Category: Politics

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.

 

Shabbat Shalom

I find myself drawn to the folk music and protest songs of an earlier tumultuous time in this nation’s history and some of the current balladeers singing about the need for justice in a time of injustice.

As Black History month draws to a close, and the work of civil rights seems more urgent than ever, I wanted to welcome Shabbat with Teach Your Children, the classic from Crosby Stills and Nash.

Wishing everyone Shabbat Shalom

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.

 

 

Remembering the Rev. Jesse Jackson

We mourn the death of Reverend Jesse Jackson. Jackson was a complex individual and a person of great accomplishment.

In this world of purity litmus tests, cancel culture, and identity politics, it is easy for some to write off this icon of the civil rights movement, focusing on shortcomings and missteps rather than accomplishments.

He helped move the arc of justice forward.  We can and should remember him for all the good he did, and hopefully find space in our hearts, even though he, like all of us, had flaws.  Jackson fostered a sense of pride and self-esteem in those who struggled in a society determined to deny them, as captured in his well-known saying, “I am Somebody.”  Jesse Jackson was Somebody.

This is a moment to rededicate ourselves to the vision of respect and dignity for every person that Jackson preached.  The work is far from over, and it is ours to do.

May his memory be for a blessing.

Shabbat Shalom

Bruce Springsteen’s Minneapolis is a battle cry for us to uphold the values we hold dear, the rule of law, the constitutional rights each of us is entitled to, and the dignity and respect for all people.

As we enter Shabbat, we pray for each other and vow to fight for our precious values.  We must be better than this.

Shabbat Shalom

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.

 

 

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.

 

The IRS ruling is clearly a bad idea and is meaningless

The IRS allowing clergy to endorse political candidates from the pulpit is one of the stupidest ideas from a place known for some really dumb stuff. But you know what? It doesn’t matter. We will do what we have always done.

I do not publicly endorse or support a political candidate. Doing so undermines my role as a faith leader. I focus on the core values of my tradition and critique policies and ideas that oppose them. The clergy I respect and admire always maintain the dignity of their pulpits and do not turn them into crude political platforms for politicians. However, many clergy have used their pulpits to promote individuals. These two practices have existed long before this absurd ruling and will continue to do so.

The threat of losing tax-exempt status has been a strong argument discouraging some from endorsing candidates. For most of us, that wasn’t a concern. We knew it was wrong and didn’t need the threat. However, we have used the threat when others push hard for a particular person. Some have and will continue to believe that endorsing a candidate is the right choice. They use subtle hints or openly ignore the rule against endorsements. They are not me, nor most of my colleagues. We are empowered to stand by our values and advocate for our community, not for individuals who might share some values but probably not all.

I strongly believe in the principles of our tradition and speak out for them whenever I can. This is about ethics and morality. This is not politics. Politics do not belong in sacred spaces; sacred values do.

So, IRS, thanks for nothing.