Persistence in Resistance to Tyranny: Sermon for Shabbat Va’era, 5786

Delivered at Westchester Reform Temple, Scarsdale, New York

Friday, January 16, 2026

Shabbat Shalom!

My remarks tonight take up the theme of “persistence in resistance to tyranny” and are composed in line with what the 20th-century Christian theologian (and outspoken critic of the Nazis) Karl Barth once said: that “a sermon should have the Bible in one hand and a newspaper in the other.”  

Wherever you get your news—and I hope you’re getting it from as many different and credible sources as you can—one could easily conclude that we live in unprecedented times, for the sheer volume and diversity of soul-wrenching issues before us.  How, then, to choose among this week’s headlines alone, from Mississippi to Minnesota to Iran?  I could take up any one in depth and keep you here until Tu Bishevat or, try something novel: take up all of them together and make my point in 10 minutes.  You will be relieved to learn that I have endeavored in the direction of the latter.

I begin with a challenge to my own claim that we are living in unprecedented times, a statement which, given the nature of time and change, could be accurately claimed at any moment in human history.  But I refute it in the spirit of Kohelet, whose opening chapter of the Book also known as Ecclesiastes, memorably records:

Only that shall happen

That has happened,

Only that occur

That has occurred;

There is nothing new

Beneath the sun!

(Eccl. 1:9)

“Nothing new beneath the sun,” indeed.  For what we witness this week—from Mississippi to Minnesota to Iran—has been seen before, and that takes us to the verses we have heard from the Torah reading for this Shabbat, Parashat Va’era.  To set the stage, Va’era marks the stunning turning point in the narrative of Israelite bondage, when God responds to the suffering of the slaves and, with Moses as messenger, begins their liberation.

To Moses God declares, “Say, therefore, to the Israelites: I am Adonai. I will deliver you from the hardship of the Egyptians and save you from their bondage. I will redeem you with an outstretched arm and through extraordinary judgments.  I will take you to be My people, and I will be your God….  I will bring you to the land which I swore to give to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, and give it to you for an inheritance, I, Adonai” (Ex. 6:5-8).

It is what happens immediately after this inspirational charge that particularly interests us now:  

וַיְדַבֵּ֥ר מֹשֶׁ֛ה כֵּ֖ן אֶל־בְּנֵ֣י יִשְׂרָאֵ֑ל וְלֹ֤א שָֽׁמְעוּ֙ אֶל־מֹשֶׁ֔ה מִקֹּ֣צֶר ר֔וּחַ וּמֵעֲבֹדָ֖ה קָשָֽׁה׃

“But when Moses told this to the Israelites, they would not listen to Moses, their spirits crushed by brutal slavery.”  Or, literally, “they would not listen to Moses, out of shortness of breath and brutal slavery.” (Ex. 6:9).  Tyranny takes your breath away.  It suffocates the body and stifles the spirit.  

Consider what this passage teaches us about the natural response of people to oppression and brutality; the effect on body and breath, flesh and spirit, of trauma and terror, whether brought upon human beings by literal tyrants, or lone wolf terrorists, or states acting with unrestricted power to menace the weak with not only the threat but also the use of violence against the defenseless.  

In a sense, the arsonist who incinerated a Reform Temple with its Torah scrolls in Jackson, Mississippi, the arsonist who tried the same in this week in Germany, the armed ICE officers who have maimed and killed civilians, and the Islamic Revolutionary Guardsmen who mowed down protesters by the thousands on the other side of the world, may have acted from starkly different motivations in different settings and circumstances, but the intended effect on their victims, and on us who sympathize with their victims, is one and the same:  to make it impossible to breathe.  To crush not just body but spirit.

