Yom Kippur 5779: Grasshoppers and Giants

September 18-19, 2018, Rabbi Jonathan E. Blake

This story goes back to when Kelly was preparing for her conversion to Judaism, back in our graduate school days. 

One Shabbat after services at Cincinnati’s Rockdale Temple, Kelly introduced herself to one of the “regulars” and happily explained why a Kelly McCormick was hanging out at a temple on Shabbat.  Now if you know anything about people who go every single week to services—and this is true at any synagogue I’ve ever attended—or, if you know anything about… Jews, you know that they tend not to hold back in expressing their opinions, so Kelly was treated to one elderly woman’s unvarnished, if well-meaning, response to her news:

Why on earth would you ever want to become Jewish?  Don’t you know how much the Jewish people have suffered throughout history?  How much we have endured prejudice and discrimination, torture and genocide, just for our beliefs?  Aren’t you aware of how a small minority we are?  Why would you want to be a part of… that?

For Kelly—who had come to Judaism by way of the joyful prayer and music and wisdom and community of friends and teachers she had found at Hebrew Union College, singing in the choir of the late Bonia Shur on Shabbat mornings—the well-meaning lady’s warning was jarring and bewildering.  What wasn’t great about being Jewish?  Kelly wondered.  Why would anyone wish to frighten away an eager newcomer?  

Some of our gentlewoman’s emotional plea may be explained as a function of her generation:  if you are old enough to remember the Shoah, to remember the precarious first many days of the newborn Jewish State, to remember armies invading Israel on all sides, then the theme of survival in the face of victimhood may reasonably comprise your primary orientation toward Judaism.  Tevye the Dairyman summarized this view in his exasperated plea to God:  “I know, I know, we are the chosen people.  But once in a while, can’t you choose somebody else?”   

In my experience, the Jewish youth growing up here in Westchester and, in many cases, their parents, do not embody the same anxieties about Jewish identity that their parents and grandparents and Tevye do or did.  If anything, growing up here, in the nexus of Jewish success, they feel pride, joy, and belonging, and an unshakable optimism about the future of the Jewish people.

Still, it seems to me that the classic narrative of victimhood has curiously long arms, and a strong grip that still exerts an outsize influence on our outlook.  

To understand the Jewish victimhood mentality, we might go all the way back to the Torah, to the Book of Numbers, Chapter 13.  Moses has sent twelve Israelite spies on a mission, to scout out the promised land and report their findings:  What kind of land is this?  Are its towns walled or unfortified?  Is the soil rich or poor, the produce abundant or meager?  The spies dutifully report back, and while all twelve agree that the land does indeed flow with milk and honey, that its natural resources abound and its fruit is lush, fully ten of the scouts return in a full-blown panic.  “We saw giants there,” they exclaim, breathlessly.  “The land we explored devours its inhabitants.  All the people we saw were massive.  We looked like grasshoppers in our own eyes, and so we must have seemed to them” (Numbers 13:1-20, 33).

We looked like grasshoppers in our own eyes and so we must have seemed to them.  This tells us everything we need to know about victimhood. The perception creates the reality.  The way we choose to see ourselves shapes our identity.  

Please do not mistake my meaning:  people have endured abuse and betrayal.  Their lives have been forever marked by physical, emotional, and psychological trauma.  Families have been torn apart, flesh afflicted, friendships broken.  Every marginalized and oppressed people across the world and throughout the ages has a legitimate claim to victimhood.  

The question is, what then?  

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks says, “The answer is that uniquely—this is what makes us Homo sapiens—in any given situation we can look back or we can look forward.  We can ask:  ‘Why did this happen?’  That involves looking back for some cause in the past.  Or we can ask, ‘What then shall I do?’  This involves looking forward, trying to work out some future destination given that this is our starting point’” (“On Not Being A Victim:  Re’eh 5778,” Covenant & Conversation, available online at http://www.rabbisacks.org).

Liberated from Pharaoh’s enslavement only recently, the ten spies who entered the promised land and came back looking like grasshoppers were irretrievably stuck in an Egypt of the mind.  They could not envision a future that did not perpetuate their ingrained sense of victimhood.  Only Joshua and Caleb—the two spies who dissent from the majority report, who say, “we can indeed overcome” any obstacle and take the land as our inheritance—only they can see themselves not as objects acted upon by forces outside their control but rather as subjects, human beings imbued with the power to choose their way forward.

This summer, I visited Israel and the West Bank with a delegation of twenty American rabbis under the auspices of the American Israel Education Foundation, the educational charity affiliated with AIPAC.  In the Ramallah offices of the Palestinian Center for Policy and Survey Research, we met with Dr. Khalil Shikaki, a respected Palestinian political scientist and pollster who spends several months each year teaching at Brandeis.  Among the most interesting findings of his recent polls of both Palestinian and Israeli society, Dr. Shikaki asked us to consider these:

1.  That over the last twenty-five years, there’s been significant erosion in support for a two-state solution.

2.  That mistrust between the two peoples has never been higher.

3.  That each side predominantly thinks that it wants peace, but that the other side does not.  

What exerts a stranglehold on the peace process?  Is it Palestinian terrorism?  Corrupt and failed leadership?  The threat of jihadist Islam from Gaza? Israel’s omnipresent security apparatus across the West Bank?  Its right-wing government?  Its policies on hot-button issues like settlements and the status of Jerusalem?  

I would like to suggest that something more potent than all of these has deflated hopes for peace between Israelis and Palestinians:  a pervasive mindset of victimhood.

The Palestinian side gives evidence of this mindset everywhere.  Israeli scholar and peace negotiator Dr. Tal Becker, who addressed our group the next day, goes so far as to describe a mindset of victimhood as the defining characteristic of Palestinian identity.  That is to say, Palestinians cannot conceive of themselves, cannot present their narrative, without rooting it in their conflict with Israel.  If a Palestinian leader were to emerge today saying, “What we need more than anything is to live in peace with Israel,” that leader would not be taken seriously by his own people, so pervasive is the mindset of victimhood, the self-image of “grasshopper.”

And, to a lesser but significant extent, Jewish Israelis continue to embrace a grasshopper mindset of their own.  As Becker memorably put it, “Israeli Jews are a majority with the mindset of a minority”—they see themselves surrounded by a sea of Arab nations ever seeking to eradicate them—“while American Jews are the inverse, a minority with the mindset of a majority.”  In other words, American Jews may represent only 2% of the population—grasshoppers, statistically speaking—but possess a giant’s self-confidence.  

As for Israelis, the “victim mindset” seems to me at least partially responsible for the controversial and needlessly provocative “Nation-State Bill” which passed by vote of the Knesset in July, and which forcefully asserts the Jewish character of the Jewish state—to little actual effect, other than an unprovoked black eye to the one in every five Israeli citizens who is not Jewish.

So we have two societies deeply committed to their own narratives of victimhood.  The dynamic between Israelis and Palestinians is playing out on college campuses all over the US where we are witnessing a kind of “Oppression Olympics”—pro-Palestinian activists promulgating propaganda intended to highlight only the suffering of Palestinians, while the response of the Jewish community typically points out the Palestinian embrace of terrorism, and down the spiral we go, until inevitably someone says, “And what about the Holocaust?” and any hope for a productive conversation goes out the window.  

How can we administer group therapy to two entire societies?  Rather than focusing on borders and security, embassies and settlements, policies and policing, we might want to start with mindsets, helping Israelis and Palestinians to become more receptive to the possibility of change.  

Becker suggests this could happen by reframing the conflict not in terms of “justice” but rather in terms of “fairness.”  The difference is more than semantic.  In a “justice” paradigm, your side is trying to win, trying to make up for what you perceive to be the wrongs and harm inflicted by the other side.  In a “justice” paradigm, you actually need the other side to continue to oppress you in order to feel that you’re winning!  You need to be a victim to be a victor—and that’s a paradox where no one wins.  Pursuing justice keeps the narrative focused on historic injustices.  It roots the dynamic between these two societies in their grievances over the past, each convinced that the other has perpetrated the greater wrong. 

An alternative narrative would need, rather, to look to the future.  A paradigm of “fairness” rather than “justice,” says Becker, could do this.  Such a narrative would validate each side’s legitimate claim to the land, but would also insist that each side ought not assert its claim to all of the land, in the shared interest of peace.  The conflict would then become about “what’s fair” going forward, as opposed to “how does my side get justice” for what happened in the past.  A “fairness” paradigm could break the victim mindset, allowing both sides to feel less “grasshopper” and more “giant.”

In ways simultaneously different and yet no less consequential, we see similar dynamics playing out today in our country.  We’ve heard much about the polarization within American society.  We might benefit from exploring how mindsets of victimhood perpetuate and widen the divide.  

In the last year we have seen a dramatic rise in the phenomenon of “wokeness” — a word that signals one’s awareness of systemic injustices and willingness to call them out.  People and communities that are “woke” are attentive to America’s ongoing racial injustices [of the sort Rabbi Levy detailed in his sermon last night] in policing and incarceration, to the indignities visited on people of color all over the world, to the abuse and discrimination experienced by the LGBTQ community, and so forth.  

The phenomenon does not belong exclusively to the left or the right.  On one side we have “wokeness,” and on the other we hear narratives of victimhood as well, which inform Americans’ views about the potential dangers that immigrants pose to jobs or neighborhood safety or the economy, and the perceived threats posed by diversity or dialogue or “political correctness.”  It seems that a vast number of Americans these days are single-mindedly obsessed with how someone else has screwed them over. 

The phenomenon of “wokeness” illuminates how many people and groups have endured abuse, physical, emotional and psychological torment, the deprivation of opportunity and the kinds of traumas that persist from generation to generation.  The ongoing marginalization of minorities; the hopelessness felt by working-class Americans; the helplessness felt by families touched by addiction, spiraling debt, wage stagnation and skyrocketing healthcare costs—these are all real.

But it’s not enough simply to identify all these injustices.  David Brooks recently wrote that “The problem with wokeness is that it doesn’t inspire action; it freezes it. To be woke is first and foremost to put yourself on display. To make a problem seem massively intractable is to inspire separation—building a wall between you and the problem— not a solution.” 

Observing that “most great social reforms have happened in moments of optimism, not moments of pessimism, in moments of encouraging progress, not in moments of perceived threat,” Brooks goes on to urge that we confront the great sins of society as opportunities for meaningful change, not as chronic wounds, lesions of endless pain and indignation.

