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With the permission of the distinguished faculty, staff, parents and guests here today, I would like to address my students.

A little over 3000 years ago Moses received the Torah at Mount Sinai, tradition teaches. He passed the Torah on to his student Joshua. Joshua passed it on to his students, and so on and so forth. This tradition remains unbroken until today.

In 1999 when I was around your age, I received this Chumash from my teachers and parents. It even has a dedication sticker from my parents – this too is an ancient tradition.

At the time I wondered if one day I too would have the opportunity to pass on this tradition. 

Today, talmidai hayekarim, my precious students, on behalf of myself, your teachers, and your families, we are passing on the tradition to you. 

It’s a little bit scary for me – I love the Torah. I love the Chumash. It guides so much of how I live my life as a Jewish citizen of the world, both in how I strive to uphold and struggle with it. 

But it’s time for me – and all of the adults sitting here – to place this book in your hands. We are giving you Chumash books that you have been using all year and will continue to use. Because this is not a degree or a trophy that sits on a shelf. It is an item meant to be used. While we look forward to your bright futures, we are also celebrating all the things you have already accomplished.

Talmidai, I bless you. I bless you to read it. To think about it. To ask questions about it. To comment on it. And to expand it. 

You are here today because we trust you with this precious gift and this weighty responsibility. 

$1 in 1999, when I received my Chumash, is equal to $1.91 today. That means the worth of a dollar went up by 91%. I believe that the Torah that has been learned since 1999 has also increased at least that much. And I hope and believe that, not long from now, the Torah – your Torah – will also continue to increase even more.

The theme of the year is Hachnasat Orchim, welcoming guests. This year we have an extra Chumash, belonging to a student from Israel who came here after October 7th. He didn’t have space to take back the Chumash and he has plenty at home, so this will stay here with you as a memento both of the real life Hachnasat Orchim you got to do, as well as in memory of everything from Israel that we have held with us this year.

Chaverim, we have spent this year learning so much about this Chumash. And I have been so impressed with the thoughtfulness and Kavod, Honor, you have shown for it. So now I ask you to introduce your new Chumash to your parents or families. 

Be a tour guide. I’m going to ask you to show them 2 or 3 things you learned or noticed about this Chumash, and think of 1 or 2 things about the Chumash that you are curious about.

Because even if your parents know the Chumash, they don’t know your Chumash. 

I will give you all a few minutes to do this activity, after which we can take a few brief comments from the audience about what you showed them. 

B’hatzlacha! Good luck!

Parshat Noach contains the most important shift in the Torah.

The Torah starts with a universal story; a universal ethic. 

There is the story of the Creation of the entire universe, the creation of all of humankind. The stories of Adam & Eve, of Noah, are stories that are relevant to everyone. We have the table of nations — all nations. The Torah gives a folk history of where things we know of come from. We learn that a man named Yuval was the father of music. Tubal Cain invented copper and iron. Enosh was the first one to believe in some sort of God. These are things that apply to everyone.

With each passing generation the same formulation is used:
“A lives 100 years and “gave birth to sons and daughters. And the sons of A were B, C, and D, and A died. B lived 100 years and gave birth to sons and daughters. Ane the sons of B were E, F, and G and he died.” Many, many times.

Until Avrahm. At the very end of Noah we are told that Terah gave birth to three sons and died. One of those sons is Avram, Abraham. And we do not just skip to Abraham’s son. The Torah now begins to tells us the story of Abraham, his wife Sarah, and their travels and experiences. 

There is a whittling down. We start with the whole world, and now we zoom in on one family. This family is the origin of the Jewish People, from Abraham and Sarah. Because, after all, the Torah is really our story. We start with the story of the whole world because we care about the world and are a part of it. But it only takes two Parshas before we zoom in on our story.

And that makes sense. As a Jewish person, that’s what I’m most interested in, religiously speaking.

Everyone does that. The Babylonian creation myth, Enuma Elish, actually starts off extremely similar to Sefer Breishit, and then goes on to tell the story of the Babylonians. It is a logical and natural human reaction to care about your own story.

Which is why it is both shocking and perverse when people abandon their own stories, their own people. It defies human nature.

It’s bad enough that the day after 1500 Jews were so viciously and brutally slaughtered that people were in the streets of Chicago, New York, and London cheering and celebrating this as “resistance.” Some people are bad and that’s always going to be a part of the human condition. I’m sure this is not news to anyone here.

It is beyond reprehensible that so many of the people not just part of these pro-terrorist demonstrations but leading them are Jews. The day after 1500 Jews were slaughtered, some Jews, part of organizations such as “Jewish Voices for Peace” and “If Not Now,” instead of checking on their friends and family, as we were all doing, instead of mourning, instead of sitting with their own people in grief, went out to the streets to cheer on the “resistance”. 

It is SHAMEFUL that this week these Jeiwsh groups held a gathering in the Capitol in Washington to call for a ceasefire. Could you imagine Jews in 1941 gathering in Washington to protest America invading Europe to stop the Nazis? Could you imagine? Never! A cease fire means that it is OK that Jews were murdered, and there is no reason for Hamas not to do it again, God Save Us. Especially since there are 210 confirmed hostages still in Gaza! A ceasefire?! So we can leave our brothers and sisters, our children and grandmothers, to be tortured, become sex slaves, and killed! Are you kidding me?!

Which is why what gives me hope right now is seeing Jews embrace our story. 

These past two weeks we continued learning Torah, Hebrew, and Praying, while keeping Israel in our minds, hearts and prayers. Amidst all of the unimaginable pain and destruction, knowing I can't do anything concrete to help Israel on-the-ground, I have taken much solace in doing a small part in educating the next generation of Jewish leaders. I don't know if my students fully comprehend it now, but they will one day, that the best thing we can do here, right now, is learn the Hebrew language. Learn the Torah. Show up in synagogue. Teach our values. Kids showing up in school and learning Hebrew is an act of radical resistance. Us showing up here today in synagogue is an act of radical resistance. עם הנצח לא מפחד מדרך ארוכה - the eternal nation is not afraid of the long road ahead. Because while, tragically, there are 1500 fewer Jews who live and speak the language of the Jewish People alive in these two weeks, we are already rebuilding in our classrooms, synagogues, and institutions of Jewish education. 

Times are tough. Someone asked me recently what’s one thing that’s giving me hope right now, and I said the power of community. I’ve seen the Jewish community across Chicago and the world really come together. Republicans and Democrats, Likud and Labor, Orthodox and Reform, putting politics aside to stand together. Wow. That is hope. That is Messianic even. In what other context are Trump supporters and progressive Democrats standing together? We have a community like none other.

Because we know our story. We love our story and we love our people. For the 99% of Jews who are a part of this story — it is a time of hope.

This past summer I went to a fascinating talk by Rabbi Dr. Rob Jury, Director of the Tikvah Center, a place for rehab and recovery from substance abuse on the northshore. Which, by the way, I highly recommend if you or someone you know is struggling with addiction. Rabbi Jury was presenting to a group of rabbis about the Tikvah Center, and he said something so profound that I had to write it down because I knew I wanted to share it on Yom Kippur.