Moreover, we learn from Torah—in the very next verse—that the effect is often contagious, afflicting not just the masses but also their Moses.  “The Israelites would not listen to me,” he says to God in panic; “how then should Pharaoh heed me, me—who gets tongue-tied!” (Ibid, v. 10)  

This, too, strikes a chord as old as time: even leaders, in the face of unrelenting brutality, may, for a time, lose heart, lose hope, lose their way.  It happened to Moses.  It happened, it seems important to note on this weekend of all weekends, to MLK.  In his 1958 book Stride Toward Freedom: The Montgomery Story, King recounts a personal crisis during the Montgomery Bus Boycott in January 1956, after receiving a late-night threatening phone call amid ongoing violence and intimidation. Sitting alone at his kitchen table, King poured out his despair:

“I am here taking a stand for what I believe is right. But now I am afraid. The people are looking to me for leadership, and if I stand before them without strength and courage, they too will falter. I am at the end of my powers. I have nothing left. I’ve come to the point where I can’t face it alone.”

In some sermons where he retold this experience, he phrased it similarly: “Lord, I’m down here trying to do what’s right… But Lord, I must confess that I’m weak now, I’m faltering. I’m losing my courage. Now, I am afraid… And I can’t let the people see me like this because if they see me weak and losing my courage, they will begin to get weak.”  It’s a mutually reinforcing cycle of despair.  That’s what tyranny does to the spirit, to freedom movements everywhere. 

King’s hour of despair had its own precedents: Moses, of course, but also Frederick Douglass, who spoke of his brutal treatment under the slave-breaker Edward Covey:

“Mr. Covey succeeded in breaking me. I was broken in body, soul, and spirit. My natural elasticity was crushed, my intellect languished, the disposition to read departed, the cheerful spark that lingered about my eye died; the dark night of slavery closed in upon me; and behold a man transformed into a brute!” (Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, An American Slave (1845), p. 63)

After the 1892 lynching of three close friends in Memphis, and facing death threats that forced her to flee to the North, the great activist and journalist Ida B. Wells Barnett said:  “I felt like one banished from home and friends… The shock was so great that for weeks I could neither eat nor sleep.”  In her diaries, Wells recounts periods of deep discouragement and loneliness in her solitary quest, feeling the burden of apathy and inadequate support from the Black community and allies.  

“There is nothing new under the sun.”

Of course the Torah portion, and, moreover, the Jewish story, does not end with Moses in retreat or defeat.  Because our God does not back down from a setback; does not give up in the face of human error and evil, no matter how great or how grave.  Our God does something extraordinary in the next verse:  God summons for Moses a lifeline:  Aaron, his brother, his mouthpiece, his ally and supporter. He adds breath to the short of breath.  God reminds Moses—and us—that in the face of terror and tyranny, we never need go it alone, no matter how lonely the work may feel.  And so, arm in arm, and breath adding to breath, the brothers press on, and the great and violent confrontation with Pharaoh begins that will, by the end of next week’s portion, lead to liberation.

I read today’s passage and think about the passage of time and travail for our people and for hurting people everywhere.  People short of breath and crushed in spirit.  I wonder what this passage meant to the Jews living in Babylonian exile, or under Roman occupation, to our ancestors expelled from Spain or forced into the ghettoes and the camps.  

I wonder, too, what message this passage might offer us, in today’s frightening America, in this strange and fractured world that has just crossed over the threshold of 2026 to welcome a year shrouded in anxiety and uncertainty.

I wonder, and I remember that, through it all, ours is a God who does not give up on humanity, and that we are a people who don’t give up on God’s children, either.

Shabbat Shalom

CALVES TO THE LEFT OF ME, HEIFERS TO THE RIGHT

Sermon for SHABBAT KI TISA / SHUSHAN PURIM 5785 – Friday, March 14, 2025

Westchester Reform Temple, Scarsdale, New York

The old Purim custom of drowning out the name of Haman comes to mind as I speak to you this evening about Mahmoud Khalil, the recent Columbia University graduate and protest-movement leader whose name has dominated the press, especially the Jewish press, over the last week.  

