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
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 story of Noah and the Ark begins with a devastating judgment—God considers the world “irretrievably corrupt” and plans to wipe out all living creatures. But beyond that, the story is really about a single, extraordinary act of preservation. From moral despair, one family is chosen for a nearly impossible, world-saving mission, as long as they are willing to accept it.
At the heart of the story is Noah’s character. He was deliberately chosen; the Torah explicitly describes him as “a righteous man, faultless despite the influences of his generations,” adding the powerful phrase: “Noah walked with God.” This is more than just praise—it is a message of hope.
Torah further states, “Noah did everything he was commanded to do”—this is not just about mere compliance; it is a declaration of Noah’s spiritual strength and his ability to hear God’s voice despite all the surrounding noise, challenging us with an important question. Can we look past the judgment of others and the dictates of society and focus on the hope rooted in our own integrity, like Noah? Noah is aligned with the Divine. His response inspires us to act in moments of moral calling. How do we respond to our individual “Ark Moments”? This is the essence of our Judaism, a commitment to goodness and a partnership in the ongoing perfection of our world.
In a generation lost to selfish pursuits, Noah lives a life of virtue. His Neshama, or soul, was such that the Divine voice wasn’t an anomaly but a natural part of his soul’s purpose. Through this, Noah demonstrates that the potential for redemption resides within each individual heart. Our tradition assures us that we have a divine spark (Neshama) and that through our daily ethical choices, we can build the inner vessel needed to hear and act upon that truth clearly, just as Noah built the Ark.
The true test of Noah’s mission wasn’t just the instruction, but the years of solitary, sustained effort, enduring what must have been relentless public mockery. He faithfully built on a vision rooted in an unseen, promised truth, despite being surrounded by a society focused on a cynical reality.
Yet, he kept building. Noah’s perseverance is our hope, demonstrating the power of (Jewish) values to strengthen resolve. His commitment to truth serves as a model for Tzedek (righteousness) and Yosher (straightness/integrity). Building the Ark was a significant act of Tikkun Olam (repairing the world). It teaches us that our inner strength is not only personal determination but also the spiritual legacy that enables us to prioritize the obligation to repair the world over the fear of human judgment.
The universal “Ark Moment” happens when our inner voice urges us to make tough, sacrificial, or unpopular decisions. We often feel tempted to justify our actions for comfort, ease, or self-protection. But in doing so, we sacrifice our integrity and ethics.
However, the Noah story goes beyond this challenge to reveal the ultimate promise of the Rainbow Covenant. The lasting hope is that we are not destined to repeat the past. We are equipped with spiritual tools—Teshuvah (repentance and return) and the ongoing call to Hesed (loving-kindness)—to rise above our baser instincts. We have the inner strength to turn away from temptations, not because we are commanded, but because we are hopeful agents of repair.
Parshah Noah is not just about the flood that was, but about the world that can be. We have the power to make a difference in the things we believe in enough to stand for. The subsequent story of Abraham shows us that the initial strength needed to preserve humanity (Noah) directly leads to the covenantal strength required to build a people (Abraham). Our challenge is to nurture that inner space—to walk with God, as Noah did—so that when our own Ark Moment in life comes, we not only have the courage to act but also believe that through our actions, we are partners with the Divine in Tikkun Olam.
Shabbat Shalom
#BringThemHomeNow
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)
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.
MAN DOES NOT LIVE BY BREAD ALONE- THE MESSAGE OF EIKEV
When life becomes easier and we start to relax, hard-won battles fade into distant memories. We then drift into a new reality, and instead of staying alert and valuing our principles, we relax, enjoying a good life and the rewards of our hard work, daring to believe we’ve earned it and that it will always be ours. The hunger that once motivated us diminishes and we face the consequences. It is human nature to become complacent, but we must not.
This is Moses’s cautionary message to the people in his final speech. He warns them that change is coming. The generation that met God in the wilderness is passing away, and a new generation will take their place and settle in the promised land. Without that personal experience, these new generations risk losing their close relationship with God.
Turning away from God is dangerous. Forgetting how you arrived here and showing gratitude through consistent reverence and practice will lead people to ruin. Just as the current inhabitants who are about to be displaced from the land, you, too, will eventually lose the blessings of this place and be forced to leave as well.
The wilderness has taught you to be strong.