He said that at the Tikvah Center “we don’t hold you accountable for the illness, we hold you accountable for following the treatment plan.” He was referring to the illness of addiction, but it applies to so many more circumstances. 

Sin is actually compared to illness. In Isaiah it says “they will return, and be healed.” Returning from sin, Teshuva, is a form of healing. The Talmud understands this verse as saying that real Teshuva, repentance, is after sin. Just like you can’t be healed before you are sick, so too you can’t do Teshuva until you sin. 

I believe this is because, if we were of right mind, why would we sin? If we sin, something must be wrong. And I would like to actually substitute the word “sin” right now for “poor choices.” Sometimes we make poor choices. Because we are not of right mind, and we need to heal. 

Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about the phrase “Kol Hamerachem Al HaBriyot, Merachamin Alav Min HaShamayim”. All who have mercy on others, God will have mercy on them. It’s about extended people grace; the benefit of the doubt. Patience. Understanding. 

Our society right now is in the midst of an illness. According to the National Institute of Health, “social anxiety has been heightened in the general population due to the pandemic, with women and low-income earners being especially vulnerable…social anxiety, either pre-pandemic or arising due to the pandemic environment, has contributed to a variety of negative mental health outcomes related to social anxiety.”

And this doesn’t just affect individuals. The same NIH study writes that “In the context of global populations…the cumulative effect of this small change across the entire populace may be insurmountable.” Whether it directly affects us or not, we are all affected by this malady of anxiety. 

We need to exhibit more patience than ever. We need to have a lot of grace and patience — Rachamim — on our family, our spouses, our kids, our friends, other people, and ourselves. On people working in understaffed restaurants. On flight attendants dealing with disgruntled passengers. On kids who missed critical years of social-emotional development. 

A world lacking in grace is a scary one to enter. I don’t blame people who prefer the comforts of home. The world is not yet healed from all that we have endured over the past 3 ½ years. However, we will not fix the problems by doing nothing.

If you are here today, whether in-person or on Zoom, it’s because something about all of this matters to you. I challenge you to ask yourself, why am I here? What is it that matters to me that I took my Monday to come to Yom Kippur services?

Once you answer that question, I will task you with one more challenge: Can I do this once a week? How about once a month? Once every few months? On other holidays, at least? They’re not all as long and intense as Yom Kippur. Because right now, we need you! Not just so we ensure that we have a Minyan, a quorum of 10 people. But also because we need to heal. 

When we had a small crowd on Purim — the most festive holiday, the holiday which is actually the flip side of today’s coin, as today is called “Yom Kippurim,” literally “the day like Purim” — it shows that we have not healed. Something is holding folks back. I challenge you to ask yourself, what is holding you back? 

And I promise not to hold you accountable for your answer to that. We don’t hold you accountable for the illness, but for following the treatment plan. And after the isolation and devastation of 2020, 2021, 2022 even, now I ask us to follow the treatment plan as we enter 5784, almost 2024. The treatment plan for social distancing and isolation is community and togetherness. That can also happen on Zoom, by the way. And on regular weeks we use regular Zoom, not the webinar, and it is interactive. Zoom became part of our community in 2020. But it can’t happen once a year. 

So I’m asking you all if you could make a commitment to become part of our society — and our congregations — healing. Now in your heads, and you can think about it more later, take a moment to think about what you can commit to. Because we need you.

Sadly, there are some people who we also need who can’t be here because they have passed on to the next world. So in this moment, as we commit to building, we also remember those who simply are not with us. 

As per my custom, I’d like to take a moment to acknowledge some notable people we lost in the past year.

Tony Bennett

Pele

Harry Belafonte

Sinead O’Connor

Jimmy Buffett

Bob Barker

Paul Reubens (pee wee herman)

Alan Arkin

Jim Brown

Chaim Topol

Judith Heumann

Barbara Walters

And we also remember those killed in earthquakes in Morocco, Turkey, and Syria; floods in Libya; and fires in Hawaii. 

We remember those killed in terror attacks in Israel and around the world, as well as fallen soldiers of the IDF and the US Military.

We remember those lost in senseless gun violence in Chicago and around country, 

I always tell my students that I have an unofficial rule that everybody has to “get in trouble” at least once a year. Because if you always just do the right thing without me ever having to redirect you, then it shows me that you are just complying with the rules, not that you understand them or have internalized them.

If you’ve ever been to Yom Kippur services before you’re probably used to the idea of the Book of Life and the Book of Death. If you did more good deeds than bad deeds, you go in the Book of Life. If, hopefully not, you did more bad deeds than good deeds, you go in the Book of Death. 

The Talmud in Rosh Hashana tells us there actually is a third book — the Book of Average. In fact, it is taught, Yom Kippur is only necessary for average folks. Good people get in the Book of Life immediately. Bad people get in the Book of Death immediately. For the average person, it depends on if they do teshuva, repentance on Yom Kippur. 

I’m interested in this idea of being average. It feels like most people are average. I suppose that is the definition of average, after all. But what really makes someone average? I’m a teacher, and if I were to ever tell a student of mine “hey buddy, you’re average,” well let’s just say I would not be a very good teacher. 

Hasidic thought — Hasidism being a folk approach to Jewish mysticism — is very interested in this idea of the average. Rabbi Shneur Zalman of Liadi, the 18th Century founder of the Chabad/Lubavitch sect of Hasidism dedicated an entire chapter of his seminal work The Tanya to the idea of being average. He writes that “the average man is he in whom the evil of the animal souls never attains enough power to conquer the body. He has never committed any transgression, nor will he ever.”

However, he writes, the average person isn’t particularly good either. Perhaps he can be good when praying, but that’s about it. He essentially wants to do bad things, and may have bad thoughts, but does not act on them. An example he gives is that perhaps you are upset with someone who wronged you, but you don’t express anger and exact revenge, rather you continue to show love and kindness towards them. The Tanya references Joseph, who was kind to his brothers despite the fact that they sold him as a slave to Egypt.

So, essentially, being average is about exhibiting self-control. A truly righteous person doesn’t need self control because they never even think about doing something wrong. And an evil person has no self-control and acts on every impulsive and intrusive thought they have. The average person — you and me — we know we have the option to do the wrong thing, in theory, but we also know not to do it, at least a vast majority of the time.

In this sense, it may actually be better to be average than to be a Tzaddik, righteous. Afterall, if you aren’t even tempted to do bad, what’s the big accomplishment in not doing anything bad? Joseph was the only of our forefathers tempted to sin. When Potiphar, his employer's wife, tried to sleep with him, he didn’t immediately say no. He hesitated, he wasn’t sure. He engaged in a conversation with her. Eventually he said no, but you know what? Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob never even considered adultery in the Torah.  Joseph’s strength was that he was a real person, and, unlike his fathers, had to actually struggle with figuring out what was the right thing to do. 