He’s talking about a shift in mindset, from victim to victor, from grasshopper to giant, from merely calling out great and historic injustices to working constructively on fair and forward-thinking solutions. 

“We can ask:  ‘Why did this happen?’… Or we can ask, ‘What then shall I do?’”

Where even to begin?  The work ahead seems daunting.  Maybe we can identify with those spies who said it would be better to go back to Egypt, or die in the wilderness, than to enter the promised land.  Maybe we don’t feel ready, just yet, to go out from this sanctuary and change the world.

Maybe all we can begin to do today is work on changing our mindsets—and maybe, for today, that will be enough.

It feels like the right work for Yom Kippur, doesn’t it?

Let us, then, in the spirit of this holiest day of the year, take a little time to reflect and ask ourselves:

      • Where in my life do I see myself as a victim?
      • How much time do I spend rehearsing my own unhappiness? 
      • Can I validate hard events in my life while committing to forward motion in my own growth?

I’ve heard it said that most of us are driving through life holding on to the rearview mirror, thinking it’s the steering wheel.  What would it feel like to let the past be the past and turn the wheel toward the future?  

Viktor Frankl, the Austrian neuroscientist who survived Auschwitz and went on to write Man’s Search for Meaning, insisted that even in the death camps, where the Nazis took everything we had, there remained one thing they could not take:  our freedom to choose how to respond.  “When we are no longer able to change a situation… we are challenged to change ourselves,” he said (Man’s Search for Meaning.  Boston:  Beacon Press, 2006. p. 112).    

And so John McCain emerged, bent and broken, from a Hanoi torture camp, and established a second career as a public servant.  Malala Yousafzay survived a Taliban ambush that put a bullet in her skull and dedicated her life to female education.  Nelson Mandela endured twenty-seven years in prison before negotiating the end of apartheid rule and presiding over South Africa’s transition to a multicultural democracy.  

In his dank cell, night after night, Mandela took comfort in William Ernest Henley’s 1875 poem “Invictus,” which concludes:  

I am the master of my fate:

I am the captain of my soul. 

There could be no more relevant or consequential message for Yom Kippur!

To be a Jew is to be the captain of your soul.  

To be a Jew is to exercise your freedom of choice to rise above fate.  

To be a Jew is to choose a life of holiness no matter what life hands you. 

And to be a Jew on Yom Kippur is to harness the power of forgiveness to move forward and not stay stuck.  

Forgiveness of your past.  Forgiveness of the people in your life who have hurt you.  Forgiveness of God for not handing you the life you always wanted, the life you felt you deserved.  Forgiveness of your dead, who now cannot atone for their own shortcomings, who left you alone with ragged wounds and memories, inadequacies and unmet needs.  And forgiveness of yourself, for all the ways you have not yet become the person you want to be—not yet, but still could.  

Forgiveness isn’t giving the other guy a free pass.  It’s releasing our burden.  Forgiveness is deciding to loosen the stranglehold that we allow what this person said, or that person did, or this person failed to do, or say, to exert over our thoughts and our lives. 

No one knows who said this first, but whoever did, said it best:  “Forgiveness is giving up all hope for a better past.” 

So here we are:  human beings, flawed and fallible, scared and scarred—but still capable of greatness.

Will we see ourselves in the year to come as grasshoppers or giants?  

Of all the things out of our hands in this mad and mixed-up world, that one choice is ours, and ours alone.  



The battles of Iwo Jima and Okinawa, fought in the winter and spring of 1945, were among the bloodiest in the Pacific Theater of World War II.  

Among the US infantry sent to the front lines of these hellish campaigns was the First Marines Division, nicknamed “The Old Breed.”  

And among The Old Breed was a 30-year old Jewish combat medic born in the Bronx, educated as a pharmacist at Rutgers, and hailing from Trenton, New Jersey, named Harry Garb, but everyone called him “Acky.”  After surviving the war, Acky would return to Trenton, to the pharmacy, to his wife Edna, and to his daughter Jane who was born during the war.  Two years later, along would come Marjorie—my mom.

My Pop-Pop Acky never really talked about the War.  He certainly never thought of himself as a hero.  The real heroes, he would have told you, were the ones who never came back.

Acky loved his family, the New York Yankees, a warm bagel toasted almost black, cold brisket with Gulden’s mustard, and golf.

When Acky was 74 years old, after an afternoon golfing in Pompano Beach, Florida, while walking at twilight, he was struck by a passing car and died of massive head trauma. 

Frederick Beuchner, a 92-year old American writer and ordained Presbyterian minister, is famous for having said that “[all] theology… is essentially autobiography.”  In other words, what we come to believe about God boils down to personal experience.  Even professional theologians—that is to say, religious philosophers, people whose job is to think about God—cannot help but be molded in their views by personal experience.  

Over the years I have come to believe that all theological writing, all our prayers, our midrash and Talmud, our law codes and folklore—even the Bible, even the Torah itself—are, in the final analysis, just creative attempts to put into words a personal encounter with the sacred.  

Some words, to be sure, get it better than others.  Some personal experiences come to us filtered through unhealthy minds, warped perceptions, and backward social mores.  One of the authors of the Bible perceived the image of God within every human being.  Another author declared that God had a problem with boiling a kid in its mother’s milk.  One called God “endlessly patient, loving, and true.”  Another called God “A Man of War.”  One had God describe to Abraham a promised land and a multitude of descendants.  Another wrote of a God who told Abraham to sacrifice his son.  Oh well.

But in the end, all theology is autobiography.  

The sudden and brutal death of my grandfather, and the cruel irony of it—that this veteran, this soldier who had braved historic battles, would meet his death so haphazardly—taught me a lot about God, and it is probably no coincidence that around that time, at the age of 15 or so, I became a professed atheist, a condition from which I am still recovering, having, over the last thirty years, made my peace with the fact that the God who filled my childhood imagination with fantasies of a world governed by a just and compassionate ruler who cared intimately about me, and everyone else, would now have to give way to a God no less transcendent but considerably less concerned with my feelings.

So this morning is about the haphazardness of life, and about where God fits in, or does not fit in, to the picture.  And because all theology is autobiography, while this is a conversation about God, it is even more about you, and me, and about how we fit in to the big picture.  

On Rosh Ha-Shanah it is written

On Yom Kippur it is sealed:

How many shall pass on

How many shall come to be

Who shall live and who shall die

Who shall reach ripe age and who shall not

Who by fire and who by water….

We do not know who wrote this prayer or what experiences may have prompted it.  Legends ascribe it variously to Rabbi Ephraim of Bonn, who chronicled the massacre of the Jews of the city of York, England, in 1190, or to the 11th-Century figure Rabbi Amnon who was given a choice by the Archbishop of Mayence:  convert to Catholicism or have your limbs amputated.  After three days, the legend goes, Rabbi Amnon was sent home, with his severed extremities, on a knight’s shield.  

The Unetaneh Tokef prayer is, in all likelihood, many centuries older, and God only knows what originally moved the author to imagine a Book of Life and an all-knowing God who “writes and seals, records and recounts” every human deed.  

What we do know is that the prayer gained popularity in the Middle Ages, following the massacres of Jewish communities during the Crusades, the wholesale expulsion of Jews from Medieval European communities, and the various atrocities visited upon our people during that period.  It makes sense that a prayer acknowledging that death can, at a moment’s notice, just drop in, would become popular in such precarious times. 

Who by fire and who by water, who by sword and who by beast, who by famine and who by thirst…

Who by his own hand and who by another’s

Who by cancer and who by heart attack

Who by stumbling down and who by slipping away

Who by gunfire and who by airplane crash…..

We demand a certain reasonableness from life and death.  From earliest childhood we learn what’s fair and what’s not, what should and should not happen.

And we project onto God those selfsame attributes of fairness, of should and shouldn’t.  We imagine a God who is “judge and arbiter, counsel and witness,” the ultimate standard-bearer of what’s right and fair.  

And we do so, I think, in utter defiance of how the universe actually works.  That is to say, all our life experience teaches and re-teaches us that God’s world is not calibrated to human notions of fairness.  We wish for fairness, and even sometimes comfort ourselves with a belief in a God who is keeping it all in order.  But look at things.  That can’t be so.  Day in, day out, year in, year out, over a lifetime, we encounter a randomness Hamlet would have called “the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.”  

What I say is no heresy.  The Book of Deuteronomy proposes a simple formula for life and death, blessing and curse:  live by God’s law and God will reward you.  Disobey and face God’s punishment.  The righteous will prosper, the wicked be damned, and all the rest is commentary.  Doesn’t this sound like what, as children, we all learned from grownups?  

A little while later, along came a Biblical author with a very different perspective, a different literary agenda, a different autobiography and a different theology.  “There was a man in the land of Uz whose name was Job,” his story begins.  “That man was blameless and upright, one who feared God and turned away from evil.  He had seven sons and three daughters, 7,000 sheep, 3,000 camels, 500 yoke of oxen, and 500 donkeys, and so many servants that this man became the wealthiest and most powerful in the East” (Job 1:1-3).  Every day, Job praises God with sacrifices and offerings and, above all, by keeping far from sin and wrongdoing.

On a whim, God accepts a dare from an angel named “Ha-Satan,” the Adversary or the Satan as he’s better known, and strips Job of everything.  His wealth vanishes, his herds perish, his children are murdered, his robust health gives way to chronic sickness and pain.  He suffers without warrant or recompense.  His friends insist:  “You must have done something wrong to invite this torment.”  For thirty-seven chapters, Job maintains his innocence and demands God answer him.   

The Book of Job gives a black eye to the theology of Deuteronomy, arguing that blessing and joy, life and health do not necessarily correlate to a person’s righteousness; that death and suffering do not necessarily correspond to moral waywardness; that God’s motives are not so easily fathomed.

“What did I ever do to deserve this?”  Job demands.

Finally, God answers, materializing out of the whirlwind.

The answer is not comforting.

“Who is this who speaks without knowledge?” God thunders.

“Stand up and carry yourself like a man.  I’ll do the asking now, and you’ll tell Me the answers.”

“Where were you when I laid the earth’s foundations?” God roars at Job.  “Speak, if you have understanding.”

“Have you ever commanded the day to break, assigned the dawn its place?”