As with Haman, I wish I could have stamped out the name Mahmoud Khalil, denied him media attention, prevented him from becoming a cause celebre, deprived his admirers a martyr to lionize, but rabbis do not get to choose the headlines any more than we get to choose parashat ha-shavua, the Torah portion of the week, so let’s consider ours for a moment and then return to the curious case of Mr. Khallil.

The portion Ki Tisa frames the most ignominious episode in the story of the Israelite people:  their dalliance with idolatry in the form of a golden calf.  Moses has disappeared up Mount Sinai while God inscribes for him the Law on two tablets of stone.  As days wear on into weeks, the people at the foot of the mountain grow anxious and restless and press Moses’s surrogate, his brother Aaron, saying:

ק֣וּם ׀ עֲשֵׂה־לָ֣נוּ אֱלֹהִ֗ים אֲשֶׁ֤ר יֵֽלְכוּ֙ לְפָנֵ֔ינוּ כִּי־זֶ֣ה ׀ מֹשֶׁ֣ה הָאִ֗ישׁ אֲשֶׁ֤ר הֶֽעֱלָ֙נוּ֙ מֵאֶ֣רֶץ מִצְרַ֔יִם לֹ֥א יָדַ֖עְנוּ מֶה־הָ֥יָה לֽוֹ׃

“Get up and make us a god who will go before us, for this man, Moses, who brought us out of Egypt—we do not know what has happened to him” (Ex. 32:1).

Aaron—disturbingly, without hesitation—complies.  The men cast off their gold and Aaron casts it into an icon well known in both Egyptian and Canaanite society—the bull or calf associated with power and fertility.  The people cavort around their sacred cow, offering sacrifices, feasting and dancing, and even exclaiming, 

… אֵ֤לֶּה אֱלֹהֶ֙יךָ֙ יִשְׂרָאֵ֔ל אֲשֶׁ֥ר הֶעֱל֖וּךָ מֵאֶ֥רֶץ מִצְרָֽיִם׃

“This is your god, O Israel, who brought you out of the land of Egypt!” (Ex. 32:4, cf. also 32:8).

Needless to say, things do not go well for these Israelites, and to this day the phrase “golden calf” can refer to any form of idolatry, overt or covert.  On this matter, I found the Encyclopedia Britannica’s entry on idolatry illuminating: “Gross, or overt, idolatry consists of explicit acts of reverence addressed to a person or an object—the sun, the king, an animal, a statue…. A person becomes guilty of a more subtle idolatry, however, when, although overt acts of adoration are avoided, he attaches to a creature [or any thing, or even an idea] the confidence, loyalty, and devotion that properly belong only to the Creator.”

Because we are human, we are all susceptible to these “more subtle” idolatries.  And in this era of bitter partisanship, I worry that we are especially susceptible to the fetishes of our respective political camps.  

On the left we have an idolatry that worships powerlessness and victimhood as virtues, that, in its most extreme expressions, justifies and even glorifies any act of terror, any rhetoric of violence, no matter how depraved, making the condemnable commendable—so long as it is espoused or perpetrated in the name of a group perceived to be “oppressed.”  

In this form of idolatry, recent headliners like Luigi Mangione, who stands accused of murdering a healthcare executive in cold blood, and Mahmoud Khalil, the protestor at the center of this week’s news, become golden calves—icons worshipped as gods, paragons of the right and the good.

Lest we pile on the left to the exclusion of other idolatries, let it be known that the right has its fair share of golden calves as well, including the fetishization of order and authority, of traditional notions of masculinity and strength, of so-called “traditional family values,” of racial purity and historical narratives that play fast and loose with the truth.  Take, for instance, the myth of the “Southern Gentleman” as a model of chivalry which of course obfuscates the brutal truth of slavery and the aims of the Confederacy, for starters.

