This song caught my heart today. Thanks to the Maccabeats for Minyan Man.
With so much divisiveness, it’s good to remember Kol Arevim Zeh laZeh, All Israel is responsible for one another. Each of us is important. Each of us can make a difference. Together, let’s welcome Shabbat and welcome God’s peace.
Shabbat Shalom
#BringThemHomeNow
Genocide is a highly charged word.
In Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, Juliet asks, ‘What’s in a name?’ Names are simply labels we use to identify things, but the true nature of those things exists regardless of what we call them. Genocide is a highly charged word. We get so caught up in the word and all of the intense emotional baggage it carries that we forget the underlying tragedy: it is an attempt to understand what is happening in Gaza.
One side calls it a genocide; the other disputes that term, accusing the accusers of deliberately misusing the word, targeting the victims of such an experience as if they were the perpetrators of that very same horror. We get caught up in definitions, a kind of territorialism, claiming ownership of that word, and in doing so, we completely miss the point.
The people suffering in the war in Gaza are truly experiencing pain. It’s not just about numbers—whether it’s one person or many—innocent victims of the Hamas-Israel conflict have died. They go hungry. They are homeless. They are victims. Although I do not trust the statistics from the Gaza Health Ministry, there’s no way to measure the full extent of the carnage accurately, and Hamas’s role in this is dehumanizing Palestinians, echoing what the Nazis did to Jews.
We must navigate this challenging space and find ways to offer humanity and hope that we were denied, and, sadly, to the Palestinians as well. From the ashes of Auschwitz, we proclaimed Never Again. Was this declaration meant only for us? Our Jewish duty to be a light to the nations requires that it not be. We must uphold our tradition’s promise by maintaining our humanity and embracing the virtues of Pirkei Avot (2:5); in a world that has no worthy men, strive to be a man.
Whatever you call it, the war and anguish must end.
What story do we tell ourselves? Our memory of events often differs from what actually happened. The deviation from the facts is not due to faulty memory; instead, it reveals a story that better meets deeper personal needs as we try to find meaning in the experience. This tendency to reshape narratives is a profoundly human trait, one that is powerfully explored in the Parsha V’Etchanan through Moses.
In the second Parsha of Deuteronomy, Moses recalls the Exodus and God’s giving of the Torah. The word V’Etchanan means “I pleaded.” Moses recounts his encounter with God, beseeching God to allow him to enter the Promised Land. Moses’s plea, filled with a heartbreaking sense of injustice, is denied. He explains his fate to the people with an accusatory tone: “The Lord was angry with me on your account and would not listen to me.”
Taken at face value, Moses appears to be shifting the blame for his own mistake—striking the rock at Meribah—away from himself and onto the Children of Israel. He isn’t just holding them responsible for the act itself but also for his suffering caused by his unfair punishment for that act. After 40 years of leading often ungrateful and rebellious people, Moses was exhausted, broke down, and acted in a way that was uncharacteristic for him, but he is held fully accountable. Moses isn’t merely recounting a story but revealing a fundamental aspect of human nature: blaming others for our own actions.
We often face these situations. How do we respond when confronted with insult or injustice? Too often, we avoid taking responsibility for our actions and instead blame others. We react with harshness or indifference, rationalizing rather than owning up to the situation. The “whataboutism” mentality justifies bad behavior by claiming that if someone wrongs me, I am justified in doing something wrong too. However, our tradition teaches us that ultimate responsibility lies with the individual. The lesson is not that others’ actions can justify our own, but that we are accountable for our behavior, regardless of the circumstances. We cannot point fingers at others to absolve ourselves.
This theme of personal accountability is closely connected to Moses’s chilling prophecy. He warns the people that after they have lived in the land for some time, they will inevitably “deal corruptly” and turn away from God. This human weakness and tendency toward complacency lead to a future of exile. However, Moses offers a remedy for this bleak future: a return to the fundamental principles of their faith, sharing both the “Ten Commandments” and the Shema and V’ahavta.
Our tradition teaches that living by our values is non-negotiable. What we know as Derekh Eretz—the ethical “rules of the road”—must always be followed. We are only given dispensation when we are prevented from fulfilling our obligations. The strength and enduring nature of Judaism require that we respect others and live in a way that benefits both ourselves and our community.