“Have you penetrated to the sources of the sea, or walked in the recesses of the deep?  Have the gates of death been disclosed to you?  Have you seen the gates of deepest darkness?  Have you surveyed the expanses of the earth?  If you know of these—tell Me” (Excerpted from Job 38:1-18). 

In the end, God restores Job’s fortunes and resurrects his family but the message is permanently shattering:  You want to know why good people suffer and die?  Well, what do you know of how God’s world actually works?

Job is a brutal book.  Parts of it seem designed to disturb—I mean, a God who bargains with Satan?  Who blithely rips apart an innocent man’s life?  Really?  

Much has been made of the cruel and capricious God of the Book of Job.  But what if the Book’s theology is just a window into an autobiography, one human being’s reckoning with the universal human condition? 

Job speaks true in reminding us that we human beings are so small and our universe so vast.  Job speaks true in its recognition of how unreasonably we suffer.  Job speaks true in realizing that life has no upper limit to the pain it can inflict.  

No logic can explain this seemingly relentless law of life, that would exact the price of sorrow for each of its joys, the penalty of loss for each of its gifts.  

Why does life hurt so much?  Why would a human being die before her time?  How to account for the tsunami and the earthquake, leukemia and lymphoma, suicide and genocide, the air crash and the car crash?  How reconcile these with the mountain and the sunset, the ocean and the wind, the mystery of consciousness and feeling, the love of family and the joy of friendship, the glory of nature, the marvel of civilization?  

Well, where were you when the foundations of the earth were established?

In the end, some questions echo back only a silence as deep and ominous as the grave.  

And yet, it is human—maybe the most human thing of all—to ask why, anyway. 

One of my favorite films is A Serious Man by the Coen Brothers.  I first saw it at an advance screening with, of all people, Rabbi Aaron Panken, of blessed memory.  

The movie is basically a modern retelling of the story of Job.  Larry Gopnik is a mild-mannered physics professor—that is to say, someone whose job it is to figure out how the world works—who has thrust upon him all manner of suffering.  His wife leaves him for another man; a disgruntled student blackmails him over a bad grade; his bar-mitzvah age son is definitely smoking reefer; and why is his doctor asking for him to come in right away after a routine checkup?  

Larry reacts as most of us would, utterly bewildered that his life is falling apart so absurdly.

Over the course of the movie, he seeks advice from a rabbi.  Three rabbis, actually, one of whom says, “Hashem doesn’t owe us the answer, Larry.  Hashem doesn’t owe us anything. The obligation runs the other way.”

Gopnik cries:  “But why does he make us feel the questions if he won’t give us the answers?”

And if ever there were a more heartbreaking and eloquent description of the human condition, well, I have not heard it.  

“Why does he make us feel the questions if he won’t give us the answers?”

The rabbi shrugs and says, “He hasn’t given me the answer to that.”  

How to give voice to that terrible human yearning, the way we feel the questions that have no answer?

Because in the end, there really is no good answer to the great and terrible why of human suffering, no adequate response to why bad things happen to good people—except to go on living as vigorously and beautifully as we can.  

We ask the wrong question. We ask why the world is the way it is when we should ask why we are the way we are, and how we can be the most fully realized versions of ourselves that we can be.  Rather than ask “Why?” of life, we might ask “Now what must I do?  Who must I become?” 

Of course we can give up on life, and sometimes people do.  Sometimes the weight and the agony of feeling overtakes the ability to live with hope or joy.  

And of course we can conclude that it’s all random; that life has no meaning; that there is no God.  The only problem is, to live by the nihilist’s creed also hinders our access to life’s immense potential for beauty, for joy, for purposeful action, for holiness.

The real answer is not that life is meaningless, nor that life is meaningful.  It is that life’s meaning is not inherent; we assign meaning to it. 

Life is not good or bad, right or wrong; there is no divine blueprint for each human life, no plan for what might befall us on any given day.  We make the meaning of our life.  We paint the canvas of our days with whatever brushes and colors we’ve been given, with whatever imagination and wisdom we can summon, with whatever help we can get, for as long as we can do it.  Life isn’t meaningful or meaningless.  We decide what meaning to give it.  Life’s meaning is not inherent; we assign meaning to it.

Now that we know that, we might find it harder to get out of bed in the morning.  Or, we can swallow the bitter pill of uncertainty and get on with our day, trying to fill it with as much earnest love, eager learning, honest labor, and healing mitzvot as we possibly can.  

When all is said and done, this is really the only choice. 

The celebrated Sages Hillel and Shammai had an argument.  Given the seemingly endless supply of human suffering, they asked:  “Would it have been better for humankind never to have been created at all?”  In the end, Shammai’s opinion prevails—uncharacteristically, because Hillel wins almost every debate—“All in all, it would have been better for humankind never to have been created,” Shammai says, where the Hebrew word for “better,” noach, literally means “easier” or “more comfortable.” 

Given the choice between existence and non-existence, between Hamlet’s “to be or not to be,” non-existence, “not to be,” is obviously the more comfortable option, the easier way. 

But Hillel gets the final word:  

“Now that we have been created, let each of us examine our deeds.”

So here we are, at the beginning of this ten-day journey of self-examination.  

Whatever our autobiography, whatever our theology, whatever doubt or certitude, whatever belief or unbelief we bring to the table, it belongs here, in this sanctuary, on this new year’s day.  

Because what unites us is Judaism’s insistence that our lives matter, and that because our lives matter, our deeds matter. 

So now that we’re here, we might as well examine them.

And as we embark on this ten days’ voyage from here to Yom Kippur, let me share with you a thought that might serve as our north star.  The phrasing comes from stand-up comedian Patton Oswalt, who, until 2016, was married to Michelle McNamara, author of a recently published best-selling book about the search for the Golden State Killer.

The worst day of his life, Oswalt tells his audience, is not the day he woke up to find that his wife had died in her sleep at age 46 of an accidental overdose of prescription medications.  It was the day after, when he had to explain her death to their seven-year-old daughter.  “I had to look at this little girl that was everything to me and take everything from her,” he says.

Over the past eighteen months, as he has had to rewrite the script of his life around this awful turn, Oswalt has ruminated on what it all means.  

In his latest show he explains that he and his wife used to have a debate.  He would say, “I don’t believe in an intelligent creator, per se, but I think that there might be a latticework of logic and meaning to the universe that maybe we’re too small to see.”

Now, having written at length about horrific real-life crimes, the cliché his wife hated the most is, “everything happens for a reason,” so she responded, “It’s chaos.  Be kind.  That’s all you can do.  It’s chaos.  Be kind.”  

Meaning, the randomness of life may just as well senselessly rip a loved one away from us as offer us success and happiness.  The only way to live with that terrifying chaos is to be as compassionate as we can, no matter what happens.

From time to time they’d go back and forth in this heated philosophical debate, Oswalt says, “And then she won the argument in the worst way possible!”

So maybe she was right.  Maybe it’s all chaos.  Maybe Shammai was right—it would have been easier never to have been created in the first place.  Maybe the God of Job was right—“What do you know of how My world works?

It’s true:  the universe is not calibrated to human notions of fairness.  Fairness comes not from out there, but from inside us.  It’s our moral imperative to bring human reason, human fairness, human compassion, into an unreasonable, unfair, often merciless world.  Kindness is the ultimate antidote to the chaos of the universe.  

That’s the most important thing we could affirm on this first morning of a new year.  

And even if I’m wrong—it couldn’t hurt, right? 

Shavuot/Confirmation 5778: Are You Paying Attention?

Dear Confirmation Class of 5778,

A true story.

Fifteen years ago, the year most of you were born, just days after beginning my new job as the Associate Rabbi of Westchester Reform Temple, I was invited to participate in a conversion ceremony.  It takes three rabbis to make one Jew—that is to say, a panel of three rabbis is convened to authorize a conversion to Judaism—so I joined my WRT colleagues, Rabbi Rick Jacobs and Rabbi Angela Buchdahl, and our conversion candidate, at the local mikveh, the ritual bath, just two miles up Old Mamaroneck Road at Temple Israel Center in White Plains.  

I was walking back to my car when I noticed a plume of dark smoke streaming from a nearby building.  I turned and said, “That building is on fire.”  Rabbi Jacobs and Rabbi Buchdahl immediately identified the burning building as our neighboring congregation, Bet Am Shalom on Soundview Avenue.  We rushed to the adjacent parking lot and met the firefighters, police officers, staff and congregants managing the evacuation.  Moments after the fire had been extinguished, but before an all-clear had been issued, Rabbi Jacobs, Bet Am Shalom’s Rabbi Les Bronstein, and their Cantor Benjie-Ellen Schiller, approached an officer and rushed into the smoldering synagogue pushing hospital stretchers, emerging minutes later with the miraculously undamaged Torah scrolls that they had rescued from the sanctuary.

In that moment, I felt deeply connected not only to my colleagues, to our neighboring synagogues, and to these sacred scrolls that had been saved from danger, but also to Abraham, the first Jew.

Another story, also true—although only metaphorically speaking—this one told by the ancient Rabbis about Abraham:

An ordinary man was going about his business, traveling from one place to another, when he noticed a palace all in flames.  This man, Abraham by name, exclaimed, “Why is no one doing anything?  How can it be that there is no one to look after this palace?”  Suddenly, a voice calls out from the highest balcony—itself almost engulfed in the inferno—saying, “I am the owner of the palace.”  At that moment, the midrash goes, God selected Abraham to bring the Jewish people into the world, and to lead them (adapted from Bereshit Rabbah, 39:1).

The Rabbis wrote this story to answer the question, “Why does the Jewish story start with Abraham?”  What special qualities did our ancestor possess that merited his divine election?  In other words, what did God see in him?  

The answer, according to the parable of the burning palace, is that Abraham walks with eyes open, that he pays attention, that he notices the fire; but it is also that Abraham wonders aloud why this is happening, why is no one else paying attention, why is no one doing anything; and then he demands a response.  What makes Abraham special is that he sees things not only for what they are, but for the way they ought to be, and that he roars out his objection.  

Sir Jonathan Sacks, former Chief Rabbi of Great Britain, explains:  “Judaism begins not in wonder that the world is, but in protest that the world is not as it ought to be.  It is in that sacred discontent that Abraham’s journey begins.”  

Perhaps even more fascinating in this story than the character of Abraham is the character of God.  Is God in fact powerless to save the palace?  Or is God, by remaining hidden inside, insisting that the palace will continue to burn until some ordinary traveler notices a plume of black smoke; asks, “What’s going on here?” and demands a response?  