We are here because we are average. And thank God! LIfe as a righteous person seems terribly boring. It is very easy to walk through life never thinking, just robotically doing what you are told, but I don’t see how a life devoid of any conflict or critical thought could possibly lead to fulfillment. If I think of my accomplishments in life, things I’m proud of, it’s not when I did what I was told. It’s times when I had to make a decision.

The small price we pay for having to make that decision is Yom Kippur. Because part of that is we need to stop for one day to reflect to make sure we are making the right decisions. Whether it’s in making sure we comport ourselves with the utmost ethics and morals in business; making sure we speak to our families with respect; or avoiding gossip with or about our neighbors. 

Because on Yom Kippur there are no temptations. Not only do we not eat or drink, the source and context for many poor decisions, we spend the entire day in a state of prayer and asceticism. I don’t think you could sin on Yom Kippur even if you wanted to — there are no opportunities! We spend one day as Tzaddikim, as righteous, so that we can live our lives as normal people. 

So this year, 5784, I invite you to be like my students (hopefully). To do the right thing 99% of the time. To make good choices. But to get in trouble once — obviously not anything too bad — but to show that we are thinking critically about the choices we have in life, and embrace the fact that we are all average humans, making real decisions. And today, as we begin Yom Kippur, I invite you to embrace this one day of being above average. 

There was a dispute between two great rabbis — Rabban Gamliel and Rabbi Yehoshua — over the date of first of Tishrei, Rosh Hashanah. Jewish months are either 29 or 30 days, depending on when the new moon is. Back then, before we developed an established calendar, they decided the date of the first of each and every month based on when the new moon was seen in Jerusalem. Nowadays Elul, the month before Rosh Hashana, is never 30 days, to keep matters simple. However, back then, sometimes it was. 

Long story short, there was a disputed new moon sighting and Rabbi Yehoshua believed Rosh Hashanah was one day later than Rabban Gamliel. This is a big deal because it meant that these two great rabbis had different dates for Yom Kippur, the most serious day on the Jewish calendar.

Rabban Gamliel was the head rabbi, and thus he took precedence. To assert his authority, he forced Rabbi Yehoshua to walk to house on the day that Rabbi Yehoshua believe to be Yom Kippur, which for Rabban Gamliel was the day after Yom Kippur, with his walking stick and wallet, two items people would never dare carry around with them on Yom Kippur. Rabbi Yehoshua was humiliated.

One might legitimately ask why Rabbi Yehoshua didn’t back down. Afterall, Rabban Gamliel was in charge, it should have been his call. Judaism couldn’t possibly operate if we all had our own dates for holidays. 

The fact is that this was really important to Rabbi Yehoshua. There was a lot at stake — Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur are the days of judgment! We need to get these dates right! Ultimately someone had to lose, and by definition it was going to be Rabbi Yehoshua, but he made a point of stating his disagreement. 

The story in the Talmud is lengthy and complex, and lists other disputes that occurred involving these two rabbis. In the end, a lot of feelings were hurt and pain was caused. They eventually reached an imperfect compromise where Rabban Gamliel would actually split the head-rabbi duties with the 18 year old Rabbi Elazar ben Azariah, after a popular revolt against Rabban Gamliel.

5783 was not a simple year for the Jewish people. Israel feels like it is in more trouble than ever. The protests — and counter-protests — over the new coalition’s judicial overhaul plan have shaken Israel to its core. Tested what happens not just when we disagree, but when we really disagree. And not everyone has shown exemplary character throughout this ordeal, to say the least. When Jews are shooting other Jews protesting with water cannons, we know something has gone terribly wrong.

Some chalk it up to difference of opinion.I believe that this approach minimizes the issues. For many people these issues are crucial to their lives, and can’t be chalked up to some disagreement like do you prefer chocolate or vanilla ice cream.

The issues are the literal place of women — can women be forced to sit in the back of a bus? Can buses be segregated? Can Israel tolerate same-sex families? Should those who do not observe Shabbat in an Orthodox way be second class citizens, forced to close their stores and stay at home on Shabbat? Can secular judges overrule laws made by duly elected lawmakers?

How does a Jewish country react to its own people protesting? How do we respectfully protest our own government? 

In July the New York Times reported that a number of Jews are actually fleeing Israel — escaping to, of all places, Germany! There is actually an organization called Noah’s Ark 2.0, which helps Israelis create community in European countries. This is new. Because not only are Jews disagreeing — they are giving up. I don’t know if that has happened before. When people were angry with Rabban Gamliel they did not leave, they figured out a plan, as imperfect as it may have been. Even in past disputes in Israel — I’m old enough to remember the Disengagement in 2005 — Israelis and Jews argued passionately. But they didn’t give up. Now, we are giving up. 

We cannot give up! People worked too hard — too much blood was lost, sweat dripped, and tears shed for us to turn around and leave Israel for Germany, or Chicago or wherever, because we are scared. I’m scared too! 

But that was always part of the deal. It was always going to be hard. Israel is a manifestation of the covenant of Sinai, as Rabbi David Hartman once eloquently put it. It is contingent on our actions; nothing is guaranteed. Nothing is magical. Nothing just happens. We need to fight for it. Israel, our peoplehood, is worth fighting for. It’s hard to see it as Jews in Chicago, but we need to be aware of what is happening in the place where a majority of Jews live, in our homeland. And it is our land too whether we live there or not, and we have a responsibility to fight to preserve it. 

Now more than ever we need to stand with Israel. Not the government of Israel. Not any specific Israeli politician, right or left, but with the idea of Israel. The idea that we can and we should control our own destiny as a people. 

The Talmud reports that Rabban Gamliel later felt bad about his actions. He went to Rabbi Yehoshua’s house to apologize. And guess what? Rabbi Yehoshua did not forgive him initially. He only agreed to forgive him on account of Rabban Gamliel’s father, the great Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel, who was the leader of the Jews during the time of the destruction of the Temple. 

Let’s take that lesson from Rabbi Yehoshua. We can feel anger, hurt, and pain. We don’t have to excuse behavior we find to be offensive or obscene. But we have to ultimately be able to look at the big picture, and not give up, even if just for the sake of our ancestors. 

Because, after all, isn’t that exactly what we are asking God to do today? 

Why are we here today?!

We’re missing the most important part of Rosh Hashanah - the shofar! The Torah tells us very little information about Rosh Hashanah. In fact, it says nothing about it being the New Year or a Day of Judgment — all we know is that it is a “Yom Teruah,” a day of blowing the Shofar. 

My student suggested that perhaps the reason we don’t blow shofar on Shabbat is that it takes away from Shabbat. Shabbat is a special day, why should we lose it? 

I must give my student a lot of credit. I always thought of the lack of Shofar on Shabbat as being about violating the laws of shabbat. I never really thought about it as taking away from what shabbat is spiritually. 