There’s an old story that teaches us tough times build strong people, and strong people then create easy times. Those easy times lead to soft people, who in turn produce tough times again. It’s a cycle that can only be broken by staying committed to God, because God’s gift of the promised land won’t lead us to complacency. It remains a constant challenge.
We see this in our community today. The previous generations worked hard and built a better life for their children and our children. They will inherit wealth that makes life easier. However, they may not fully remember the sacrifices others made for them. We are currently experiencing one of the biggest transfers of wealth in history. Money and property are passed to this new generation to simplify life. But this is only material wealth. The true challenge is how to pass down the lasting core values that emphasize hard work, sharing our abundance, and working to improve the world by carrying forward the values of our tradition for everyone. We face this challenge today just as Moses did then.
I recently spoke with a woman who was worried that her death might come too soon. Although her body was ready, she felt her children were not; they were unprepared to manage without her. The question was more complicated than the answer. Moses, too, is struggling to give final words of advice, admonitions to remember God and follow His word. At the end, it is too late to change the course. We hope that the lives we live and the values we model become lessons learned and embraced.
A midrash about the patriarch Jacob depicts him surrounded by his sons as he nears death, reflecting on whether his children have learned the lessons and will uphold the values or if those values will die with him. The adult children respond, “Listen, Father, we hear you and it shall be,” saying, “Shema Yisrael, Adonai Eloheinu, Adonai Echad.” With his final breath, Jacob says, “Praised be Adonai forever.” Baruch Shem kavod malchuto l’olam va’ed.” (Gen Rab 95)
We would all sleep better knowing everything will work out. We do our best. For Moses, it was to be a prophet, a liberator, a teacher, a priest, a judge, and a man. For forty years in the desert and many years before the Exodus, he showed how to serve his people through his devotion to God. In our own ways, as parents, we also have those same responsibilities. As loving parents, we do our best to nurture and provide our children with what they need to find their way in the world. Then, it’s time for them to stand on their own. We work toward this moment diligently and can only hope it will be enough.
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.
The truth is hard to find. We often argue over the “what happened” instead of searching for the real truth.
Hunger in Gaza is real. Accusations of false pictures or the number of trucks entering Gaza distract us from the fact that people there are suffering from a lack of food and water.
Yes, horrible famines are occurring in other parts of the world, such as Yemen and Sudan. That we are not assisting the hungry is shameful. However, the starvation there does not diminish the suffering in Gaza.
Who’s responsible?
There is no shortage of blame to go around. Hamas cynically uses civilians as pawns of war. Israel blocked humanitarian aid while trying to bring Gaza to capitulation, and the US has let these tactics continue. Other countries have done little to provide aid or creative solutions. The Palestinian people are also partly responsible for their situation in Gaza. We all share in the tragedy affecting the Palestinian people.
There is no shortage of blame. But we can take control now. The airdrops of food are one part of the solution. Expanding food stations in Gaza from the current four managed by the GHF is also essential. And we can give money to World Central Kitchen and other groups on the ground providing hot meals. If we “flood the zone” with food and water, we will eliminate the ability to profiteer from food shortages.
We can do this now. It is our responsibility and duty. We cannot stand by while our neighbor’s children wither.
#BringThemHomeNow
The events in Gaza and the West Bank demand us to speak out for those suffering from violence and hunger.
This isn’t about assigning blame or claiming whose cause is righteous. True righteousness calls on all people of faith to speak out against the horrors inflicted on victims. The duty to feed the hungry is a core part of our tradition.
The path that brought us to this moment is long and complicated. But that’s a story for another day. We Jews around the world are deeply distressed that Israel is involved in tactics we condemn, using food as a weapon. This must stop. The current system for distributing food is inadequate. Israel cannot control Hamas; Israel can control itself. Israel needs to do better.
Perpetuating the cycle of hatred through such harsh punitive measures poses an existential threat to Israel’s safety and security. Palestinian widows and orphans will view revenge as their goal, making them vulnerable to anyone offering retribution as part of a vision for them.
Being moral and ethical in a place where those things may not exist is one of the hardest things to do, but it is in these situations that the best values of our tradition must shine through the darkness. I urge Israelis to pressure their government to change its policy. I ask Donald Trump to urge all parties to provide an overwhelming infusion of humanitarian aid.
Finally, I urge all of us to financially support food initiatives like those offered by the New Israel Fund or World Central Kitchen. I am often asked what we can do, and this is something we can do. We cannot stand idly by while our neighbors blood is shed or starved.