I think the Rabbis wanted to teach that only after human intervention comes divine intervention.  Only after we pay attention does God answer—not as a magical savior, but rather as the One who comes to say to us:  “Thank God you showed up.” 

Out of this little parable emerges an exceptionally deep and insightful understanding of Judaism and the ultimate mission of the Jew, and so I share this story with you today, Confirmation Class of 5778, because the world is on fire, and God—so to speak—is waiting for you to pay attention, to speak up, to demand a response.  Or, more to the point, to be the response.

The world is an inferno.  

Are you paying attention?

The fires of toxic discourse, moral corruption, meanness of spirit, and obstructionism have consumed the last shred of civility in American political life.

The flames of violence and bloodshed continue to lash the Middle East, and so many neglected corners of the world.

The smoke of ignorance and deception suffocate those who are subjected to a daily stream of lies masquerading as the daily news.

The combustion of gunfire has claimed tens of thousands of innocent lives—another mass shooting, just two days ago—in American classrooms, offices, nightclubs, concerts, and public spaces.

The flares of anti-Semitism have grown into conflagrations of white supremacist hatred in places like Whitefish, Montana and Charlottesville, Virginia, even as they have kindled ugly confrontations on college campuses in the form of boycotts, divestment, and sanctions directed against Israel.  Student activists and student governments now routinely single out Israel for special condemnation among all the nations of the world, lobbying school administrators and boards to subject Israel to public excoriation by withdrawing all support—financial or otherwise—for the Jewish State. 

And the scorching heat of racism continues to burn through our country like a fever.

The world is an inferno.  

Are you paying attention?

I wouldn’t blame you for the impulse to look the other way.  After all, we have all learned that the response to a fire is “stop, drop, and roll”—not, “run into the inferno.”  

And I wouldn’t blame you for the impulse to stay in place, aghast but paralyzed as the fire rages.  These are difficult times, and to lead today requires the courage to risk being ridiculed for your beliefs, antagonized for your refusal to accept the status quo, condemned for your willingness to defy authority, to stand up even against your teachers, principals, elected officials—even your clergy.  

When high school students staged walk-outs all over America this spring to protest our epidemic of gun violence, teachers and school administrators were willing to support you, up to a point.  By the second walk-out, they had changed their tune.  “Time to get back to class and pay attention.”  What they missed is that you have been paying attention, which is why you walked out.  And it’s why you’ll have to keep walking out, even when it becomes much more uncomfortable for you, even when the stakes are higher.

Confirmation Class of 5778:  Your rabbis and cantors have loved teaching you this year, and I will confess that one of the reasons we have loved having you in class is because, by and large, you are a class full of rule-followers.  You were so nice!  So caring and thoughtful!  So easy!  Maybe it’s just you; maybe it’s that WRT’s post-B’nei Mitzvah program self-selects for the most eager learners, the students who just really like coming to temple, and we are so grateful that you do. 

But, for the right reasons, at the right moment, would you be willing to speak up — even to your teachers, even to your temple, even to your rabbis and cantors?  To challenge authority?  To defy courtesy and comfort and compliance in the service of a higher cause?  Are you willing to be part of the “Youthquake,” the word that Oxford English Dictionaries crowned as its word of the year back in December, defined as “a significant cultural, political, or social change arising from the actions or influence of young people?”  Are you paying attention?

I think everyone in this sanctuary knows that 2018 has been an excruciating year for our community.  We began the new year with the horrific news of the crash of a small airplane in Costa Rica that killed 12 people, including an entire WRT family.  Ever since we have collectively grieved the loss of Bruce and Irene, Zachary, William, and Matthew Steinberg whose bright lives, so filled with promised, were extinguished in an instantaneous inferno.  

I want to share a few words composed for his Confirmation in 2015 that Will Steinberg shared with our congregation from this bimah exactly three years ago, as part of a personal statement entitled “Defending our Faith,” which he offered right before the Shema.  Will said:  “I believe that as a member of the Jewish community, it is my duty… to remember my ancestors and follow their traditions.  It is also my duty to help protect and advocate for all Jewish people around the world….  As a Jew, I cannot wait idly by while the Jewish People are subjected to anti-Semitism daily.  I believe that as a result of my years spent at WRT, the traditions in which I have continued to partake, and my support and love for the State of Israel, I have developed a strong Jewish identity, which I can utilize for the betterment of the Jewish People.”

Will followed in the footsteps of Abraham.  Will paid attention.  In the face of the fire, Will stood up and spoke out.  Will you?  

No sooner had we begun to pick ourselves up from the shock and sadness of the Steinbergs’ deaths, did our community suffer another terrible blow just two weeks ago, when we learned of another small aircraft disaster, this one claiming the life of Rabbi Aaron Panken, who was a beloved member of WRT, whose wife Lisa served as president of our congregation, and whose children Eli and Samantha have been role models for Jewish learning and leadership, including participating in Confirmation in recent years.

Rabbi Panken was the President of the Hebrew Union College-Jewish Institute of Religion, where all Reform Rabbis, Cantors, and other Jewish professionals train on four campuses, in Cincinnati, New York, Los Angeles and Jerusalem.  At the beginning of this sermon I taught you that it takes three rabbis to make one Jew, but did you know that it takes only one rabbi to make another rabbi or cantor?  Rabbi Panken, in his role as President of HUC-JIR, would, each year, place his hands on each student, and in that moment of blessing, he or she would take on the title of rabbi or cantor.  The ritual of s’micha or “laying on of hands” is one that we rabbis and cantors never forget, and our hearts both rejoice and mourn with one of our newest Rabbis, our Intern Eliana Fischel, who received the hands and the blessing of Rabbi Norman Cohen, standing in for Rabbi Panken, at her Ordination ceremony just two weeks ago today. 

Every single one of your rabbis and cantors at WRT, past and present, is a graduate of HUC-JIR, the College-Institute that Rabbi Panken led with boldness and vision, and always with the aim of producing Jewish professionals who would lead with intellect and compassion.  His death is a tremendous loss for his family, for WRT, for the Reform Movement, for the Jewish People, and for humanity.

Just five weeks ago, Rabbi Panken sat on this bimah to help WRT celebrate our 65th anniversary, participating in a panel discussion with other Reform Jewish leaders.  When I asked him “What keeps you up at night,” he answered without hesitation.  He said:  “There is a leadership crisis in this country which, I think, is an emergency.”  “We’re missing vital, important opportunities to stand up for what we need to stand up for,” he said.  He spoke unflinchingly about the mistreatment and unfounded suspicion of immigrants and refugees in Israel and the United States.  He spoke of the challenges faced by people living in poverty—again, in Israel and the United States—and of the plight of poor Israelis alongside the plight of Palestinians.  These are not uniformly popular opinions; for a rabbi to speak openly from a bimah about them is to invite criticism and even anger.  Nevertheless, he spoke.  

Rabbi Panken followed in the footsteps of Abraham.  He paid attention.  In the face of the fire, he stood up and spoke out.  Will you?  

Will you join the youth who have made the shooting in Parkland, Florida, their “never again” moment?

When you turn eighteen in just two or three years, will you exercise your freedom to vote for leaders whose vision of America is not the way things are, or the way things used to be, but the way things could be?

When you head off to college, will you be an Abraham for Judaism, for the Jewish people, for Israel, for those on the margins of society, for those whose lives don’t matter as much in our society, for those whose voices might otherwise not be heard?

Confirmation Class of 5778: Outside this safe and beautiful House of God, an inferno rages.  Are you paying attention?

A final thought.

In Hebrew, “pay attention” is worded in a beautiful and meaningful way.  When we want someone to pay attention, we say, “Sim Lev,” literally, “Put your heart in it.”

Sim Lev, Confirmation Class of 5778, Sim Lev, and the Holy One of Blessing will emerge from the fire to pay attention to you, to put God’s own heart into all that you will do.  

And then God will say:  “Thank God you showed up.”

Memorial Remarks for Bruce, Irene, Zachary, William, and Matthew Steinberg Z”L

MEMORIAL:  Bruce, Irene, Zachary, William, & Matthew Steinberg Z”L

JANUARY 7, 2017 – 2:00 PM – WRT


We who were strangers to one another when we entered this synagogue have become as one family in our sanctuary.  We are united in the terrible kinship of our sorrow, the shared human horror at what was, until Sunday, the “unthinkable,” the common thread of our bewilderment, and the collective need to place all of our bruised and battered feelings upon the altar of a God whom the Bible calls “a Healer of Broken hearts, the One who binds up their wounds.”

Twelve vibrant lives, two cherished families, one guide and two crew, all snuffed out in a blinding instant, and the hopes and dreams that die with them—we are mourning them all:  all the unfulfilled potential, all the graduations and first loves and weddings, all the potential for another generation of children and grandchildren, all the healing work that yet could have been brought to bear on a hurting world, all the laughter and love and hope—all gone.

The Book of Leviticus tells the story of two sons of the high priest Aaron who die instantaneously, in blaze of alien fire.  When their father learns the news the Bible records just two words, Vayidom Aharon in Hebrew, “Aaron fell silent.”  There are no words, no eloquent eulogy, no tribute, no matter how heartfelt, adequate to respond to this kind of brutal and tragic bereavement.  Every song of the heart falls silent in the face of such a loss.

The poet Edna St. Vincent Millay wrote, “Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind; … I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.”

We are not resigned to this.  I have no spiritual medicine that can soothe the hurt.  And there is some wisdom in recognizing that anesthetizing our souls to feeling pain also numbs us to feeling love.

And if you remember nothing else from this ritual of remembrance, remember this:  grief is always reflected love.  Our sorrow is monumental because our love for Bruce and Irene, Zachary, William, and Matthew is surpassingly great and is undiminished in death.  And the love we come to express today will provide boundless support for Bruce’s family, for his parents Irwin and Dianne, his sister Tamara (Tammy) and brother-in-law Alan and their children, for Irene’s parents Margery and Allen, for her brother Robert, sister-in-law Rebecca, and their children.  And of course we are here to embrace Olga who was family in every meaningful sense of the word.  We are here for all of you.