I believe that Shabbat is about being present in the now. All of the laws of Shabbat can essentially be boiled down to: You have to be content with everything you have now — the food you cooked, the fires you lit, the things you built — and just stick with it for 25 hours. Human creativity and innovation is put on pause, and we reflect on the present, and on God. 

The Talmud in Rosh Hashana tells us that on Shabbat the Shofar is only blown in the Temple, the Beit HaMikdash, but not anywhere else. The Talmud asks why, and concludes that there is a fear that, perhaps, one will not know how to blow the Shofar, so they will then carry it to somebody who does. Carrying items on a public street is one of the 39 Melachot, prohibitions of Shabbat. Since this decree is only Rabbinic, it does not apply in the Temple, where as a principle Rabbinic decrees do not apply. 

This is actually a reasonable concern. Afterall, I don’t know how to blow shofar. Perhaps I will take my shofar here to synagogue so someone can blow it on my behalf. 

But what did they expect us to do today? Remember, a good portion of the Tefillot, prayers, that we say today were *only* written in the Medieval or early Modern times (in terms of Jewish history, that is not too long ago). At the time of the Rabbis, the prayers were not nearly as long. And rabbis only gave sermons twice a year — on the Shabbat before Yom Kippur and the Shabbat before Passover. (That custom ultimately changed, sorry!) 

The Shofar really was the main event of Rosh Hashana. So what are we supposed to do now?

The Talmud in Rosh Hashana pits two verses in the Torah against each other. One verse refers to Rosh Hashana as the “day of teruah”. The other refers to today as “the day of zichron teruah,” remembering the shofar. They say that the first verse refers to when Rosh Hashana is on a weekday and the other verse, remembering the shofar, is referring to when Rosh Hashana is on Shabbat. Obviously this is only a remez, a hint, as the prohibition of shofar on Shabbat is only Rabbinic, yet it is still an interesting statement. Apparently we are supposed to be standing here today remembering the shofar. 

Well, if we remember correctly, the Shofar was sounded in the Temple on Shabbat because Rabbinic degrees did not apply to the Temple. I don’t know why that is, but if I can posit for a moment, perhaps it is because as much as we may respect our human leaders, in the literal presence of God in the Temple, human leaders, even great Rabbis, have no power. 

There is actually something quite egalitarian about the Mikdash. Nobody can claim authority — afterall, God’s presence rests there. How could I claim any authority in the presence of God? The Kohanim work in the Mikdash, but they have no authority or decision making ability. They do the dirty work — clean up ashes, slaughter animals, cut up the meat. I suppose someone has to do it, so why not them. But nobody is really “in charge” of the Temple. 

Even the High Priest is only able to enter the Holy of Holies once a year, on Yom Kippur, and only able to do the exact, precise service as described in the Torah. Any slight deviation results in instant death. 

Ein Shvus Bamikdash — rabbinic decrees don’t apply to the Mikdash — because it is not a human space, and the human hierarchies that we have created for our society, rightly so or not, do not apply. 

So as we are here remembering the Shofar, we can think about how it was blown in the Temple, where these decrees did not apply. We can think about the loss of that Temple not just as a religious space where we can bring sacrifices and incense, but also as a space that puts God at the center, where no human can place themself. 

We have courts, presidents, and prime ministers because that is how we know to live in society. Afterall, it was Rabbi Hanina, the assistant to the Kohen Gadol (!) who said, in Pirkei Avot, that “if not for the government, man would swallow each other alive.” But we can take one day — one day that doesn’t even fall once a year, just on that special moment once every few years when Rosh Hashana is on Shabbat — to remember the message of the Shofar and the Mikdash. Today is the day where we coronate God as King. Today is the day where we celebrate God’s creation. God, to the exclusion of any human. 

Rosh Hashana that falls out on Shabbat is compelling because it is perhaps the one occasion we have that is entirely not about us! It is about God; God is at the center right now. We need to remember that. We have no Mitzvot to do today. At services today we are fulfilling zero more mitzvot than we would by praying on any given Shabbat morning. On every other holiday — on every other Rosh Hashana! — we get to fulfill Mitzvot. Well not today! But we are still here, because we are remembering a time and place when that’s how it always was; we remember that, in theory if not in practice, that is how it is supposed to be. We get to have one day that is about God, not ourselves or anything we do. 

Shofar would take away from that because it is something new; a sound that a human creates. Our focus would be on what a great job the Baal Tekia did and, for a second, not on God. And if Shabbat is mostly about God, the rare occasion of Shabbat-Rosh Hashanah is totally about God. And we don’t want to take that away. 

Perhaps one of the most jarring aspects of Megillat Esther, the Book of Esther is the lack of any explicit mention of God. It is the only book of Tanakh, the Jewish Bible, for which this is so. 

There are some who read the book as either non-religious or even anti-religious. Bible scholar Aaron Koller, for example, argues that the point of Esther is to teach that God, Israel, and Jerusalem are no longer needed in a Jewish society living post the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem. 

One can make that argument I suppose, however I believe that doesn’t give enough credit to our ancestors. Afterall, it was included in Tanakh, the Jewish bible. It has been read for generations. There is an entire Jewish holiday created around it! If we are going to include Esther as part of our canon, there has to be religious meaning to it.

On the other hand, Chazal, the Rabbis of yore, understood Esther as being about “Hester Panim,” God’s hidden face, with the word “Hester” working as a play on words with queen “Esther.” They understand that the book shows us how God operates differently in the post-Temple age. God still intercedes in history, but within the natural order of things — by influencing Ahashverosh’s decisions, perhaps. Gone are the days of seas splitting and walls of cities miraculously falling. God is here just the same, but it looks different, more seamless. 

I am equally as unsatisfied with that understanding of Esther as I am with the anti-religious approach. The Hester Panim approach feels not true to the text and obscurantist. From a literary perspective there is no way to prove it and no way to falsify it. I prefer an approach that acknowledges the reality of the text.

Esther is overwritten — it is unnecessarily long, full of utterly absurd exaggerations and overblown and elaborate descriptions of minute details and events. 

For example:

“in the third year of his [Ahashverosh] reign, he gave a banquet for all…For no fewer than a hundred and eighty days he displayed the vast riches of his kingdom and the splendid glory of his majesty.

At the end of this period, the king gave a banquet for seven days in the court of the king’s palace garden for all the people who lived in the fortress Shushan, high and low alike:

[There were hangings of] white cotton and blue wool, caught up by cords of fine linen and purple wool to silver rods and alabaster columns; and there were couches of gold and silver on a pavement of marble, alabaster, mother-of-pearl, and mosaics.

Ahahsverosh threw a 187 day party with all of these elaborate trappings. Ok, sure. And not to mention the fact that none of this has any connection to the rest of the story. 

And the description of the process for preparing to sleep with the king:

When each girl’s turn came to go to King Ahasuerus at the end of the twelve months’ treatment prescribed for women (for that was the period spent on beautifying them: six months with oil of myrrh and six months with perfumes and women’s cosmetics,

and it was after that that the girl would go to the king), whatever she asked for would be given her to take with her from the harem to the king’s palace.

