Category: morality

What Does It Mean to Celebrate?

Reflections on Yom Ha’atzmaut in a Fractured Time

Yom Ha’atzmaut is here.

And I am not sure what to do with it this year.

I suspect I am not alone.

Some of us will celebrate with a brightness that feels slightly forced. Others will scroll past the blue-and-white posts on our feeds, unable to summon joy. Some will feel that celebrating at all is a kind of moral surrender — a looking away from things that cannot be ignored.

If any of this describes you, I want to be clear: your discomfort is not disloyalty. It shows how seriously you take what Israel was meant to be.

And if you find yourself in a different place from other Jews you love, people struggling just as honestly from the other direction, that too is part of this moment. There may not be a single right way to stand before this day, but there is a Jewish way to wrestle with it.

The Text We Keep Forgetting

I want to go back to May 14, 1948.

Not to the military maps or the political negotiations. To the document. To the words the founders actually chose when they had the chance to speak.

“The State of Israel will be based on freedom, justice and peace as envisaged by the prophets of Israel” — and commits to “complete equality of social and political rights to all its inhabitants irrespective of religion, race or sex.”

The founders did not reach for military might. Not for ethnic supremacy. Not even for simple survival. In their most solemn moment, they reached for the prophets. They staked this new state’s legitimacy on a moral vision — ancient, demanding, and unmistakably Jewish.

That is what Yom Ha’atzmaut is actually celebrating.

Not merely a military victory. Not a geopolitical fact. The moment a people declared they would return to their land and do so justly.

The Tradition They Invoked

They knew exactly which prophets they were citing.

Isaiah, who thundered that sacrifice without justice is an abomination. Amos, who declared that God despises our festivals when the poor are crushed at the gates. Micah, who distilled the entire Torah into three obligations: do justice, love kindness, walk humbly.

These were not gentle voices. They were Israel’s most demanding lovers, celebrating the covenant and indicting its betrayal in the same breath, sometimes even in the same verse. They never abandoned Israel when it failed. They held it, fiercely, to its highest self.

That is the tradition Yom Ha’atzmaut places us in.

Not cheerleading. Not abandonment. Something harder and more honorable than either: prophetic loyalty.

The prophets never argued that Israel’s struggles forfeited its right to exist. Nor did they suggest that Israel’s existence placed it beyond accountability. They said something more demanding than either: precisely because this people is called to something higher, the gap between that calling and the present reality must be named, mourned, and closed.

The Gap We Cannot Pretend Away

The Declaration is not a historical artifact. It is a living covenant — and covenants make demands.

So let me name what the Declaration’s own language requires us to ask.

There are wars that were both existential and necessary. Wars whose courage deserves to be honored without hesitation or qualification. And there are military and political choices whose necessity is genuinely disputed — whose costs have fallen heavily on people who did not choose them.

There is an occupation now entering its sixth decade. The Declaration promised equality and justice. For millions of people who have known nothing else, the daily reality of life without sovereignty or legal recourse is a standing question addressed directly to the founders’ vision.

There is violence carried out by those who claim the land in the name of Jewish values — desecrating both the land and those values in the same act.

And there is a sustained assault on judicial independence — the very institution standing between the state’s founding promises and their erosion. When accountability is dismantled, the gap between aspiration and reality stops being painful and becomes permanent.

I am not making a partisan argument. I am holding the present up to the Declaration’s own words.

To name these things is not to delegitimize Israel. It is to hold Israel to its own founding covenant.

That is, in fact, the most Jewish act we can take.

What the Rabbis Already Knew

Jewish tradition has already given us a framework for exactly this kind of complexity.

On the last days of Passover, we recite only half Hallel — the psalms of praise — rather than the full Hallel.

The reason is arresting.

When the angels wanted to sing as the Egyptians drowned in the sea, God stopped them. “My creatures are drowning, and you want to sing songs?” According to tradition, full joy is morally unavailable when others are suffering, even when that suffering follows from our own necessary deliverance.

Yom Ha’atzmaut does not call for half Hallel. The miracle of Jewish sovereignty — a people returning from the literal ashes of history to reestablish a state in their ancestral homeland — is real, extraordinary, and worthy of full-throated celebration.

But perhaps not a Hallel entirely untroubled, either.

Not because the miracle is diminished. Because the vision the founders declared is not yet fully realized, and people are suffering in the shadow of that gap.