The Jewish tradition speaks of a chatzi-nechama, a “half-measure of comfort,” that comes from knowing that no one must grieve alone.  I would add: not even the rabbi.  I am blessed by the partnership of spiritual leaders who join in the common embrace of sympathy today.  I bring our community the condolences of Rabbi Jacob Luski of St. Petersburg, Florida, who, in the coming days, will memorialize the Weiss family who perished along with the Steinbergs.  Our hearts are linked to his community even as the memories of the Steinbergs and the Weisses are now forever linked.  I bring the condolences of several of our elected officials, including New York Senator Kirsten Gillibrand, and hundreds of rabbinic and cantorial colleagues.

And I am grateful to share the bimah this afternoon with my WRT clergy colleagues, Cantor Jill Abramson, Rabbi David Levy, Cantor Amanda Kleinman, and Rabbi Daniel Reiser.  Each of them enjoyed a special connection with the Steinbergs, tutoring the boys for Bar Mitzvah, celebrating with them at Confirmation, and seeing Bruce and especially Irene here for pretty much any community program available to the Jewish People.

I am most of all grateful to Randi Musnitsky, Senior Rabbi of  Temple Har Shalom in Warren, New Jersey, who joins us for today’s service.

Rabbi Musnitsky speaks:

Standing here due to my relationship with Tamara, Alan, Laura, Lexi and Ella, and our entire extended Temple Har Shalom family, I fully understand that I actually speak for all of us present today when I note how surreal and unfathomable it seems that Bruce, Irene, Zachary, William and Matthew are no longer living.  For as a family and individuals they embodied the very definition of life: they were vibrant, vivacious, brilliant, adventurous, compassionate, funny, generous, giving, humble and loving.  They were far too young and had so many more milestones and joyous occasions to share with beloved family and their extended network of worldwide friends.  Professionally, personally and as stalwart volunteers there were projects to complete; awards to win; degrees to be awarded; new discoveries to make; more places to journey; people to meet and touch and humanitarian causes to support.

In truth, there is neither a dry eye nor an acceptance that their deaths are real.  Our hearts are broken and our minds reel with so many unanswerable questions:  How did this happen?  Why did this occur?  Will our spirits ever recover?  The “how’s”, “whys” and ifs” can only taunt and torture us because there are no answers that will satisfy nor comfort.  Therefore, it is far more worthwhile that today we ourselves ask: “Now What?”.  What do we do without their presence, their love, their support, and their guttena neshamas?  For guidance we need only look to the lessons and legacies that they leave behind.  For while Bruce, Irene, Zachary, William and Matthew’s years with us were tragically cut short, their impact on every person with which they interacted was infinite.

It is truly heartbreaking that today we mourn their deaths.  Yet Jewish tradition teaches us that we are not to concentrate on how they died, but rather we are to focus on how they lived.  We are here today to bring them back to life through personal story and anecdote to better inspire and influence our own daily acts.

We pray that their bright, effervescent spirits will forever light our way through the bereft darkness of our loss.


Every heart in this room is carrying an overwhelming burden of grief.  Emotional resources have been battered and drained.  We come into this sanctuary with but one question on our lips:  Why?  Why should a family—why should this family, this brilliant, dynamic, philanthropic, fun-loving, close-knit, fundamentally good, caring family—be taken from among the living in the prime of life?

Intellectually we may understand the monumental indifference of Nature; that accidents, terrible accidents, disasters even, can, and do, happen; can, and do, afflict even the gems of humankind—intellectually we may be able to comprehend all of this, but, emotionally, we also understand that the sun should not set before it has risen; that leaves should not fall from the tree in the brightness of summer; that parents should never have to bury their children or their grandchildren.

And so we are left with Why, a question that echoes back a silence as profound and awful as the grave itself.

The only response to the Why of death is to go on living as magnificently and magnanimously as our time on earth allows.  We have been summoned to this place and this moment by a tragedy beyond our control.  We did not choose this.

But we always have a choice in how we respond, even to the unthinkable.  And in this case, we can, and must, still affirm life.  Some losses can be met only with an uncomfortable mixture of inconsolable anguish, courage, and affirmation.

And that is what Bruce, Irene, Zachary, William, and Matthew would have wanted.  They would not want their beautiful and big-hearted lives memorialized in endless pain or bitterness.  We are devastated by their deaths.  But in the weeks and months and years to come, we will use our grief to make sure that the message of their lives, the joy the members of this family brought to one another and to so many others, the good deeds and acts of charity they had already begun to perform on behalf of so many others, the beautiful and heartwarming and funny and sacred memories they placed in our hearts and minds, the stories of their lives—cut short though they are—will not die with them.

Many have asked:  “What can I do to help?”  The outpouring of support from the WRT and Westchester communities, from the Bridgewater and UJA-Federation and AJC and Seeds of Peace communities, from the Hopkins and Penn and Fieldston communities, from the Jewish community here and in Israel, from friends of this family of every age and stage of life, from elected officials and even total strangers all over the world—has been extraordinary and, on behalf of the surviving family members, allow me to express how grateful we all are.

Let it be known in this sacred circle that actions speak louder than words; but most of all, know this:  your simple and loving presence here speaks loudest of all.  Thank you for your steadfastness.  Thank you for the acts of caring that will continue to sustain the parents, siblings, nephews and nieces of the Steinberg family in days to come.  Thank you for the generosity of spirit that will allow our community to love the living whom the Steinbergs loved in life, and continue to champion the causes they cherished.  Let our good deeds be the way in which we give honor to our friends.

The heart of this afternoon’s remembrance will come from some of the people who knew Bruce, Irene, Zach, Will, and Matt as their own.

We will hear from:

Irene’s brother, Rob

Bruce’s mother, Dianne

Bruce’s lifelong friend Peter Silkowitz

Irene’s college roommate and friend Allison Kramer-Stearns

Zach’s friend, roommate and fraternity brother Will Stiltner with his high school friend Naomi Haber

Will’s high school friends Jonah Gray & Eliot Stein

and Vanessa and Victor Ridder who shared Matt’s love of music at School of Rock in Mamaroneck.


How poignant that this family so intertwined, so deeply connected in life, would meet their deaths in the same instant.  Death has severed our friends from us, but not from one another.  They die as they lived:  united, as one.

And what a family this was.  This was a family that cast a wide net.  They were the kind of friends you wanted in your corner.  The kind of friends with whom you could always be yourself.  You could show up to their house in pajamas, and sometimes, you did.

If you had a need, the support they provided was boundless and unconditional.  Irene was always the go-to person, the organizer, the fortress and shield, the social worker not only by career but by demeanor.  She could always be counted on to show up for you, whether remembering a birthday at canasta on Tuesdays, or putting together a Bridge group for friends just so she could have something to talk about with her Dad on her biweekly visits down to Maryland, or driving her dear friend Valerie to her medical treatments.

Irene seemed to have an innate ability to make you feel like you were the center of her world, to understand the needs and feelings of others:  from her own children, each of whom she cherished for his uniqueness, making sure that their school environment and activities were tailored to their passions and interests.  Nurturing Zach’s love of science and technology and his involvement at Johns Hopkins Hillel; fostering Will’s passion for international relations and conflict resolution through Seeds of Peace; Sending Matty to Fieldston and enrolling him in School of Rock—these all attest to how intuitive and supportive this family was of each member’s unique path through life.

And of course Bruce was really Irene’s fourth boy, and no one understood Bruce quite like Irene.  In public he might have looked and acted the part of the high-powered, brilliant executive, but running around the house yelling, “RENE, where are my keys?!” you might get an idea of what Irene had to manage just to keep things in the Steinberg home from grinding to a halt.  At his 50th birthday party just a few weeks ago, Irene first praised him by saying that, in contrast to all the “men behaving badly” taking up the headlines these days, “My husband is such a good man.”  And then she proposed an explanation for why Bruce is always losing things, which is that Bruce “really, really doesn’t care about stuff.”  “There’s nothing that makes Bruce happier,” she noted, “than walking downstairs on a Saturday night before going out, wearing an old concert T-shirt, saying, ‘I can wear this?’” to which Irene would answer, “No,” and he’d go upstairs and change.  The other reason, she suggested, is that Bruce is far too concerned with other things.  His worrying about far more important matters, like global warming, or North Korea, or Anti-Semitism on college campuses, or the placement of the trees at Sunningdale, eclipsed his ability to worry much about where he had put his wallet, cell phone, or glasses.

Bruce’s own combination of passion and logic drove him to success and into the perfect work environment at Bridgewater.  Among his colleagues’ many remembrances, a comment from Phil Salinger captures so much:  “Bruce was my favorite Jet and Yankee fan in the whole world.  Just like his sports teams, he exemplified how to fight honorably, even if you’re going to lose sometimes.”

Bruce could, and would, debate any matter great or small zealously, yet rationally.  Last year, at a temple cocktail party following a Bar Mitzvah, Bruce came up to me, clinked my glass of scotch, and immediately started arguing with me about the merits and risks of resettling refugees.

This was a family of mutual devotion.  As much as Irene and Bruce cared for their children, so too did they look out for their parents; so too did they take in Olga as one of their own; so too did they treat their friends as cherished companions for life.

This was a family that lived out loud.  Indeed, most communication among family members and with others was achieved by yelling over each other, whether sharing recollections of a recent trip, or giving restaurant advice, or shouting at the boys to put sunscreen on for God’s sake before walking out of the Hamptons house.

This was a family of passion, a family with a rare capacity for giving to others and a rare joie-de-vivre.  They loved to celebrate and have fun, whether at an elaborately planned party, or at a rock concert, or an impromptu round of golf that Bruce would pull together at 7AM or on his way home from work, or a tennis game, or a ping-pong match.  Bruce led the way in fun and adventure.  A vacation was no time to sleep in or chill—it was always one activity after another.  Exploring the world and exposing their sons to the beauty, power, complexity and diversity of our world figured high in their list of life priorities.

This was a family that invested in experiences above things, mission above materialism.  Now their mission becomes ours.

To all the friends of Zach and Will and Matt, especially, I want to add here a word composed by Rabbi Les Gutterman who mentored me many years ago.  Five years after I became a rabbi, a small aircraft crashed in in Pennsylvania, killing all six on board including two families in my congregation.  Among the mourners were hundreds of teenagers and college students.  Like them, you are young to have to confront grief up-close, to have to have so much taken from you at a time in your lives that ought to be full of open promise.