We stand against all hatred—not just antisemitism. We support the laws of the land and everyone’s rights to those protections. We believe in feeding the hungry, no matter who they are, housing the homeless, and upholding the dignity of work and the ability to support one’s family. Judaism teaches us to do these things because we understand what it means to be a stranger and to honor every person, since we are all created in God’s image.
A society is judged by how it cares for its most vulnerable. This is a core principle of Judaism. Especially during difficult times like these, we are called to reaffirm and champion our values. They are more than just guidelines; they ground us, giving us clarity, meaning, and purpose.
How do you respond to the following: We will destroy Hamas even if we must sacrifice every remaining hostage and countless thousands of Palestinian women and children?
For some, this is a statement that requires no analysis. For some, this is a righteous stand; for others, it is self-righteousness.
There is a moment when a subtle but important shift can happen within us, a transition from genuine righteousness to the often-destructive path of self-righteousness. It is a journey from trying to do what is right according to a higher calling to becoming convinced that we are inherently right, unwilling to consider anything else. Often, this occurs without our awareness.
Pinchas in this week’s Torah Portion offers timely insight into today’s tense social environment. Pinchas was zealous for God. In a moment of crisis, he acted decisively with deep conviction. He kills Zimri, the blaspheming Israelite, and the Midianite princess/seductress/ and lover, catching and killing them in the act, so to speak. In response to these gruesome murders, the plague that was decimating the Israelites comes to a halt, and God recognizes Pinchas as righteous.
We have struggled with this text. Was Zimri righteous, or someone deranged or delusional? But the text is clear that he acted rightly. This extreme example prompts us to ask ourselves a similar question: How do we know if our actions are righteous, or if they are self-serving? How can we distinguish between selflessness and self-righteousness? Does the greater good drive our response, or ego and selfishness?
To answer this, I try to step back and ask myself, How am I reacting and why? What does this moment require from me?
It’s so easy to lash out, especially when we feel threatened. That primal “fight or flight” reflex can make us feel trapped, and the only option may seem to be to attack and fight our way out. But even in those moments of intense pressure, thoughtfulness and strategy are essential. What do I want to achieve right now? Am I the conciliator, seeking understanding and resolution, or the vanquisher, determined to win at all costs? Or is the right path somewhere in between?
Understanding my motivations makes all the difference. Whether it’s a heated issue like the Israel-Palestine conflict or something more personal like a disagreement with a family member, we need our inner compass to guide our outward actions and help us make decisions about the best way to proceed.
Finding our shared values often helps us find common ground. This is a powerful tool for navigating disagreements.
For example, we all agree that hunger is bad—everyone should have enough food to eat. There is the value we share. But we can differ on how to achieve this goal. Some will take the “give a man a fish” approach, others will opt for the “teach a man to fish” method. This is a question of process. We are arguing about the method to achieve the goal. We are not vilifying the person offering an opinion. We can be respectful even when we disagree with each other’s ideas. Otherwise we can lapse from righteousness to self-righteousness.
Zeal can be misleading and deceptive. Do zealots truly hear God’s word, or are they only hearing their own amplified voices inside their heads, mistaking them for divine commands? Pinchas is shown as hearing God’s command, but history also provides many examples of those who, in their zeal, caused great destruction—like the Sicarii, whose self-righteous fervor led to the destruction of the Second Temple, the tragedy of Masada, and the slaughter of Israelites. Their conviction was unwavering, but they profaned God’s name, and their actions resulted in ruin. Some of us might rationalize this behavior instead of taking the time to analyze the issues critically.
Patriotism and love for America can sometimes make it hard for many of us to recognize when harmful actions are justified in its name. Consider the dark chapters of our nation:
The attacks of 9/11 triggered a wave of revenge, transforming us both at home and abroad. Our history is replete with other examples, including Japanese internment camps, ethnic cleansing of Native Americans, turning away Jews fleeing the Nazis, and more.
And as Jews, we grapple with settler violence in the West Bank and the prosecution of the Gaza war. Perceived righteousness can blind us to the humanity and legitimate grievances of the other side.
Anger, fear, insult, anxiety, and even joy—our emotions are triggered in the moment. But our reactions don’t have to be reflexive. They can’t be.