It seems to me that the idolatries of both the left and the right have collided in the curious case of Mahmoud Khalil, leading me to conclude that both are wrong.  I have found company in an article by Yale Law professor Jed Rubenfeld, published this Wednesday by The Free Press.  It is called “Both Right and Left Are Wrong About Mahmoud Khalil,” followed by the subtitle, “Anyone who says the law is obvious here is not telling the truth.”

To recap the facts of the case as we know them:  Khalil, having recently graduated from Columbia University, played a leading role in the virulent anti-Israel protests there, acting as spokesperson and negotiator for a group called CUAD—Columbia University Apartheid Divest—which describes itself as “fighting for the total eradication of Western civilization,” and which, since October 7th, has mobilized the erection of the encampments and the takeover of several buildings on campus.  “Khalil was suspended from Columbia last April for his participation in the protests, but the school reversed his suspension the next day. Arrested on March 8, Khalil is currently being detained in Louisiana. On March 10, a federal judge in New York stayed his deportation pending a hearing.”

Rubenfeld continues:

The administration has not yet definitively stated its legal grounds for deporting Khalil, but a federal statute, the Immigration and Nationality Act, says that aliens—even those who, like Khalil, have green cards—can be deported if they “espouse or endorse terrorist activity.” It also permits deportation on the basis of an alien’s beliefs or statements if the Secretary of State determines that the alien’s continued presence here “would compromise a compelling United States foreign policy interest.”

The rest of the article is a difficult but rewarding read, and I commend it to you.  The thrust of the piece is that if Khalil were a US citizen, the matter would be more or less straightforward, as Rubenfeld makes clear:  “Political opinion, no matter how abhorrent, is protected speech in America.  Expressing support for even the sickest terrorist butchers, like Hamas, is protected speech.”  

“But,”—and this is critical—“he’s not a citizen. His green card makes him a lawful permanent resident, but he’s still an alien. Thus the real question is whether, or when, or to what extent aliens have the same constitutional rights as citizens. Unfortunately for both left and right,” Rubenfeld advises, “the answer is complicated.”

I’ve made the whole article available as a handout which you can take as you leave the sanctuary this evening.  The point I wish to emphasize is how our golden calves, our idolatries—our ideological sacred cows and shibboleths, amplified by the most extreme voices in our respective echo chambers—blind us from seeing “the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”  

In the case of Khalil, loud voices on both the left and the right have adopted predictable positions in line with their ideological fixations.  The right, enamored with the perceived strength of the current administration in its standing up to antisemitic bullying, sees in Khalil a Jew-hating provocateur and terrorist sympathizer who is simply getting what he had coming to him.  

The left—not only reflexively sympathetic to the Palestinian cause, but also reflexively antagonistic to anything the current administration says or does—sees in Khalil an avatar of resistance to an administration that overreaches in silencing its opponents.  

Both camps are participating in the shared preoccupation du jour, what my friend Rabbi Jeff Salkin calls “aerobic offense” — working ourselves up into a frenzy over the latest outrage, day after day. Both have fallen into a seductive, whirling dance around their own camp’s ideological golden calf: the core beliefs that dominate each one’s echo chamber and which keep each camp from apprehending the whole truth.  

One of my favorite Jewish authors and public intellectuals, Jay Michaelson, responding to the fracas over Khalil, has this to add:

“On the Left, rushing to pull the fascist fire alarm every single time will lead to a boy-who-cried-wolf exhaustion on the one hand, and a flattening of anti-democratic offenses on the other.  On the Right, supporting the deportation of an unpopular (to the Right) individual is, to me self-evidently, extremely unwise and imprudent, not to mention anti-democratic and illiberal.”

Seeking truth, in all its messiness and complexity, is, I suppose, perennially unpopular, especially compared to the cheap satisfactions of “being right” or sticking it to one’s ideological opponents.  