“You are learning one of life’s unyielding and harshest realities,” my rabbi said, twelve years ago.  “We cannot protect ourselves from loss.  We can, however, protect ourselves from the death of love by giving ourselves in love to others….  We are a people who have been taught that there is no answer to death but to live as vigorously and beautifully as we can.”

So there it is.  We will continue to live vigorously and beautifully for the sake of Bruce and Irene, Zachary, William and Matthew.  Our good thoughts, good words, and above all good deeds, will be our way of honoring their lives.  May the memory of the Steinberg Family inspire us to encounter this big and bewildering world with all the compassion, understanding, and love we can muster.

Let our love dispel bitterness.  With our love, we can work to build a world in which every person reaches fulfillment, every life attains its purpose, and God’s own love is felt by all whom we touch.




Interment will be held privately with the family at a later date.

The Steinbergs’ surviving family members will receive guests following this service of memorial. Those who wish to pay their respects in person may do so in the Sifriyah, or Temple Library, immediately following services.  Greeters are on hand to direct you.  Please note that this space on the WRT campus is extremely “cozy” and its maximum capacity is no more than 30 guests at a time.  There are over 1,000 of you in our sanctuary today.  We would ask you to exercise your best judgment in deciding whether or not to stop by, mindful that there may be a very long wait to see them.  So as not to burden yourself or overwhelm the family members, you may wish simply to greet one another here in our sanctuary and then return to your cars or the shuttle buses in our parking lot.  We warmly encourage letters of condolence, which can be sent to the Steinberg, Ginsberg, and Jacobson Families, c/o Mrs. Lauren Haller:

10 Sage Terrace, Scarsdale, New York 10583


I know that in days to come our extended community will be developing many ways to keep the memory of our friends perpetually alive in our midst.  The surviving family members have noted that donations to

The Steinberg Family Charitable Fund, c/o Morgan Stanley

is one such meaningful way of perpetuating the Steinberg Family legacy.  Specific information is on the sheets outside in our lobby.

15 Independence Boulevard, Warren, New Jersey 07059

At this time will the congregation please rise as we offer the memorial prayer.

Shabbat Chayei Sarah 5778




I turned forty-four in September.  There are lots of ways to think about the significance of this age—half as many years as a piano has keys; the total lifespan of Billie Holiday, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Jackson Pollack and Henry David Thoreau; and twice the lifespan of Buddy Holly—but by any reasonable measure, I am now officially, incontrovertibly, middle-aged.

It is a status I hope to enjoy for some time, having spent most the last eighteen years fielding the apparent knee-jerk reaction that people have upon meeting me for the first time, namely, “You look too young to be a rabbi.”  To them, meaning to all of you, I can now proudly declare that I am not in fact young, but rather middle-aged, and that the math backs me up.

Of course, middle age was never meant to last, any more than is youth.  I fully expect that in ten years, at the age of 54, I’ll be past my statistical middle.  That is to say, 108 would be a reach.

I do intend, however, to enjoy middle age for as long as I can—whatever its numerical boundaries may be—because we all know what comes after middle age, and that’s “old.”

“Old,” my colleague Rabbi Stephen Pearce observes, is something that “most people want to become, but almost no one wants to be.”  The search for the proverbial fountain of youth refers not only to the apocryphal story of the Spanish explorer Juan Poncé de Leon; it also describes a universal human quest.  Who among us has not wanted to turn back the clock; to halt the march of time; to reverse the inexorable ravages of age; to forestall the inevitable loneliness of losing loved ones?  In so many human stories I hear an echo of a verse from Psalm 71, repurposed in the Shma Koleinu prayer on Yom Kippur:  Al tashlicheini l’eit ziknah….  “Do not cast me out in old age!”

My rabbinic mentor, Les Gutterman of Providence Rhode Island, retired a couple of years ago.  Les was my senior rabbi when I started out as an indisputably (you might say, irresponsibly) young assistant rabbi, at the age of 26.  Now in his seventies, Les had served one congregation with distinction for forty-five years, and was ready to hang up his yarmulke.  As Rabbi Gutterman contemplated this new phase of his life, he told me:

“You know, Jon, two things happen to you when you begin to get old.  One is you become forgetful, and the other, I don’t remember.”

I also learned from him that:

You are old when your knees buckle and your belt doesn’t.

You are old when the gleam in your eyes is the sun hitting your trifocals.

You are old when your back goes out more often than you do.

You are old when you sink your teeth into your dinner and they stay there.

You are old when you hear your favorite songs in an elevator.

You are old when you spot that first gray hair… on your kid.

You are old when Happy Hour is a nap.

Okay, one more, last one, I promise:

You are old when you can remember when the Dead Sea was merely sick.

A quote attributed to Bette Davis summarizes:  “Old age ain’t no place for sissies.”

Today, the question of aging takes on unprecedented urgency.  There are now eight times as many people ages 65-74 as there were in in 1900; the number of 75-84 year olds is 17 times larger; and the 85-and-up population is nearly 40 times larger.  By the year 2030, it is projected that America will have more than 70 million citizens over the age of 65, a figure with dramatic consequences for the population most in need of healthcare and eldercare services, as well as for America’s aging labor force.

It seems fitting that I would speak about aging tonight of all nights, first, because on Chai Society Shabbat we honor WRT congregants who are (I take pains to note) not necessarily “old,” but “of long vintage.”  Chai, which means life, also denotes the number eighteen; tonight we recognize those who have affiliated with WRT for eighteen years and more, with a special blessing of induction to the new Class of 1999.

Just as much, this topic seems apropos tonight of all nights, because the theme of aging finds eloquent expression in this week’s Torah portion, which also includes the word “Chai” in its title, Chayei Sarah, meaning “the life of Sarah,” a phrase that, ironically, describes the matriarch’s death.

In short, much of this week’s parasha addresses getting old.  Sarah, the opening verse tells us, goes to her eternal rest at the age of 127 years, and we will eventually learn that Abraham, who was ten years her elder, still has another 38 years to go before he dies at the age of 175, at the end of the parasha.

What’s more, Abraham and Sarah have hardly spent their golden years in a retiring state of mind.  Their journey from their homeland begins when Abraham is 75.  Abraham was 100 and Sarah 90 when God told them to get ready for the maternity ward.  Their baby, Isaac, would grow up, only to be almost sacrificed by his father who apparently was still able-bodied enough to make a three-days journey by donkey, carry a load of firewood, and hold a knife steady enough to make God worry that he was going to go through with it.  Perhaps it is no coincidence that Sarah dies in the very first verse after the binding of Isaac, which falls at the end of last week’s portion.

In any case, a lifespan of 127 years is nothing to sneeze at. Consider that this past August, the world’s then oldest living person, Auschwitz survivor Israel Kristal, died one month shy of his 114th birthday, and the lifespan of an Abraham or a Sarah seems all-the-more remarkable.

Still, Abraham and Sarah are hardly the first, or only, biblical figures to reach old age. Here are some of the Bible’s other renowned geriatrics:  there’s Adam, who lived to 930.  Noah outlasts Adam by a full 20 years.  And Methuselah lived to 969. That’s downright ancient!

But what’s amazing is that none of these extraordinary figures is ever described with a critical Hebrew word that appears for the first time in this week’s Torah portion.

That word is zakein, which, generally speaking, means “old.”  Genesis chapter 24 begins, V’Avraham zakein, ba ba-yamim. “Abraham was old, well advanced in years…” (24:1).  The term zakein comes up again when Abraham’s own son Isaac is dying, and many times over throughout the Hebrew Bible, including at the deathbed scene of King David, which begins this week’s Haftarah:V’ha-melekh David zakein, ba ba-yamim, “King David was old, well advanced in years…” (I Kings 1:1).  David is only 70 when he dies.

So what’s the difference?  Why do we have these superannuated characters who are never called zakein, “old?”  And why do we reserve the term zakein for figures who, while possibly up there in years, still come nowhere close to the lifespan of Methuselah?

One answer is provided in a Rabbinic interpretation of zakein as referring to “a wise person who knows how to season wisdom with reason and good sense” (paraphrasing the commentary of Pinhas Kehati to Pirkei Avot, 5:21).  In other words, zakein isn’t so much about chronological age as it is about attaining the qualities of emotional and spiritual maturity.  Indeed, a popular folk etymology explains that the Hebrew word zakein is an acronym for “Zeh sh’kaneh chochmah,” meaning, “One who has acquired wisdom.”

This may explain why the Torah insists that a person who has attained the status of Zakein deserves our respect.  The Book of Leviticus instructs:  “v’hadarta p’nei zakein,” literally, “Show honor to the face of the zakein” (Lev. 19:32).  It makes sense if zakein denotes the accumulation of wisdom more than the accumulation of years.  After all, as the poet Anthony Hecht reminds us, “Merely to have survived is not an index of excellence.”  Judaism demands respect for our elders not because it’s inherently valuable to live to old age, but rather because our elders embody and transmit something invaluable to the next generation.

And so we must infer that Judaism instructs us in an attitude toward aging that combines an acceptance of time’s unrelenting advance with an openness to the possibility for intellectual stimulation, emotional growth, and spiritual evolution that each passing day brings.

In other words, when it comes to aging, attitude counts more than chronology.  Some years ago, Rabbi Pearce, whom I quoted earlier, visited a woman who was celebrating her 99th birthday. As he left, he cheerfully said, “I hope I will be able to come back next year to celebrate your 100th birthday with you.” “Why shouldn’t you?” she asked. “You look perfectly healthy to me”  (Stephen S. Pearce, “Adding Life to Years,” published on reformjudaism.org, November 6, 2017).

A science writer named David Quammen once observed, “Somewhere between the ages of thirty and forty each of us comes to the shocking realization that a lifetime is not infinite.  The world is big and rich, options are limited.  Once that dire truth has revealed itself, everything afterward becomes a matter of highly consequential choices.  Each hour of cello practice is an hour that I might have been spending rereading Dostoevski but wasn’t.  Every day of honest work is a day of lost skiing, and vice versa; every inclination is also an exclusion, every embracement is also a casting aside, every do is also a didn’t.  Then presto:  Time is up, and each didn’t goes down on the scroll as a never did.”  With something like this in mind do I imagine the Biblical Psalmist writing:  “Teach us to make our days count, so that our hearts might grow in wisdom” (Quammen, David.  The Flight of the Iguana:  A Sidelong View of Science and Nature.  New York:  Simon and Schuster, 1998.  p. 10).