This brings me back to the core question: What are my values, and how are they shaping my life right now? Reflecting on this calls for a mindful pause—a moment to breathe and assess my position before facing a challenge. It’s important even in everyday, mundane moments. That’s why I avoid writing emails directly in the app when the stakes are high. Instead, I open a word processor and draft my message. I review the draft to make sure it clearly communicates what I want to say. If it aligns with my values and is likely to produce the outcome I want, I then copy and paste.
Reflection is our safeguard. It creates space for righteousness to emerge, rather than fostering a rigid, unforgiving sense of self-righteousness. It encourages us to be passionate about what is truly good while remaining open to understanding, compassion, and the shared humanity that connects us all.
Let us all strive to stand up for what is right, to embrace the humanity of others, and to act with humility, guided by honest assessments of our hearts and motivations. Shabbat Shalom.
#BringThemHomeNow
Shalom Rav – a prayer for peace, is part of closing of the Amidah. Cantor Azi Schwartz shares this beautiful version as we welcome Shabbat.
Shabbat Shalom
#BringThemHomeNow
What are we really trying to say?
Shylock is an antisemitic character, a villainous figure in William Shakespeare’s play The Merchant of Venice. He has come to represent a usurious moneylender, and for a gangster, he’s the guy who ruthlessly takes that pound of flesh through loan repayment terms. And for someone familiar with the play, it’s an intentional insult and antisemitic. But then comes Donald Trump.
Trump is not known for his soaring oratory. Arguably, this is intentional, as he presents himself as a man of the people. He uses straightforward language that everyone can understand. To his audience, Shylock means a usurious moneylender.
Does Trump understand the back story? Probably. But he rarely seeks nuance. He simplifies complex issues and makes statements in ways that his supporters can understand. He also uses the righteous anger of certain groups as a political weapon. The “hair on fire” moments he creates distract from other topics. It’s 24/7 constant outrage, nonstop. And it’s exhausting. That’s also a tool he uses.
How we handle this depends on the outcome we’re aiming for. As an exceptional teacher of mine once said, “If you are a hammer, everything looks like a nail.”
If you want to clarify the situation, you could quietly approach Donald Trump and respectfully point out the offense caused by sharing the history of the word. If your goal is to criticize his insensitivity and provoke the anger of those offended by such remarks, both Jewish and non-Jewish alike, you would create the controversy currently underway in certain circles. It all depends on what you aim to accomplish.
Likely, he knew. However, it could have been a slip of the tongue. He is known for using a stream-of-consciousness style in his remarks. He has advisors who would have counseled him afterward. But even if it was a slip, Trump does not apologize; he moves forward. To quote the play, “I am not bound to please thee with my answers.” Calling Trump out in public to disparage him accomplishes little for anyone, except Donald Trump.
Words have power. That is a core belief of my tradition. But in a world where things are happening at a fever pitch both here and abroad, focusing on this word has taken precious attention away from discussing all those critical issues.
We need to be more careful in our word choice and what we want our words to accomplish.
As we celebrate today, may we recommit ourselves to our founding principles shared in our Declaration of Independence, namely Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness. Let us work towards everyone being so blessed.
What does it take for fear to be overcome by courage? To dare, to risk, and to fight for what you believe in rather than cower?
The recent Torah portion Shlach begs these questions. Shlach, translated as “Send,” narrates the story of the 12 spies. As you recall, the unit was dispatched on a reconnaissance mission to survey Canaan. They returned with tales of a bountiful land, but one inhabited by giants, making it seem impossible to conquer. Only Caleb and Joshua believed that the Israelites could be victorious, but they were overruled.
Fear gripped the spies; the Giants were too formidable, and their fear raised paralyzing questions. Perhaps they thought—we could live without realizing the promise of the land; maybe we could make do in Mitzrayim or confined spaces. The reticence of these people exploited the vulnerabilities of this nascent nation. They defeated themselves before they were ever tested. Their doubt in themselves, their destiny, their values, and indeed their God meant that this entire generation of recently freed people needed to be replaced by those whose spirit and strength were forged by the trials and tribulations of the harsh Midbar or desert. This spirit and strength are the answers to my initial question: what does it take to overcome fear with courage?