This is not despair. This is Jewish moral honesty.

The refusal to let celebration become anesthesia.

The Most Counter-Intuitive Thing I Want to Say

To celebrate Yom Ha’atzmaut is not to endorse the present.

It is to hold the present accountable to the founding promise.

When we gather, sing, and mark this day, we are not saying: everything is fine. We are saying: this vision is worth everything, but it is not yet complete. We are not done, and we refuse to walk away.

To stop celebrating is to abandon the field, to concede that the gap between aspiration and reality is simply how things are.

To celebrate without reckoning is to betray the vision and to turn a covenant into a tribal rally.

The prophetic answer, the Jewish answer, is to do both, fully, in the same breath.

Sing because the miracle is real.

Grieve because the distance from the vision is real.

Reject the false choice between love and conscience, because genuine love has never required us to close our eyes.

The prophets did not love Israel less for naming its failures. They loved it more, precisely because they refused to let it become less than it was called to be.

An Invitation

This Yom Ha’atzmaut, let your celebration be the most serious thing you do.

Sing — because seventy-seven years ago, a people who had just walked through fire stood up and declared they would live, build, and do so with justice. That deserves every note.

Grieve — because the distance between that declaration and today’s reality is not minor, and pretending otherwise dishonors the founders and those living in the shadow of that gap.

And then sit with this question, not as rhetoric but as a real question I am asking you directly:

What does my love for this state truly require of me?

Not what it permits. Not what it excuses.

What does it require?

That question — taken seriously and wrestled with honestly — may be the most Zionist act of all.

חַג עַצמָאוּת שָּמֵאח

A meaningful and searching Independence Day.

What Does It Mean to Truly Heal? Parshat Tazria-Metzora

What Does It Mean to Truly Heal?

Think of the last time you heard your name mentioned in a conversation that stopped the moment you walked in. That sudden silence — the awkward smiles, the quick subject change — carries a weight that is hard to name but impossible to forget. Most of us have been on both sides of that moment. We know how it feels to be the one walking in. If we are honest, we can recall times when we were the ones who went quiet.

Parshat Tazria-Metzora confronts us with one of the Torah’s most unsettling teachings: our words leave a mark on the world — and on ourselves. The rabbis understood tzara’at not as a mere physical affliction, often mistranslated as leprosy, but as an outward sign of an inward fracture, the consequence of lashon hara, speech that wounds. The Chofetz Chaim, R. Yisrael Meir Kagan, whose life’s work on the ethics of speech grew from this very parsha, took this so seriously that he would lose sleep over a careless word he himself had spoken. Not someone else’s words — his own. That level of accountability feels almost foreign to us today, in a world where harmful speech is effortless and its consequences are rarely felt by the speaker.

Most of us can recall a comment we made that traveled further than we intended — a remark at the dinner table, a message in a group chat, or a confidence shared just once that somehow became common knowledge. We told ourselves it was nothing. The Torah tells us otherwise.

But this parsha does not leave us in guilt. It offers us a path forward. Rabbi Jonathan Sacks taught that the metzora’s —the afflicted person ’s—journey was the Torah’s model of restorative justice—not punishment, but the purposeful work of healing and return. The community does not forget those who have been excluded. It waits for them, and welcomes them back.

That same path is open to us. This week, consider one conversation you might repair, one word you might withhold, and one silence you might choose when careless speech would have come easily.

“Mavet v’chayyim b’yad halashon”

“Death and life are in the power of the tongue” — Proverbs 18:21

The Torah is not asking us to be perfect. It is asking us to be honest — and then, one word at a time, to begin again.

The Leadership of the Hearth: Why the Best Architects of Legacy Start with the Ashes-Tzav

Bruce Springsteen sang loudly, “You can’t start a fire without a spark.” In today’s hyper-professionalized culture, we obsess over the “spark”—the viral moment, the massive product launch, or the sudden stroke of genius. But as anyone who has built a lasting organization or a meaningful life knows, a spark is not a fire, and a fire must be tended.

The ancient text of Parsha Tzav teaches what it really takes to maintain a legacy. While it mainly describes the duties of the priesthood, it also offers psychological and leadership insights that are surprisingly modern.