The attitude toward aging that I most admire was described by Mitch Albom in his beloved book Tuesdays with Morrie:

Morrie says:

“If you’re always battling against getting older, you’re always going to be unhappy, because it will happen anyhow….  This is your time to be in your thirties. I had my time to be in my thirties, and now is my time to be 78. You have to find what’s good and beautiful in your life as it is now….

“The truth is part of me is every age. I’m a three-year-old, I’m a five-year-old, I’m a 37-year-old, I’m a 50-year-old. I’ve been through all of them and I know what it’s like. I delight in being a child, when it’s appropriate to be a child. I delight in being a wise old man when it’s appropriate to be a wise old man. Think of all I can be! I am every age up to my own… How can I be envious of where you are – when I’ve been there myself?”  (Albom, Mitch.  Tuesdays with Morrie.  New York:  Doubleday, 1997.  pp. 119-121).

And to that, dear friends, we can all say:  Amen.  

Yizkor, Yom Kippur 5778 – The Sun That Still Shines Behind The Shadow


It may happen only once or twice in a lifetime, but you don’t forget a solar eclipse.  Even from our latitude, the experience at 2:42 PM on August the 21st was chilling.  The temperature dropped; the crickets started to chirp; the world seemed illuminated as if behind a tinted glass; and, through my officially approved eyewear, I saw it plain as day:   the shadow of the moon had taken a bite out of almost three quarters of the sun, leaving behind a glowing crescent.

In that moment I understood why the ancients looked upon eclipses as terrifying omens and why the Talmud does not provide a blessing for seeing an eclipse the way it does, for instance, upon seeing a rainbow.  The sun should not set in midday.  The sustaining light of life should not fall prey to the darkness.

To be sure, science gives some comfort.  We can explain what our ancestors feared.  This was no sign of divine wrath, no aberration in the laws of God or the universe.  Quite the contrary, really:  precisely because the earth and the moon and the sun carry on in their elegant and timeworn orbits do the rare intersections cause the shadow of one to fall on the other.

Still, it was a cold and strange day, and my mind will not dispel that image of the crescent sun, or the televised image of millions of Americans who turned out for totality to stare in awe at the heavens.

Grief is like this—a shadow that comes into our lives to block out the sun.  It comes to us, it visits us, it stays with us for a while, and then it passes from us; but even when grief is gone we are changed by its having been with us.

El Malei Rachamim, the memorial prayer that we will recite in a few moments, says of our dead:  k’zohar ha-rakia mazhirim, they shine like the brilliance of the firmament.  It is an extraordinary turn of phrase, one of the most beautiful in all of Jewish liturgy.  It says so much with so little.  It reminds us that love does not die; people do; and that the light our loved ones brought into the world while they lived does not fade into darkness when they die; it shines on, brilliantly.

Even the darkness of grief does not have the power to vanquish the light of life and the radiance of love.  It will eclipse our joy for a time.  It will take a bite out of us, leaving our human heart a raw and glowing crescent.  But grief will pass and love will remain.  The goodness of the people we’ve come here to remember has left a permanent mark on us and on the world that can never be eclipsed, not even by our sorrow.

Rabbi Jack Stern of blessed memory once shared with our congregation his experience of a concert at Tanglewood where “Isaac Stern was playing Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto, and the melody sang with uncommon beauty. Suddenly, without warning, the skies darkened and the heavens broke loose. A strange sight as the man guided the bow over the strings as though without a sound, a pantomime, because all we could hear was the thunder. And then suddenly, the thunder still rumbling, above that rumbling, we could hear the magic melody of the violin.”

Judaism is wise to give us a lot of time for bereavement—seven days of shiva, a first thirty days to mourn called sheloshim, a year, give or take, for unveiling a gravestone and reciting Kaddish at yahrzeit.  We do not “get over” the death of a spouse, a parent, a sibling, a child, a friend—we “get through”—slowly, steadily.  The 23rd Psalm acknowledges as much by declaring, “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death”—there is no way around the shadow,  only through.

But there does come “a moment,” Rabbi Stern said, “when we begin to hear the melody above the storm, when the remembering of the beauty and the laughter does not cause the pain but begins to soothe it.”

In 1883, Henry James, the American novelist most famous for The Portrait of a Lady, received a distressing letter from his longtime friend Grace Norton, an essayist who had fallen into a deep depression following a death in her family.  No stranger to depression himself, and writing just months after the deaths of his own parents, James replied with some of the most compassionate words ever put to paper:

“I don’t know why we live,” he said, “—the gift of life comes to us from I don’t know what source or for what purpose; but I believe we can go on living for the reason that (always of course up to a certain point) life is the most valuable thing we know anything about and it is therefore presumptively a great mistake to surrender it while there is any yet left in the cup.”

“Sorrow comes in great waves—no one can know that better than you—but it rolls over us, and though it may almost smother us it leaves us on the spot and we know that if it is strong we are stronger, inasmuch as it passes and we remain. It wears us, uses us, but we wear it and use it in return; and it is blind, whereas we after a manner see….  [I]t is only a darkness, it is not an end, or the end.”

So we come here today, to this Yizkor service of memorial, to listen, to hear the melody above the storm, to remember the beauty that surpasses the pain, to stand as living witness to the sunlight that unfailingly shines, even behind the shadow.

K’zohar ha-rakia mazhirim.  May all our departed loved ones continue to shine like the brilliance of the firmament.  And may the light of God’s countenance ever shine upon them.  Amen.

Yom Kippur 5778: Is This A Safe Space?



SEPTEMBER 29-30, 2017

Shutterstock-Memo-Angeles-YouTube-screenshot-WWLP-22NewsFor twenty-five years I was proud to be a Lord Jeff.  This all changed last year, when I became… a Mammoth.

Let me explain.

For generations, Amherst College students and alumni proudly rallied around our unofficial but beloved mascot, the Lord Jeff.  In the 18th Century, Lord Jeffrey Amherst served as Commander-in-Chief of British forces during the French and Indian War.  With gusto we would sing our college song, “Lord Jeffrey Amherst”:

“Oh Lord Jeffrey Amherst was a soldier of the king/and he came from across the sea/To the Frenchmen and the Indians he didn’t do a thing/in the wilds of this wild country….”

Well, not exactly.

It turns out that Lord Amherst, in the course of his wartime correspondence, recommended distributing to the Native Americans blankets infested with smallpox virus.  While no one knows if his devious tactic was ever employed, Lord Jeffrey Amherst managed to distinguish himself as the granddaddy of germ warfare.

The College, like the town, will still be called “Amherst.”  But no more references to Amherst athletes or students as “Jeffs.”  No more Lord Jeffrey Inn on campus.  And definitely no more singing “Lord Jeffrey Amherst.”

According to a poll, 83% of current students viewed these references as offensive.  So a contest was held and the mascot “Mammoths” selected, because the college’s natural history museum houses a prized skeleton of a wooly mammoth.  At the end of the day, the Board decided that a mascot should unite and not divide, so purple Mammoths it is.

What happened at Amherst last year is emblematic of culture wars that have roiled campuses everywhere.

We have heard about student protests, from hunger strikes to requests for “trigger warnings” on curricula.

We learned about “microaggressions,” meaning subtle or unintentional discrimination against members of a marginalized group.  Several universities now classify the phrase “America is a melting pot” as a microaggression, along with phrases like “Everyone can succeed in society if they work hard enough” and “I believe the most qualified person should get the job,” on the grounds that such statements downplay the role of race and gender in attaining life successes.

We saw many schools abandon symbols and traditions with ties to racism, colonialism, and slavery.  Other schools underwent protracted disputes, like Princeton, which ultimately retained the name of President Woodrow Wilson on its School of Public and International Affairs, despite Wilson’s well-established white-supremacist views.

It seems that everywhere you looked this year, college students were demanding new deans and presidents, more globalized curricula, and school-endorsed “safe spaces.”

This past year, protestors at the University of Missouri linked arms in front of a “safe space” they’d formed on the quad, threatening to call the police if media—including student reporters!—didn’t back away.  At Wesleyan, students circulated a petition to cut funding for a school newspaper that ran an op-ed criticizing the Black Lives Matter movement.  The petition alleged that the school had neglected “to provide a safe space for the voices of students of color.”

Should college campuses provide “safe spaces” for their students?

Let’s hear what Judaism might have to say.  A visit to any traditional Talmudic study hall discloses that Judaism tolerates a high degree of spirited, boisterous, indeed heated debate in the service of sharpening opinions and reaching compelling conclusions.  The Talmud itself is an anthology of arguments among Rabbis.  Minority opinions are recorded alongside the majority; often the Talmud does not even make clear who “wins” the debate.  We Jews have a historically high threshold for dissonance and disagreement.

This past March, conservative political scientist Charles Murray was shouted down at Middlebury College by students and activists.  After moving his interview to another location, a violent confrontation erupted, pitting protesters against Dr. Murray and college officials.  The interview moderator was hospitalized with a concussion.

Does the demand for “safe spaces” mean that colleges have an obligation to shield students from opinions that cause discomfort?  That neglect to acknowledge a disenfranchised group’s mistreatment?

What about outright offensive or odious opinions?  Dr. Murray’s assertion in a book written almost twenty-five years ago, that intelligence is linked to race, has provoked controversy, to say the least.  Should Murray be silenced?

My own college experience informs my perspective.  When the Amherst Black Students Union supported bringing Louis Farrakhan to UMass just down the street, I engaged in a series of heated but respectful dialogues about the proposed talk.  I wrote op-eds to the student paper and enlisted the support of faculty and administration in denouncing Farrakhan’s demagoguery and notoriously anti-Semitic views.

At the end of the day, Farrakhan’s speech went forward.  And hundreds demonstrated peacefully outside.
That’s how free speech works.  In other words, we do not have a Constitutionally protected right not to be offended.

I am happy to see so many of our college students back at WRT today.  You who are on the front lines of this issue understand that college ought to expand intellectual and social horizons, not reinforce preconceived and parochial notions.  College should provide a safe space for thought, not from thought, as Salman Rushdie recently quipped.

Many of you bring heartening news that college administrations have taken seriously their commitments to do what is in their power keep students safe—safe from violence, from intimidation, from the dangers of binge drinking, from sexual assault—to the extent that any institution can regulate such matters.

But safe doesn’t always mean comfortable.  College campuses can be laboratories for intellectual inquiry and free expression.  They can also be breeding grounds for misinformation and bias.

