, people offer words of encouragement and support. Most people are decent folks. Most are not looking to harm others; they are living their lives and caring for their loved ones, just as I strive to do.

We must not allow acts of violence from uncontrolled radicals to control us. Those responsible for protecting us face a significant challenge, and a system based on freedom rather than repression often leaves them a step behind in safeguarding our rights and safety. They require additional support to perform this vital work. We can help.

We need to get out, gather, socialize, and connect with others. We don’t have to agree, but we must show we care. We need each other. The hateful rhetoric shouldn’t be fought with more hate, but by reaching out, creating, and living in the society we believe in.

My kippah is a symbol and a call to the people I meet that our humanity continues to thrive. That is the kind of target I strive to be.

 

What am I entitled to?

What can I or any member of society reasonably expect? What is it that each of us deserves, and who provides it? This is a question to ask of our society and the communities in which we live. I think it’s fair to say that most of us want to be valued, seen, heard, and shown a modicum of respect and dignity. Our Jewish tradition offers us “rules of the road” to guide proper behavior, including how we treat others and how others treat us. Our government has also set certain expectations. According to our founding documents, we are entitled to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Of course, understanding what these mean and how to provide them to each citizen is a very complex task. Sometimes we handle it well, but often we fall short as a country. This creates the core tension and highlights the need for ongoing conversation to truly understand what these rights mean.

The lack of conversation and understanding that there are multiple ways to achieve solutions creates problems in our society. Both the left and the right become more entrenched in political arguments instead of engaging in meaningful discussions about what these issues truly mean. For example, regardless of politics, most people of goodwill would agree that allowing children to go hungry should not happen in this country. But how do we feed the hungry children?

This is a process argument, not about the underlying value, and here is where our faith tradition becomes a vital guide.

One of our core wisdom texts, known as the Talmud, provides a roadmap for understanding. A fundamental value is introduced, followed by a series of discussions, debates, and disagreements. “Makhloket L’Shem Shamayim,” an argument for the sake of heaven, seeks to understand how the underlying value manifests itself in various circumstances. The arguments, including both the majority and minority views, are presented in this book. The reason is that even the winning argument may not always be correct. In the future, the dissenting opinion that was once preserved may be proven right if cultural or societal norms change.

In the debate about feeding hungry children, parents are primarily responsible, but if they are unable to do so, the community should step in and provide food. But how does the community feed the hungry child? That raises an important question about the process. There is also legitimate disagreement about how to deliver food to hungry children. It can be through a government program. It can be achieved by providing money so that others can obtain food, or by helping parents improve their living standards, enabling them to afford to feed their children. And to make things even more complex, what does alleviating hunger actually mean?

Are we required to feed children according to a specific nutritional standard? How much influence should outside forces have over family decisions? What happens when parents are incompetent, and what occurs when nutritional standards are set or changed—something we’ve seen happen many times in the past? All of this assumes that well-meaning people are committed to preventing children from going hungry.

Some people only care about themselves, ignoring everyone else. Others realize that society should be judged on whether all who are hungry are fed. Still, others believe it is simply the morally right and ethical thing to do.

Questions like these are fundamental, which is why today’s tribal politics are counterproductive. These politics don’t help us address our societal obligations or what I am entitled to; instead, they emphasize power and control and vilify the opposing side. We must ask the right questions, engage in meaningful conversations, reach a conclusion, and then act on that decision. This presents both a significant challenge and a valuable opportunity for building a thriving, vibrant, and just society. Let’s start discussing what truly matters.