Were either camp to distance themselves from the golden calves of their own dogmas, the left might take a moment to reflect that making a hero of a virulent antisemite who harassed and intimidated Jews on their own campus is bad, not just for the Jews but for all people; and the right would be wise to recognize that depriving anyone of due process—even a green-card holder—is bad news for every American, not only their ideological opponents.  Capital-T Truth encompasses both of these small-t truths.

And so, the Talmud affirms:  חוֹתָמוֹ שֶׁל הַקָּדוֹשׁ בָּרוּךְ הוּא ״אֱמֶת״ — “The seal of the Holy One is Truth” (Shabbat 55a). God’s essence, God’s name—so to speak—is Truth:  the ultimate and all-encompassing reality, which necessarily embraces ideological complexity and even contradiction.  

It may be easier to stay within our camps and dance around our golden calves.  We did it back then and do it today.  But the One whose seal is Truth summons us back to the mountain where true Torah is found.

Shabbat Shalom!

Israel Travelogue: Week of November 10-15, 2024

Monday, November 11th, 2024
10 Heshvan 5785
Veterans’ Day 

Dear WRT Family, 

On Kol Nidre I referred to Medieval Christian maps that would portray Jerusalem as Omphalos Mundi, “the navel of the world.” 

If so, The Temple Mount, with its Western Wall below—holiest shrine in Judaism—and Al Aqsa Mosque and Dome of the Rock above—holiest shrines in Israel for Muslims—is the “navel of Jerusalem.”
 
This morning our Westchester Jewish Council (WJC) Multi-Faith Clergy Delegation visited these holy sites—as tourists, but also as spiritual leaders who recognize that in today’s fractured world, there are still places that loom large and centrally in the imaginations of millions of people of faith, and which summon us to live for a noble purpose: to serve God and humankind. 

On this mount (Mount Moriah by name), Jewish tradition tells us Abraham bound his son Isaac. The passage can be found in this week’s Torah portion, Vayera (see Genesis Chapter 22). (Islamic tradition tells the same basic story but has Ibrahim (Abraham) nearly sacrificing Ismail (Ishmael).). I heard a Bar Mitzvah boy chanting this portion at the Kotel as I paused there to pray, followed by singing and dancing with his family on the nearby plaza. 

The same mythical location that inspires us to nobility, sacrificial service, and joyful observance of our traditions is also associated with acts of religious extremism and even violence. The holy site is often a flashpoint for religious tensions and provocations.
 
But this morning, Jerusalem is at peace, and we give thanks. May God continue to spread a shelter of peace over us, over Jerusalem, and over the hurting human family.

 
Tuesday, November 12th, 2024
11 Heshvan 5785

Dear WRT Family, 

Today our Westchester Jewish Council (WJC) multi-faith delegation spent part of the morning at the Max Rayne Yad b’Yad (Hand in Hand) Jerusalem School, one of six bilingual, bi-cultural schools (elementary through high school) in Israel where Jewish and Palestinian-Arab Israelis learn together in Hebrew-Arabic classes with paired Arab and Jewish teachers, dual holiday observances, and a unique curriculum designed to foster dialogue and listening between disparate cultures and lived realities. 

We met with Noor, who is a spokesperson for Yad b’Yad (pictured with our group, and with me), an Arab woman who grew up in Israel and who interacted with her first Jewish person at age 19. Asked about how the school, and especially the students, have responded to the horror of October 7th and the ensuing brutal war, Noor shared that the philosophy of Yad b’Yad is that through sustained, painful dialogue, what seems impossible can become possible. The hard work of building commonality across a chasm of difference begins with sharing personal and family stories and listening intentionally to another person’s pain.
 
Unfortunately, very few Israelis — Jewish or Arab — are exposed to this mixed-learning environment. The vast majority of Israelis attend separate schools for Jewish kids and Arab kids. And by high school, most of the Jewish kids transfer out, while Arab students remain at Yad b’Yad (largely because the quality of the academic program exceeds what is available to most Arab youth in Israel). 
Nevertheless, the families who began this bold project 26 years ago led from a vision of a different future for their children. As is written in this week’s Torah portion, “On the mountain of the Eternal, there is vision” (Genesis 22:14). They remind us that with vision, we can move from the way things are to the way they ought to be. Yad b’Yad offers a small glimmer of hope in the darkness. 