The King would not sleep with a woman before she spent 12 months (!) bathing in various oils and perfumes. 

And not to mention how the characters spend their time, doing completely capricious and meaningless things: 

His closest advisers were Carshena, Shethar, Admatha, Tarshish, Meres, Marsena, and Memucan, the seven ministers of Persia and Media who had access to the royal presence and occupied the first place in the kingdom.)

“What,” [he asked,] “shall be done, according to law, to Queen Vashti for failing to obey the command of King Ahasuerus conveyed by the eunuchs?”

This matter required a cabinet meeting!

And what was their grand conclusion? 

Dispatches were sent to all the provinces of the king, to every province in its own script and to every nation in its own language, that every man should wield authority in his home and speak the language of his own people.

This is their biggest domestic policy concern.

This is probably my favorite part of the story, at the end, only for how utterly ridiculous it is:

The rest of the Jews, those in the king’s provinces, likewise mustered and fought for their lives. They disposed of their enemies, killing seventy-five thousand of their foes; but they did not lay hands on the spoil.

Apparently the Jews were powerful warriors capable of committing a massacre — but, as the text emphasizes three times in five verses — they did not take any spoils. Ok. 

Both the writing and the style of Esther reflect neither a Biblical narrative nor a historical recording. The writing here, I believe, is intentional, both in message and in medium, in teaching us about the role of God in our lives. 

The earthly powers involved in the story (Achasverosh, Haman, and the ministers) act in a manner that is capricious and meaningless. They spend a bulk of their time dealing with trivial matters and parties, and ultimately have no say in the big decisions.

When making minor decisions he consults his entire cabinet. However, he haphazardly accepts Haman’s decree to wipe out an entire people, and Esther’s later decree to save them. At the end of the day neither Achashverosh, nor Haman, nor any of the other advisers of Achashverosh seem to have any say in what happens. 

Everything that happens in the Persian court, from the perspective of the Persians,seems to be happenstance.

If we truly understand this, only one ruler has absolute control and always acts in an intentional manner, so to speak. God. By highlighting the absurdity of the Persian court we are able to take a step back, chuckle a little, and see where true meaning comes from.

This is different from saying that God is behind the scenes pulling the strings. In fact this story shows us that is precisely not what was happening. A world without God is one the sheer absurdity we see in Megillat Esther. Esther provides a contrast. 

We are living in a time of turmoil. What is happening in Israel can only be described as chaos. Prime Minister Netanyahu is trying to get rid of the Supreme Court, people are engaging in mass protest in the streets, Israeli policemen are shooting tear gas and stun guns at protesters, Israelis are being shot dead at bus stops and on highways, and Jewish terrorists are burning down an Arab town. And this is all literally in the past week. 

Thankfully our ancestors provided us with a framework for what to do when the polis seems to be devolving into nihilistic chaos. Just like Ahashverosh had no real power, so too none of these entities — Bibi, Palestinian terrorists, Jewish terrorists — have any true power. Although these are real and serious issues, the way things are being handled by the government and the people it has totally lost control of is as absurd as it is embarrassing.  

This Purim we are called upon to remember the message of Mordechai — “who knows if for this moment you were called to duty.” We must demand an end to the chaos. We must demand an Israel that we can be proud of, is safe for all, and that has basic control of its people and officers, at a minimum. 

We cannot let Israel become like the Persian court, obsessed with trivialities — like trying to pass a bill banning people from bringing Hametz into hospitals on Passover — and powerless on big issues, such as the violence and extremism in their society. We all have connections to Israel through various means, and we all can and MUST have a say here, whether it has to do with how we spend our money, where in Israel we send our children, or what voices we elevate on our platforms. 

“For if we are silent at this moment…you and your house will be destroyed,” Mordechai told Esther. Mordechai was wise because he knew that behind all the chaos there is order. We just have to act.

We read in this week’s Parsha, Vayechi, that Jacob blesses Joseph’s sons by saying that in the future, when Jewish People will bless their children, they will say: “May God make you like Ephraim and Menashe.” Until this day some parents, or sometimes teachers or rabbis, bless children with this formula, “Yesimcha Elohim K’Efraim U’KeMenashe.” The biggest blessing God could give you is to be the source of blessing, a source of inspiration, for others. This is the same way that God blessed Abraham way back when He called him “to go to the land…and others will be blessed through you.” Jacob too received this blessing from his father Isaac. 

True blessing is not about what you get. It’s that your life and your name become a source of blessing and inspiration for others.

So what did Ephraim and Menashe do that warranted that they be a source of blessing and inspiration for us and for our children? 

Rabbi Samsaon Raphael Hirsch, a 19th Century German rabbi who is considered the founder of Modern Orthodoxy (before such a term existed), and provides the rooting for much of the Conservative Movement as well, points out that Ephraim and Menashe were the first Jewish children not born in Israel and not born in a Jewish community. In fact the only other Jewish person that they knew was their father, Joseph. According to the Torah they had 70 living relatives, but they had never met them until very recently.

One can argue that life as a member of Bnei Yisrael, the Jewish People, was probably pretty easy for Reuben and his children, for example. They were surrounded by their patriarch, Jacob, two dozen uncles and aunts, and dozens of cousins all living life just like them. Whatever observances they kept, worship of One God, Brit Milah, their cousins also observed. They can be secure and confident in their identities. 

But Joseph’s children were on their own. All of their friends were different. And we know the Egyptians were racist too — earlier in Sefer Breishit we are told that the Egyptians in the palace would not eat meals with Joseph due to his Hebrew origins. So Ephraim and Menashe, the products of a Hebrew father and an Egyptian Mother, could certainly be excused if they would have preferred their Egyptian life. Perhaps they were not proud of their Hebrew origins. 

Yet, argues Rabbi Hirsch, Ephraim and Menashe are well aware of who they are. Their names are Hebrew names. They show deference and respect to Jacob. There is no indication that they were rebellious or uninterested in this blessing. Somehow they maintained who they are despite all of the challenges. 

As the Jewish People were about to embark in a hundreds of years long exile experience, the first of many exile experiences, Jacob realized that the source of inspiration for future Jews will be Ephraim and Menashe, who struggled and succeeded with maintaining their identities in a foreign culture in which they were the minority. Jacob’s intuition foreshadows what will be the experience of most Jews throughout most of history — living in a foreign culture as a minority. Ephraim and Menashe’s cousins, uncles, and aunts simply could not relate to the minority experience. That is why we turn to them as our source of inspiration. 

Of course some of this has changed in recent history. Now a majority of the world’s Jews live in a culture that is our own, where Jews are the majority, in Israel. It is historically unsurprising, even if tragic, to see Jews in Israel reverting to the ways of Joseph’s brothers — willing to throw their brother into a pit and sell him out of jealousy and spite. Perhaps the brothers were too comfortable in their own skin. The struggles that Ephraim and Menashe overcame may have given them a sense of perspective that the brothers didn’t have. The same can be said about what is happening in Israel today, facing unprecedented political turmoil. 