  1. The “Lowly” Work of High Leadership

The Parsha begins with an unexpected requirement: the leader must personally remove the ashes from the altar (Leviticus 6:3). More importantly, they must do so while wearing their official, regal garments. It reminds me of Admiral McRaven’s book “Make Your Bed,” where this simple morning ritual can set you up for a successful day. And for anyone who has served as a chair of a committee or clergy, for that matter, we think of that as we move the chairs around in preparation for each meeting.

The Lesson: No task is beneath the mission. True “Architects of Meaning” understand that excellence lies in maintenance, not just spectacle. Whether it is refining a process, mentoring a junior colleague, or tending to administrative details, treating the “mundane” with the same gravity as the “miraculous” is what prevents an organization, in the case of the Priesthood, or an individual’s life, from collapsing under its own weight.

  1. Don’t Wait for Inspiration; Build the Rhythm

We are told that a “permanent fire shall remain kindled… it shall not go out” (Leviticus 6:6). While a “heavenly fire” may have started the flame, it was the human obligation to fuel it daily.

The Lesson: In a world where we often feel overwhelmed and then withdraw in response, we often tend to wait for “the feeling” to return before taking action. Tzav emphasizes the discipline and importance of alacrity—acting with energy or enthusiasm (Zirizut)—regardless of how we feel. Legacy is built through small, daily efforts we make when no one is watching and when the heavenly fire seems dim.

  1. Success is a Communal Meal

The Korban Todah (Thanksgiving Offering) had a fascinating constraint, in that it had to be completed in a single day (Leviticus 7:15). This effectively compelled the individual to invite others to the table. You couldn’t celebrate your win alone; you had to share the bounty and the story behind it.

The Lesson: Personal success is a private achievement, but Legacy is a communal one. If your accomplishments don’t inspire others to join you, they won’t endure. True leaders shift the narrative from scarcity to abundance by ensuring their gratitude is visible and shared.

The Bottom Line

Being an Architect of Meaning isn’t about the height of the structure; it’s about the consistency of the flame. By clearing the ash of yesterday and fueling the fire of today, we ensure that our influence outlasts our presence.

How are you nurturing your “inner fire” this week? What “ashes” do you need to clear away to make space for tomorrow’s growth?

The Empty Chair at the Chessboard: Why the Influence Narrative Fails

 

The persistent claim that American foreign policy is being dictated by Israeli pressure regarding the Iranian regime is as common as it is misguided. However, my frustration with this narrative isn’t rooted in a defense of the special relationship of the United States and Israel. Rather, it stems from a refusal to acknowledge a much more uncomfortable truth: the current chaos in the Middle East is not the result of a Jewish conspiracy, but a symptom of Donald Trump’s reckless, superficial, and dangerously transactional leadership.

To suggest that an ally can force the United States into a conflict against its own will is a profound admission of American weakness. It paints a picture of a superpower without a rudder. If the administration is being led into a fight, it isn’t because of the strength of the lobby in Washington; it is because of a vacuum of leadership in the Oval Office.

There are legitimate reasons to debate the extent of U.S. involvement in this region. Many of us remain deeply ambivalent—caught between a sincere desire for peace and a cold-eyed recognition of the threat the Iranian regime poses to Western stability. How imminent that threat is remains a valid question for debate. Israel, facing an existential threat on its doorstep, has its own compelling reasons to seek regime change—a position Benjamin Netanyahu has held for three decades. He is a leader seizing a strategic opportunity for his nation’s survival.

While the United States and Israel may share the broad goal of a neutralized Iran, their specific national interests are not identical. A strong American president would recognize these overlapping interests while maintaining a firm grip on the U.S. strategic compass. Instead, we see a Commander-in-Chief who has consistently approached a high-stakes geopolitical chess match with the mindset of a checkers player.

The tragedy here isn’t that we’re being bullied into a fight we didn’t choose. The real tragedy is that we have a leader who is fundamentally unqualified to operate in a world where the U.S. has historically been the stabilizing superpower. By acting on impulse and self-interest instead of broad strategy, the administration has created havoc that our allies must endure and our enemies can exploit.

If we believe another country can truly force the United States to do its bidding, it confirms our worst fears: that the most powerful man in the world is also the most impulsive and easily swayed. We deserve more than a presidency that acts as a series of erratic transactions. We deserve leadership that understands the weight of its authority and the complexities of the world it aims to lead.