With this strength and spirit, you know in your heart that what you possess and believe is worth fighting for and to have enough faith and courage to take the next step even into the unknown. At the same time, you remain true to your values and morals despite the horrors of warfare, facing the battle with bravery yet not losing your soul in the fog of war.
Now is the time for us moderns to embrace these lessons. More than ever in our recent history, we need to lean into our values — the things we love deeply enough to champion and fight for.
For Israel, the boldness and cunning displayed—from exploding pagers and covert Mossad agents to an aggressive air strike aimed at preemptively striking Iran, a country whose nuclear ambitions threaten Israel—are significant. It is crucial to understand that waiting and hoping, along with economic sanctions, are not always the correct responses. However, it is also necessary to honestly recognize that the costs of this fight will be high, both in lives and resources. Staying morally superior during battles against a stubborn enemy has been especially difficult during the war in Gaza.
And just like there, we face challenges here as well. Domestic rabid Jew-hatred must unite us. We must stand up for our right to live freely, securely, and safely in the United States, a land of great abundance and blessings. We will not cower in silence or fear.
This is the time to stand up and defend our values because this is our home. To those who hate Jews or anyone labeled as “the other,” we fight for the fundamental rights that form the foundation of this great country, both for ourselves and everyone else, to protect the principles of equality, justice, and liberty. The hopes of our people and our traditions are at risk, but we cannot back down.
As Americans and Jews, much is at stake. Indeed, maybe everything is at stake. The fear of the unknown cannot silence us, nor can it allow us to disregard our sacred values and act with impunity against perceived threats. By standing together and believing in ourselves, each other, and the sacredness of our tradition’s values, we will be strong, and we will prevail—Chazak v’Umatz, strength, and courage.
Barukh atah adonai eloheinu melekh ha’olam asher kidshanu b’mitzvotav v’tzivanu la’asok betzorkhei tzibur.
Blessed is the Eternal One who commands us to work on behalf of the needs of our community.
Amen
I am reeling from the attacks on my fellow Jews here in the United States. I struggle to understand the apparent fight against anti-Semitism by targeting institutions like Harvard, which seems to provoke a backlash. It appears that Jew-hatred has been normalized enough for these miscreants to heed the words that sanction violent acts. Recent horrific attacks on Jews leave us wondering if we are safe. What should we do?
LEAN IN
I take pride in my heritage, the values of my tradition, and the prophetic call to make the world a better place. I connect with people who share my beliefs, and I also reach out to those who do not. I stand up for what I believe and engage in conversation with others.
I will proudly defend my identity, including that of an American who upholds the aspirations of our founding documents and the struggle for equality, justice, and liberty.
Now is not the time to cower in fear but to realize that many others are like me, seeking a safe and secure world for our children, believing in something greater than myself, and understanding that the “other” is not a threat; they are just someone I have yet to know. It can be scary and difficult to do.
I attend my synagogue. If you haven’t done so recently, now is a great time to find community. And there are so many causes that demand our attention, for our charge is to make the world a better place. It is more important than ever to fulfill our mission. There is strength in numbers, and besides our Jewish community, we have many allies.
I am a Jew; I am an American. I fight for the causes I believe in because they are righteous and good. Join me and Lean In.
I had the honor of moderating a conversation for the New Israel Fund (NIF) at Beth Am Israel, located on the Main Line in suburban Philadelphia.
Our speakers, Rabbi Noa Sattath and Libby Linkenski are dedicated to fostering a shared society that upholds our Jewish values. Our values endure, even in challenging times like these, when they are stressed and tested as rarely before in our history. Indeed, our values are more important than ever for maintaining perspective. Libby shared three points to remember as we navigate these difficult times:
Palestinians are not Hamas. Israelis are not Benjamin Netanyahu. Americans are not Donald Trump. We are more than the actions of our extremist leaders and are not directly complicit in their worst acts.
The conflict didn’t begin on October 7, and October 7 itself was indefensible. So is the ongoing assault on the people of Gaza. We can’t lose our moral clarity, regardless of politics.
Two peoples have always existed between the river and the sea, and both will continue to exist. Any vision that erases one side is a vision of unimaginable violence. The question is not whether we coexist but how. That’s where the conversation begins—and where it must end.
We must continue working to lay the foundation for a future where both people can live with dignity and security.