As we have seen this week America too is facing it’s own political turmoil. However, as a Jew, I know that we are ultimately just passing through here. Israel is our true home. And when I see dangerous elements take root in Israeli society, that is when I start to become fearful and sad. The divisive and hateful rhetoric and actions of some actors in the new coalition government, including the ultranationalist and Orthodox supremacist Jewish Power party and the Noam party, whose sole mission is to eradicate the LGBT community, is not who Jacob intended for us to be when he gave us the blessing of Ephraim and Menashe. 

There is no question that the State of Israel is the biggest blessing bestowed upon the Jewish People since Biblical times. And yet we must maintain our perspective of who we are. As American Jews our job is to love and defend Israel, and I’m sure we are all very good at that. 

Now it is our turn to act as Ephraim and Menashes. We can serve as inspiration for our brethren in Israel who have lost their way by showing what it means to be blessed like Ephraim and Menashe — proudly Jewish while respectful of the diverse parts of our society both internally and externally. I will remind those who are trying to pass laws permitting discrimination against LGBT people in Israel and changing the Law of Return to only apply to Orthodox Jews that our blessings come from Ephraim and Menashe, children who were half Hebrew and half the product of an Egyptian princess, and who were blessed precisely because of their engagement in a diverse society. 

So on this Parsha of Vayechi, and he lived, I bless us to be like Ephraim and Menashe, by serving as sources of inspiration and blessing as Jews who live life in the real world.

The hardest job there is is being a substitute teacher. Anybody who ever attended school could tell you why. For whatever reason, it’s just not the same. Even though you know your teacher is going to get a report of how you behaved, you never act the same for the sub as for the primary teacher. 

My first job in education was as a maternity sub for a Hebrew teacher who had recently given birth. When you’re a sub, you’re just not given the same respect as a regular teacher (to be clear, this was not at the school I currently work at). To the extent that my security badge actually said “visitor.” That felt really yucky.

Probably the second hardest job is being the Kohen Gadol, High Priest. One of the parts of the Musaf services outlines the Avodah, literally “service,” that was practiced by the Kohen Gadol, the High Priest, in the times of the Temple.

When going into the Temple one would first enter an outdoor courtyard which was open to all. Then there was an inner chamber, where the altar and Menorah were located, that only priests, or Kohanim, could enter. 

Finally there was a room within that inner chamber called the “kodesh kodashim,” holy of holies, that only the Kohen Gadol, High Priest, a direct descendent of Aaron, could enter, and only on Yom Kippur. He would enter 3 times, and each time recite a Viduy, and confessional. The first confessional was for the sins of him and his family. The second for the sins of the priests, the kohanim. The third for the sins of all of the Jewish People. 

This procession makes a lot of sense. Before he can atone for the sins of the Jewish People, the high priest had to first atone for the sins of his own tribe. And before he can atone for his tribe, he had to make sure his own household, and his own self, was free of sin. Afterall, it would be quite hypocritical for the high priest to atone on behalf of the Jewish People before he made sure that he was clear of any wrongdoing himself. 

In the Mishna the Rabbis teach that 1 week before Yom Kippur a backup high priest would be appointed, a substitute, just in case the regular high priest becomes ritually impure, either through contact with a dead body or seminal emission. He’s sort of like the designated survivor, the member of the President’s Cabinet who hides in an undisclosed location when the President, Vice President, and members of the cabinet are all gathered together, such as for the State of the Union Address, so as to maintain continuity of government in case of some crazy, unforeseen disaster. The back up high priest stands ready and waiting, even if unlikely to be called upon. I can’t even imagine how hard his job would be if he were to be called upon.

Rabbi Yehudah suggests even further that a woman should be appointed as the high priest’s back up wife, just in case his wife suddenly dies. The verse in Leviticus 16;6, while describing the service of Yom Kippur, states that the High Priest must atone for the sins of “his household,” from which they learn that he must have a household, i.e. he must be married. So, Rabbi Yehudah suggests, appoint a woman to be the backup he can marry in the case of the sudden passing of his wife before Yom Kippur.

The Sages respond to Rabbi Yehudah “if so, there is no end to the matter.” We have to draw a line somewhere. We can’t keep having backups and backups for the backups, it becomes too burdensome. The High Priest has a backup and in the unlikely scenario that his wife dies in the week before Yom Kippur the backup can take over. There is only one designated survivor, that’s the whole point. 

As Jewish legal texts like the Mishna tend to do, the discussion here is abstract legal theory. But let’s take a moment to look at the prose of what is actually being discussed. Yom Kippur is the biggest day of the year for the High Priest. He is responsible for the atonement of literally the entire Jewish People. He has a lot to do that has to be done in incredibly detailed and specific ways, in an incredibly short period of time. The stakes could not be any higher.

We need a backup because we recognize that if something were to happen to the High Priest the show must go on. Everybody understands that. But what Rabbi Yehduah is suggesting is actually an immense tragedy — the Kohen Gadol’s wife dying in the week before Yom Kippur! Imagine how distraught he would be. His wife literally just died, he is in the most intense pain of mourning, and now, Rabbi Yehudah suggests, instead of mourning his wife he must quickly go marry another woman and perform the Yom Kippur service as if nothing happened. 

The Sages were correct. This is untenable. It’s not just that we need to draw a line — after all, there’s no hurt in appointing a backup; it’s that how can we possibly expect the Kohen Gadol to be in the proper mindset to perform the intricate service of Yom Kippur right after the death of his wife, and right after being forced to marry a woman he does not know. That is one of the rare cases where we would call upon the backup. Afterall, could he say that he is atoning on behalf of “myself and my family” with any integrity when he just married the backup wife yesterday? No.

Each Yom Kippur there are new people missing from our lives, in addition to those who were missing in Yom Kippurs past. Yet unlike the High Priest we cannot send in a backup, we still are called to our religious duties. Today we are here, and there can be no substitute. 

And on that note, as per my custom, I’d like to take a moment to acknowledge some notable people we lost in the past year. Those who are not here, and for whom there also is no substitute: 

Rabbi Chaim Kanievsky

Archbishop Desmond Tutu

Bill Russell

Bob Sagget

Betty White

John Madden

Joan Didion

Senator Harry Reid

Senator Bob Dole

Stephen Sondheim

Secretary Colin Powell

Secretary Madeleine Albright

Queen Elizabeth II

We remember the over one million Americans who have perished due to Covid-19.

We remember those lost in senseless gun violence in this country, especially the victims from right here in Highland Park, including Jacki Sundheim and Katherine Goldstein, among others. 

The 19 children and 2 teachers killed in Uvalde, Texas, including Eva Mireles and Irma Garcia, teachers who died protecting their students.

We remember those killed in terror attacks in Israel and around the world, as well as fallen soldiers of the IDF and the US Military. The names are too many to list.  

And we remember those who were a part of our community, including Peter Pick.