NB. I do not normally write about politics, however, given the current conspiracy claims regarding Israel and the war, I thought this was necessary. ~ Rabbi David Levin

 

The Altar of Accountability: Ancient Ritual as Modern Ethics

The Book of Leviticus, Parshat Vayikrah, is often seen as an outdated and mysterious guide for animal sacrifice. However, beneath the “flesh and fire” lies a sophisticated psychological framework for accountability. Vayikrah teaches us that for a community to survive its members’ shortcomings or failures, it requires a social reset built on four distinct pillars.

  1. Radical Ownership- Semikhah

Accountability starts with Semikhah—the person physically places their hands on the animal’s head [1]. The Ramban, Nachmanides, explains that this act makes the individual recognize the sacrifice as a substitute for themselves; it establishes a visceral link between the person and the cost of their mistake [2]. In modern leadership, this shifts from the passive and all-too-common phrase of “Mistakes were made” to taking personal accountability: “I am responsible.” You can’t pass the blame for an error; you must accept it and embrace the consequence, along with the need to fix it.

II. The Taxonomy of Error- Chatat vs. Asham

Vayikrah distinguishes between the Chatat, the offering for unintentional errors [3], and the Asham offered for breaches of trust or trespass [4]. Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch notes that while a Chatat is a “missing of the mark,” an Asham implies a desolation of the conscience [5]. This framework teaches that accountability isn’t just for malice or punishment; even unintentional negligence requires a public “clean-up.” It highlights that the impact of our actions matters just as much as our intent.

III. Radical Transparency –Vidui

A sacrifice is invalid without Vidui, or verbal confession. Maimonides, the Rambam, states that no sacrifice achieves atonement unless the offender “makes a verbal confession” [6]. Accountability involves acknowledging the harm for which we are responsible. By speaking the mistake aloud, the offender brings the error out of secrecy and into the open, allowing the community to process the breach.

IV. Restorative Justice -The “Fifth”

Regarding robbery, the Torah mandates that the offender cannot seek Divine forgiveness until they settle the human debt: “He shall restore it in full, and shall add the fifth part more thereto” [7]. Rashi emphasizes that restitution must come before the sacrifice [8]. This is the gold standard of restorative justice. True accountability is “Principal Plus 20%,” recognizing that the victim lost not just property but also time and trust.

Conclusion

Vayikrah teaches us that forgiveness is an earned state, not an entitlement. The sacrificial system ensured that the victim was compensated, the mistake was acknowledged, and the offender faced a tangible consequence. By following these steps—Ownership, Categorization, Verbalization, and Restitution—we transform ancient rituals into a timeless blueprint for integrity that remains relevant today.

Citations

  1. Vayikrah 1:4. 2. Ramban on Vayikrah 1:9. 3. Vayikrah 4:2. 4. Vayikrah 5:15. 5. Hirsch on Vayikrah 4:2. 6. Rambam, Hilchot Teshuvah 1:1. 7. Vayikrah 5:24. 8. Rashi on Vayikrah 5:23.

 

Building a Sanctuary in the Shadows: Vayakhel-Pekudei

Building a Sanctuary in the Shadows: Vayakhel-Pekudei

In the double parashah of Vayakhel-Pekudei, we conclude the Book of Exodus not with a thunderous miracle but with a detailed account of gold, silver, and blue wool. After the spiritual collapse of the Golden Calf, the Jewish people are tasked with a “rebound” project: building the Mishkan (Tabernacle). But why create a sanctuary in the desert wilderness? Perhaps A more timely reframing of the question is, when the outside world is in chaos, how do we create an internal space that remains untouchable?

The word Vayakhel means “And he assembled.” Moses gathers the community together. This isn’t just a physical gathering; it is a spiritual reunification. After a period of division and sin, the remedy is collective purpose.

Pekudei means “records” or “accounts.” Moses gives a clear breakdown of every shekel donated.

Rashi, commenting on Exodus 35:2, explains that the commandment for Shabbat is placed directly before the construction of the Mishkan to teach us a boundary: as sacred and urgent as the “building” is, it does not take precedence over the Sabbath. Even during our most urgent moments of defense and advocacy, we must preserve the integrity of our holy pauses.

The Torah further admonishes in the next verse:

“You shall kindle no fire throughout your settlements on the day of the Sabbath.” (Exodus 35:3)

What is this fire of which the Torah speaks?  Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch, the founder of modern orthodoxy, explores this “fire” as the ultimate tool of human mastery and technology. The Torah’s prohibition against kindling fire on Shabbat reminds us that we must not be consumed by our own survival tools or ambitions. We fight when necessary, but we do not become the fight. We preserve our “Shabbat soul,” so we have a sanctuary to return to. The Human fire is different from the sacred fire of God’s presence in the Mishkan once it is built.