Especially when it comes to Israel.

Over the past decade, the BDS Movement—Boycott, Divestment, & Sanctions—has proliferated.  In 2011, I led a successful effort to persuade Amherst college trustees to defeat a BDS resolution placed before them by Students for Justice in Palestine.  In a particularly disturbing example from earlier this year, students at Tufts University passed a BDS resolution on the eve of the Passover Seder, when most Jewish students were home for the holiday.

Some parents have even begun to ask me to recommend colleges to which their kids should not apply in order to avoid BDS activity.

This request, alas, I cannot oblige.

First and foremost, because BDS may not be everywhere, but it could be anywhere.

Second, because we at WRT equip our high schoolers with the confidence and knowledge required in order to speak up when confronted with pernicious speech about Israel.

If you are a high school junior or senior, I hope you will join me for this year’s “Packing for College” class on the first Wednesday of every month starting in January, where we do just this.  I also encourage all of our students and parents to take the new Campus Toolkit Handout provided by the Anti-Defamation League.

And third, because Judaism would not have us shrink from the challenges through which character is forged.

Recent events, of course, have tested the limits of my commitment to free speech.  We Jews should never take for granted that the guarantees of freedom of speech, freedom of religious expression, and freedom to organize peacefully have strengthened our American Jewish community for centuries.  We do not live like the Soviet refuseniks of my childhood, who feared that an ill-chosen comment about the government could result in a visit from the KGB and a one-way ticket to the gulag.  Jews thrive here in large measure because of America’s Constitutional guarantees to all citizens.

Still, the rise in Neo-Nazism, and the license white supremacists apparently now feel to organize and take their message to the streets, as we saw last month in Charlottesville, could give pause to even the staunchest free-speech advocate.

Of all the words written in the wake of Charlottesville, I found these, from the Newseum, a DC institution dedicated to the First Amendment, most compelling:

“Hate-propagating neo-Nazis and bottom-dwelling white supremacists—the dregs of our open society—have and should have First Amendment rights to speak and march in public.

“We need to see them for what they are:  a disappointing collection of the disaffected …often ignorant of the real meaning and history of the symbols they display, carrying torches meant as much to intimidate as to illuminate.

“We need to hear them for what they say:  advocacy of discredited ideas involving racial purity and intolerance, couched in misrepresentations of U.S. history and the American experience.

“We need to understand them for what they are:  betrayers of what President Lincoln called ‘our better angels,’ of the principles of equality, justice and the rule of law.”

Just because we grant to such groups the right to organize and speak freely does not mean that we consider their opinions valid or valuable to society.  There can be no moral equivalency between Neo-Nazis and the broad coalition of people who oppose them.  Anyone marching with a mob wearing swastikas and chanting “Jews will not replace us” has relinquished all claim to innocence.

Still, defending free speech means that we permit such ugly displays.  It does not follow, however, that we stand idly by when the torches blaze.   Is there anything more Jewish than standing up to Nazis?  This is no time for complacency.  Anti-Semitism—whether from the far left in the form of BDS, or from the far-right in the form of Neo-Nazism—demands a consistent and firm response.

Understanding how we Jews have been affected by anti-Semitism may stir our empathy for others who stand with us against hatred and bigotry.

Think of how you feel when you see a swastika and you may have an inkling how African-Americans feel when they see a Confederate flag.  Both were symbols of hate and violent subjugation flown by regimes with the military power to back up their intentions.

Although we Jews have benefited from free speech and should join in its defense, it does not logically follow that we should support enshrining all symbols in public, particularly Confederate flags and monuments which were erected predominantly in the 20th century as emblems of white resistance to black social advancement and civil rights.

Defenders of racial inequality under the banner of “Southern heritage” are welcome to voice their views, as is their right.  But public spaces should not be used to glorify their narrative.  If we put ourselves in another’s shoes, given everything we know about anti-Semitism, we can understand why a public Confederate shrine may not feel like a “safe space” for millions of Americans.

You know, we actually have a familiar English word that means “safe space.”  That word is “sanctuary.”  For almost thirteen centuries, English law recognized the church as a safe space to which fugitives could flee and obtain immunity from arrest.  Later the term “sanctuary” would apply to political asylum, and even today a burgeoning “sanctuary movement” has grown in houses of worship, to provide safe haven for immigrants fearing deportation.

All this begs the question:  as we sit here, in our beautiful sanctuary, on the holiest day of the year, is this a “safe space?”

The past year highlighted the vulnerability of Jewish institutions.  In the wake of bomb threats to JCCs and synagogues across the country, and a climate of rising anti-Semitism at home and abroad, WRT undertook a comprehensive audit of our security practices, from personnel to procedures to infrastructure.  Volunteer leaders and professionals collaborated to upgrade temple security, a decision we consider a wise and important investment in our spiritual home, especially for our children.

So I would love to stand here today and vow that you will always be safe here at Westchester Reform Temple.

But you know that I cannot make this promise.  We live in an era where no one can guarantee freedom from harm or loss, terror or violence.  In the wake of hurricanes and earthquakes, in the omnipresent shadow of bloodshed at home and abroad, we read with new eyes the verse from Unetaneh Tokef:  “We who are mortal—our origin is dust, and so is our end….  [We are] like broken vessels, like withered grass, like a flower that must fade.…”  Even the safest space offers limited protection.

All we can do is do our best to provide for your physical, emotional, and spiritual wellbeing.  No matter your age or stage of life, no matter your ethnic or religious background, no matter your skin color, gender, sexual orientation, financial means, employment, or ability, we want you to participate fully in the life of this congregation, because WRT is your home.

The sanctuary in Jewish tradition has changed over time.  In the Torah, the sanctuary was the innermost shrine of the Tabernacle, housing the Ark of the Covenant, where the Israelites communed with their God.  It is called Kodesh Ha-Kodashim—literally, the “Holy of Holies.”  Fittingly, sanctuary comes from a Latin root meaning not “safe” but “holy.”

According to the Talmud, the Kodesh Ha-Kodashim was a private chamber where no person ever set foot—save for one man, on one day of the year.  On Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, the Kohen Gadol, the High Priest, would enter the sanctuary and whisper the secret name of God.

But even that sanctuary could not remain a safe space forever.  In the year 70, Roman battalions burned it to the ground, leaving a ruined platform above the Western Wall, the last vestige of the Temple compound.

The ultimate “safe space” in Jewish tradition had proved vulnerable.

A different kind of structure served Jewish communities in the wake of its destruction.  Unlike the shrine in Jerusalem, these were not called “sanctuaries”; at first, they weren’t even considered particularly holy.

They were known as synagogues, from Greek words meaning “place of assembly.”  In Hebrew, this becomes Beit Knesset.

Do you get the difference between a sanctuary and a Beit Knesset?  The sanctuary was off-limits to all but one man, all days of the year save for one, and even then, to speak but one word—barely audibly.

Today’s sanctuary is a true Beit K’nesset.  It is a house of assembly, a home for many voices.  We rabbis and cantors are not High Priests.  Our voices frame WRT’s mission and our spiritual direction, but ours are not the only voices that matter here.  We need your voices here.

Will this conversation provide a safe space for you?  

If by “safe space,” you mean a place where divergent viewpoints are considered valid, welcome, and deserving of respect—absolutely.  In this Beit Knesset, this house of assembly, this home of many voices, we will always make time to listen to dissenting opinions.  That means if you wish to disagree with one another, or with us clergy, so long as you do so respectfully and in the spirit of Jewish debate, then our sanctuary will always be a safe space.

It just might not always be a comfortable space.

Truth be told, Judaism has never guaranteed comfort, especially not on Yom Kippur.  Fasting, praying, refraining from all physical pleasure—all these add up to a pretty uncomfortable day.  (You can add “sermon length” to the list of afflictions.)

As for sermon topics, I want to state plainly that we clergy, taking our cue from centuries of Jewish practice, view our remarks as an opportunity to teach Torah and Jewish values, and to frame the important events of our time through a Jewish lens.

While never seeking to use the pulpit to advance partisan politics, you should expect that, in this Beit Knesset, we will continue to speak about how the Jewish tradition would have us respond to the pressing issues of our day.

We are bound to disagree from time to time.  That’s Jewish!  But we will never stop the conversation.

Here, we will speak about the environment, natural disaster, and the opportunities and threats wrought by human innovation and technology, because ethical stewardship of the natural world begins in the first chapter of Genesis and continues throughout all of Jewish tradition.

We will talk about our commitment to Israel, especially in her 70th year of independence which we will celebrate this spring.  We will continue to advocate for the right of all Israeli citizens to enjoy equal treatment under the law.  And we will speak about our relationship with the Palestinians, because Judaism has never considered us responsible only for our fellow Jews.

We will talk about genocide, racism, women’s issues, domestic abuse, inclusion of people who live with disabilities, and issues facing the LGBTQ community, because the Torah teaches time and again that we know the heart of the oppressed, having been oppressed ourselves in the land of Egypt.

We will talk about war, public safety, gun violence, global hunger, health care, and pandemic disease, because no mitzvah matters more than the preservation of life.

We will talk about wealth distribution and income inequality, because the Torah and the Prophets never shy away from addressing the complex relationships between people who have more and people who have less.

We will not be afraid to talk about Islamic terrorism, and we will not shy away from talking about Islamophobia, because Judaism and Jews do not exist in a vacuum—we exist in relationship with our neighbors, our allies, our enemies, and other faith traditions.

And, in this Beit Knesset, we will continue to talk about compassionate treatment of the world’s most vulnerable, including immigrants and refugees, because no Jewish value finds more passionate expression in all our literature and history.

This is what it means to study Torah, to promote Judaism, and to live in sacred community.  It means that we take a safe space and make it holy:  a true sanctuary.

To that end, please join us Sunday morning for our annual community Sukkah build.  I’ll be on hand to schmooze with you, to hear your feedback, and to continue the conversation about today’s sermon, and I would love to see you.  The Sukkah itself will provide the ultimate emblem of the “big tent” of ideas and people that WRT always aspires to be.

Until then, I will not conclude by wishing you “an easy fast,” as is traditional.  I will, of course, wish you a safe fast, because Judaism says that life and health come first.  But easy?  No.

I will instead pray that the fast we undertake today will unite us in our shared discomfort, inspire us to lessen the discomfort of others, and bring us closer to the God in whom the innumerable voices of the human family become One.