How can we approach Yom Kippur with full integrity knowing all that we have lost? How can we make sense of people being murdered during a parade or while shopping at a grocery store or just being in the 4th grade! When we state the words in the Musaf prayer of “who shall live and who shall die?” How can we keep doing this?

I don’t have a great answer, other than that we are not the Kohen Gadol. We are not high priests and we are not expected to live life as such. The High Priest must approach the day of Yom Kippur with total clarity of mind. We, on the other hand, are regular folks. We approach today with all that we carry with us from the past year and from our lifetimes, whether it’s something from 20 years ago, 10 months ago, or last week. There is no substitute for what we lost, and yet we go on.

With their memories in mind, we continue with Yizkor.

A boy named George cut down a cherry tree as a child. When his father came home and asked what happened to his cherry tree, George stated that “I cannot tell a lie. It was me.” George knew what he did wrong and took full responsibility. This boy grew up to become George Washington, the first President of the United States.

Now I know what many of you are thinking: That’s not a true story! It didn’t actually happen! And while you are probably correct about the historicity of the story, the memory of the story is as true as ever. Because wherever that story came from its purpose was likely not a biographical account of George Washington’s childhood. I would bet its purpose was to teach us that honesty and personal responsibility are American values. Any American has a collective memory of this story, and thus the values that are contained there within. 

According to the Torah today is called “Yom HaZikaron,” literally “Memorial Day.” There is an Israeli holiday called “Yom HaZikaron,” which remembers fallen Israeli soldiers, but that is a recent and unrelated event. 

Memory plays a big role today. The essential argument that we make through the liturgy is that by invoking the memory of our ancestors and how God remembered them and saved them, we too should be saved. 

The Musaf Amidah contains 3 sections - Malkhiyot (kings), Zikhronot (memory), and Shofarot (the Shofar). The Talmud explains why — first we assert that God is our king; we establish God’s authority over ourselves. Then we invoke the memory of our ancestors and ask that God remember us just like He remembered our ancestors. And finally we use the Shofar in doing so. Hence these three sections, kingship, memory, shofar. Kingship is the set up, the Shofar is the mechanism, but the centerpiece, the actual message here, is memory. 

So let us explore the concept of memory. I can (hopefully) remember where I parked my car. I can remember an experience that I had; a person that I loved. These are the most literal and common usages of “memory”.

We also carry historical memories. In addition to remembering what happened on 9/11, the memory of 9/11 is with me as someone who was coming of age in 2001, it informs the way that I and many people of my generation see the world. I’m told that for a previous generation, the assassination of JFK plays a similar role. 

And although the Holocaust happened long before I or likely anyone here was born, and my apologies if I am wrong, because of the importance and scale of that event the memory of the Holocaust lives inside of, arguablly, most Jewish people alive today. 

History did not always exist. It wasn’t naturally intuitive to humankind from day 1 to record events for the sake of keeping a record. It was the ancient Greeks who first started doing that. So when the Torah tells us records of events it is likely that the Torah is not trying to tell us what happened. To say that the torah is interested in history is anachronistic. 

This theory is laid out by the late and great professor of Jewish history and philosophy at the Jewish Theological Seminary Yosef Hayim Yerushalmi in his book Zakhor: Jewish History and Jewish Memory:

Professor Yerushalmi writes that 

“The biblical appeal to remember thus has little to do with curiosity about the past. Israel is told only that it must be a kingdom of priests and a holy people; nowhere is it suggested that it become a nation of historians. Memory is by its nature selective, and the demand that Israel remember is no exception…for the real danger is not so much that what happened in the past will be forgotten, as the more crucial aspect of how it happened. (10-11)

The Torah was not written, Yerusahlmi argues, to tell us what happened. It is to instill within us a communal memory of how we got to where we are today. My students often ask me about the historicity of the stories in the Torah, and I’m probably an annoying teacher because I won’t give them a yes or no answer. Because the point of the Torah is not history in the modern sense, the question of historicity is entirely the wrong question to be asking. 

So in the Amidah we ask God to remember Noah, Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, and the Jews who left Egypt and followed Moses through the desert  into the Promised Land. Most of all, we ask God to remember Aqedat Yitzchak, Abraham’s sacrifice of Isaac which we read about this morning. Interestingly, it seems that we are asking God to remember both the merits of these holy individuals and to remember how He saved them from their various troubles — through the means of Teshuva, repentance, Tefillah, prayer, and Tzedaka, acts of charity.

Obviously God does not need me to remind Him of anything. Which is exactly why the concepts of memory and history that we are discussing here cannot be literal. WE — not God —- remember how Noah kept faith when literally the whole world was drowning in their own evil. We remember how Abraham made so many sacrifices for the sake of God, including almost his own son, and we remember how that son, Isaac, trusted his father to protect him up until the last moment. We remember how Jacob kept faith throughout his struggles, losing his son Joseph; and how the Israelites trusted God to save them from Egypt and bring them to Israel, as He promised. It is not that we need to remember because anybody forgot — nobody, especially God, forgot any of these things. The memory spurs us to action, to mimic the faith, charity, and prayers of our ancestors. 

So on this Yom HaZikaron, memorial day, the memory is for us. It is for us to recall the faith and trust that our ancestors, from Noah and Abraham until today, have had in God, in our People, and in our community. The memory is a reminder for us to take action to refine ourselves. 

God saw it fit that we take one day a year to recall the faith of our ancestors. And our prayer back to God is that just like they kept faith, so too should we. And so too should God reward our efforts, just like he rewarded theirs.

I’m a pretty big baseball fan. It runs in my family. My grandpa, he should live and be well, is probably one of the biggest Yankee fans out there, having countless memorabilia, including scorecards with names like “Mantle” and “DiMaggio” on it. As a child it would give me goosebumps to see them. It still does.

There’s a lot of things I love about baseball, and one of them is the sense of solidarity when you attend a game. Everyone is there to celebrate. Even at a Cubs game when they are in 4th place and down 20 games, people are there to cheer on the team, eat and drink, sing some songs, and celebrate The Great American Pastime. 

I was at a Cubs game on July 12th (my apologies to the south side roots of this congregation), shortly after the tragedy of the Highland Park parade shooting. This event shook my religious faith to the core, especially considering the large Jewish community in Highland Park and the Jewish victims, sadly. This tragedy was confounded by the fact that it felt so preventable. It is safe to say that the mass shooting problem in America is one that politicians on either side of the aisle have addressed in any meaningful way. Whether the issue is guns or mental health or whatever other theory you might propose, I don’t see our society taking any steps to stop this tragic epidemic of death. We know this doesn’t happen in any other country.

So when I attended that Cubs game in July I wasn’t feeling so good about America. For the first time I seriously considered how I would stand and sing the national anthem, just days after so many people were killed and injured by the uniquely American problem of mass shootings while celebrating America. I looked around the stadium and wondered why nobody else seemed to care. This was the first game at Wrigley Field, the closest MLB stadium to Highland Park, since the shooting and nobody seemed to care. Sure, there was a moment of silence — long enough to swallow your beer but short enough that you didn’t have to put it down — but otherwise there were no other indications of what happened. 