This highlights the tension we experience today: balancing our public responsibilities to the Jewish people while safeguarding the private spiritual integrity of our own souls and homes. We are currently facing serious crises. The external threats from Hamas, Iran, and others are existential and seek to destroy the Jewish state. Meanwhile, the rise of antisemitism and violence here and around the world presents significant risks to Jews and Jewish communities. Strengthening internal unity and security is essential. And so many of us are struggling in a world that does not give us the spiritual and emotional support we need.

This struggle for balance is our challenge today. Many of us lack a space for spiritual and emotional rest. The Mishkan, or sanctuary, feels elusive. Many of us are disconnected from traditional places of connection like synagogues. Yet we still long for what such places offer—community, support, and connections. If we don’t have these things that may complete us, how do we build the relationships at the core of a meaningful life? Can we be our best version of a friend, child, or sibling without that fulfillment? And how do we nurture our children, teaching them to be prepared, confident, and strong to face the world that awaits them?

Our task is to ensure that as they prepare to enter the world as strong, confident Jewish adults, they aren’t just experts in their fields, but are “wise-hearted” (Chacham Lev). It is in the home and in our relationships where that heart is fortified. Our home is a sanctuary that protects them from the “fire” of hostility, enabling them to focus on the “work” of becoming who they are meant to be.

The Book of Exodus concludes with the Cloud of Glory filling the Tabernacle during the day and aglow with fire by night.

In Exodus 40:38, we see, ‘The cloud of the Lord was upon the Tabernacle by day, and there was fire within it by night, before the eyes of the entire House of Israel throughout their journeys.”

The phrase “throughout their journeys” is essential. The cloud didn’t just appear when they were safe; it was present during the trekking, the uncertainty, and the transitions.

As we face current challenges both here and abroad, we remember that the “Accounting” of the Jewish people isn’t measured by our enemies’ hatred but by our own ability to build. By maintaining ourselves and the sanctuary that is our home, we create a space that guides and nurtures both ourselves and our loved ones with their own “fire and cloud.” We help ensure that we are fortified, and when it is time for our children to venture out on their own, they carry a piece of that sanctuary within them, ready to lead with strength, pride, and a “wise heart.”

 

 

 

The Palace of Redactions: A Modern Megillah

On Purim, we wear masks to hide our faces. But the Megillah is a story about taking masks off. It is about a world—much like our own in 2026—where wealth and status are the ultimate masks. Behind the silk curtains of Shushan and behind the redacted lines of the Epstein files, the same crime is hidden: the belief that some people are “taken” (lekach) for the pleasure of those who are untouchable. Today, we aren’t just celebrating a victory; we are demanding a revelation.

The Megillah is a crime report of systemic objectification. The “law of the women” (Esther 2:12, Sefaria) turned state-sponsored trafficking into a standardized procedure. This mirrors our modern “Dat” (decree): the Non-Prosecution Agreements and Non-Disclosure Agreements (NDAs) that transformed silence into a contractual obligation. When abuse is cloaked in the law, it becomes invisible.

Neither Ahasuerus nor Epstein acted alone. Ahasuerus relied on seven advisors—the enablers who legalized cruelty to protect the throne and the men in power. Today, we see this in the strategic redactions that shield the powerful while the victims’ trauma remains exposed.

A just society cannot be built on the minimum files the system is willing to release. Our call to action is to mirror Esther’s courage. She moved from being a nameless body to an active agent of justice who acted lo chadat—not according to the “rules” of the elite.

We must demand accountability from the enablers, not just from the predator. Mordecai’s challenge echoes today: “And who knows, perhaps you have attained to royal position for just such a crisis.” (Esther 4:14, Sefaria)

We are called to be the generation that finally tears down the palace walls and unmasks the truth.

May we be blessed with the eyes of Esther, to see through the redactions and masks of our own time. May we be granted the voice of Vashti, to say NO to the commodification of our bodies and our dignity. And may we be filled with the resolve of Mordecai, to understand that our positions of safety are not for our comfort but for the protection of those still trapped behind palace walls.