Wednesday, November 13th, 2024
12 Heshvan 5785

Dear WRT Family, 

The Torah portion we are studying this week—Parashat Vayera (Genesis 18:1-22:24)—begins with Divine messengers visiting Abraham’s tent days after the covenantal circumcision of the males of his household. The Rabbis read into this passage the mitzvah of bikkur cholim, visiting the sick. It is a Jewish imperative to give comfort to the ailing, the wounded, and the bereaved. The Babylonian Talmud (Sotah 14) understands all of these compassionate behaviors as ways of emulating the Divine. That’s the best way I can make sense of our visit, this morning, to Ofakim and the Nova Festival site, two of the many targets of the Hamas massacre of October 7th. 

Ofakim, a sleepy city about 35 km from the Gaza border, lost more than 50 of its residents, and 364 individuals were murdered in cold blood at the Nova festival. Taken together, the victims of these two sites represent about 1/3 of the people slaughtered by Hamas on October 7th. It is hard to describe the feelings of numb rage and mute sorrow that accompanied our visit this morning. From what I could tell, we were the only American visitors to the site, a small cluster of pastors and rabbis who nodded silently to the many IDF soldiers there to pay their respects to their murdered friends, family, and fellow citizens.
 
What little comfort I found in making pilgrimage to what has become Israel’s “Ground Zero” of sacred remembrance came from the same Talmudic passage referenced above, which also observes that a person who visits someone who is ailing “takes away 1/60 of that person’s suffering.” “One sixtieth” is an idiomatic way of describing “the smallest measurable portion.”

It’s a passage I take seriously, if not literally. I have seen time and again how simply showing up for people in pain—whether through a hospital visit, or a shiva call, or, indeed, this trip to Israel—can alleviate a tiny bit of suffering. 

Just a little. 

The smallest measurable portion. 

May God comfort those who mourn and bring consolation to the broken-hearted. 



Thursday, November 14th, 2024
13 Heshvan 5785

Dear WRT Family, 

The faces of the hostages and the murdered stare back at you from every street corner and park bench in Tel Aviv. 

We’re here, in the cosmopolitan heart of Israel, for the last day of our mission, and the pictures I’ve included below were all taken within a 5-foot radius from Rothschild Boulevard, one of Tel Aviv’s main arteries and the home of Beit HaAtzma’ut, Independence Hall, where David Ben Gurion declared Israel’s independence in May 1948. That’s the squat building with the torn-up façade behind a spiderweb of scaffolding. It’s been “under construction” for several years now, but the sad truth is that the project has been mismanaged, has run out of money, and remains in limbo. Directly across the street from this monumentally significant building (in such a monumental state of disarray), the face of 25-year old Eden Yerushalmi (z”l) murdered in a tunnel beneath Gaza in August—whose body was recovered in the arms of fellow captive Hersh Polin (z”l)—implores the reader, Remember me, ok? 



I imagine the two are in dialogue with each other: the symbol of Israeli independence—battered and gutted but still standing—and the face of a murdered hostage, each imploring the other: Remember me, ok?

At the end of this week’s Torah portion, Vayera, God promises Abraham:

“I will bless you, making your descendants as numerous as the stars of the heavens and the sand upon the shore of the sea, and your descendants shall seize the gates of their foes” (Genesis 22:17). 
That promise—like our unfinished Beit HaAtzma’ut, House of Independence—is still a work in progress, still being built (and rebuilt), with great struggle and sacrifice.
 
But here, even now, Am Yisrael Chai: the people of Israel lives. 
Rabbi Jonathan E. Blake