May the light of truth scatter the darkness of the inner court, and may we see a day when justice is a shared inheritance for all.

 

Parshat Tetzaveh-Responsible Governing for the People

Parshat Tetzaveh marks a pivotal shift in the wilderness narrative of the Jewish people. While previous portions focused on the physical Tabernacle, Tetzaveh focuses on the human element: the inauguration of the Kohanim (priests). By establishing this dedicated class, the Torah ensures a disciplined bridge between the Divine Presence and B’nei Israel.

The transition from building structures to preparing “human vessels” reminds us that even the holiest space requires empathetic leadership to come to life. The priesthood was not an elite social hierarchy but a role of “functional holiness.” In Exodus 28:1, God commands Moses to “bring near” Aaron and his sons to serve, separating them to manage the meticulous maintenance of the Mishkan, which the general population could not sustain.

The priestly garments are a physical manifestation of this duty. The Choshen (Breastplate) bore the names of the twelve tribes, ensuring that the Kohen Gadol (High Priest) literally carried the nation’s weight “on his heart” (Exodus 28:29). This teaches that a leader’s primary function is representation and empathy, not merely ritual performance.

Faithfulness among the Kohanim was measured by adherence to strict protocols. The Milu’im (consecration process) involved smearing blood on the right ear, thumb, and big toe (Exodus 29:20), symbolizing a total commitment to:

  • Hearing: Attuning oneself to Divine instruction.
  • Action: Performing service with precision.
  • Movement: Walking a righteous path.

The Ner Tamid (Eternal Flame) serves as the ultimate metaphor for this duty. Commanded to kindle the lamps “from evening to morning” (Exodus 27:21), the priests maintained a consistency that transcended personal fatigue. Their faithfulness was embodied in the Tamid—the “always.”

The discipline required to keep the light burning is a powerful metaphor for contemporary society. Capricious or arbitrary leadership undermines the sacred role of those dedicated to preserving institutions. Just as the Kohanim served the Mishkan, today’s dedicated bureaucrats and elected leaders play a critical role in upholding the rule of law.

Long before democracy took its modern form, our tradition recognized that power is a sacred responsibility to the people. This value remains central to the rule of law and equal protection. Like the Kohanim, we are entrusted with preserving these “eternal flames” for generations to come.

 

Terumah-Power to the People

In Parshat Terumah, the transition from Sinai’s abstract thunder to the Mishkan‘s detailed blueprints offers the ultimate master class in institution-building. It suggests that while revelation provides the “why,” the institution provides the “how”—transforming a fleeting spiritual moment into a sustainable communal reality.

At Sinai, the relationship with the Divine was a “top-down” event—overwhelming and temporary. In Terumah, this is reversed by the command: “And let them make Me a sanctuary, that I may dwell among them” (Exodus 25:8). The shift here is profound, creating sustainability. Inspiration was found at Sinai. It is a spark; an institution becomes the hearth that keeps the fire burning. The text then speaks of a dwelling, with an interesting word choice: it doesn’t say God will dwell in it (the building), but among them (the people). The institution is not the goal; it is the vessel that allows the communal presence to persist. The idea is further elucidated as the focus shifts to the people’s action.

The word Terumah means “to lift up” or “set aside.” Crucially, the materials for the sanctuary were not collected through a flat tax but from “every person whose heart prompts them to give.” This reveals two core principles of healthy institutions. The first is shared ownership; when people contribute their own “gold, silver, and copper,” they are no longer spectators; they are stakeholders. The second is the diversity of people’s contributions. The Mishkan required everything from precious metals to goat hair. This teaches that an institution is only robust when it integrates the varying capacities of its members—from the wealthy benefactor to the skilled artisan.

This Parsha is known for its precise measurements—cubits of gold, rings of silver, and specific wood types. These details serve a vital purpose. They instill discipline and consistency. Without a structured “sanctuary,” collective energy dissipates. The Mishkan’s physical boundaries protected the sanctity of the community’s mission. This consistency ensured that the institution’s values of justice and holiness weren’t subject to the leader’s capricious mood or the crowd’s whims, but were anchored in a permanent, repeatable structure.

Our times test our understanding of what it means to live in community, bound together by the rule of law, freedom, dignity, and respect for all people. We need each other, and together we are stronger and less susceptible to those impulses. To ensure our country and its institutions endure, we must give of ourselves, investing in its care and championing the values at our core.