Judaism values each human life as if it is a whole world. I would like to think everybody else does too. But because the Chicago Cubs are playing the Baltimore Orioles on a nice July day, do we all just go along? I hate to be a Debby Downer, but does nobody else care? Am I wrong for not being able to engage in the escapism that entertainment venues provide? 

However, at the end of the day, I got swept up in the crowd. And with everything going on I still felt the power and nostalgia of singing the national anthem with 40,000 other people from around the country all gathered to watch the Cubs. I got a kosher hot dog, a beer, and had a good time, while still grappling with the question if I was doing the right thing. Perhaps as a Jew, not to mention a rabbi, this was wrong? Maybe my values are different? 

I believe Avraham and Sarah, our ancestors, grappled with similar questions of their role in a mult-cultural society. 

In today’s Torah reading there is a curious verse that I think usually gets skipped over:

וַיִּגְדַּ֥ל הַיֶּ֖לֶד וַיִּגָּמַ֑ל וַיַּ֤עַשׂ אַבְרָהָם֙ מִשְׁתֶּ֣ה גָד֔וֹל בְּי֖וֹם הִגָּמֵ֥ל אֶת־יִצְחָֽק׃ 

The child grew up and was weaned, and Abraham held a great feast on the day that Isaac was weaned. 

Shortly after Yitzchak’s birth, Abraham and Sarah held a “great feast” in honor of his weaning. A birthday party, although the parents are really the ones celebrating. 

I wonder, who attended that party? Did Avraham and Sarah have a bunch of friends that we don’t know about?

The answer, apparently, is yes. 

The Midrash in Breishit Rabbah, also cited by Rashi, teaches that all of the great men of the time were there. Avimelech, King of Gerar. Og the Giant, King of Sihon. The great scholars Shem, the son of Noah, and Ever, an ancestor of Avraham. According to the Midrash there were 31 kings and their viceroys all in attendance! Avraham and Sarah’s party was the who's-who of the century! 

As the first Jewish citizens of the world, the first people to hear the call of the God of Israel, I always sort of imagined Avraham and Sarah as being more sectioned off from society. Loners on a solitary mission. But actually the opposite is true. Avraham and Sarah were socialites! They were friends with all of the dignitaries and the ancient near eastern glitterati. 

We know they had different values than everyone else. They were the only monotheists. They were against child sacrifice, anti-corruption, and pro-social justice. Yet they ensconced themselves in high society. In today’s terms, they would have box seats at Yankee Stadium (out of respect to Avraham and Sarah, I can’t imagine them as Cubs fans). They too would sing the national anthem and take me out to the ballgame while having a beer and kosher hot dog, while still being the great people they were. 

And yet Avraham knew he was different — Avraham HaIvri, the Other, he is called. And we know he and Sarah were active in recruiting people to their side, as it says earlier that they gathered many people with them in Haran.

When I am starting to feel more out of place than ever in American society, I turn to Avraham and Sarah. They were unrelenting in their commitment to God and their values. And they were still at the center of society in Canaan. It could be that they were being strategic — change from the inside, as some might say. But it also could be that that was a genuine dichotomy they were struggling with. Celebrities in society but with radically different values. I actually prefer the latter — that Avraham and Sarah were struggling, not that they were scheming. 

I think I like baseball because it helps me contextualize and articulate the dichotomy I feel as part of American society. I go to the game, but I struggle with Americana. I walk all the way to section 227 to the Kosher stand for a hotdog, but then have to go downstairs to the regular stand to get the 7 Chicago hot dog toppings. I sing the national anthem, but also x

As a Jewish American entering the year 5773 I am thinking about Avraham and Sarah more than ever. We are part of that crowd at the baseball stadium. And while that crowd feels united and in solidarity, below the surface that is not actually true.

Like Avraham and Sarah I don’t see myself as an “infiltrator”, trying to sneak in to change society from the inside. Besides that I don’t believe that change from the inside is an effective strategy, I am part of the crowd, just as much as anybody else. We are all just as American as anybody else, even while we are different. Just like Abraham and Sarah were just as Canaanite as their friends, despite having radically different values in some cases. 

We’re all at the same party. And yet this year, 5773, perhaps more than any others at least in my lifetime, we’re going to have to figure out what our place is in that crowd. These questions are hardly new to Jews living in Diaspora communities, but, and I say this knowing that a divisive election season is approaching, now it is imperative that we double down on our values, in which every life is equal to the universe, and remember that we are tasked with a responsibility to fix the world, l’taken olam, as we will recite in the Musaf this morning. That when we see such horrible things taking place in our own communities, we can’t just move on and shrug our shoulders. What each of us can do is different, based on our personal beliefs and abilities. But we must do something. 

I challenge you during this Musaf prayer, when you recite the line “l’taken olam”, to think of one concrete thing you will do to bring that to fruition this year. And I bless us all that we are successful in our efforts to fulfill our mighty and holy task. 

Shanah Tovah

A few years ago I spent Yom Kippur on Rikers Island, New York City’s largest and one of the country’s most notorious jails. 

On Erev Yom Kippur I walked through security, was thoroughly searched, and had to surrender any communication devices. I was led to a room where I would be sleeping, guarded by a corrections officer.

No, I did not get arrested. I was there to serve as the High Holidays rabbi at the jail. Rikers is a jail, meaning it houses people pre-trial, either because they could not afford bail or were remanded, and some folks from prisons who had to come to the city for court hearings. At its height, Rikers Island had 10,000 inmates. Today it houses around 3,000. It is an island nestled between Queens and The Bronx, right next to Laguardia Airport. I find the juxtaposition quite poignant — Laguardia is full of people going everywhere in the world. Rikers Island is full of people going nowhere. 

Take a second to guess in your head: How many people do you think came to Yom Kippur services at Rikers Island jail? 10? 20? Maybe 25? I should note that the service was only for men (men and women are not allowed to mix in jail), and only included those who both wanted to come and were deemed safe enough to come. 

There were 50. People are often shocked when they hear this, though I don’t know why. Yes, there are at least 50 Jewish People in jail in New York City (and many more who didn’t come). They ranged in age from 18 to 70, Hasidic to not affiliated, and were there for a whole slew of crimes, including some of the most heinous crimes we can think of. 

But as a rabbi, it is my responsibility to serve the Jewish People. I believe all Jewish People have the right to a service, and so there I was.

At the beginning yes, it was scary. But once I met the inmates I started to feel comfortable. They were so happy that I was there. And not just because Yom Kippur services actually are fun when your normal day is being stuck in jail. Because they were so grateful that a young rabbi would want to spend his Yom Kippur in jail with them. It was by far the most powerful Yom Kippur I ever had and that I’m sure I ever will have.

At Rikers Island we had no choice. There were no denominations; no different ways of doing things. THere was one service, led by me, and that’s what we did. We actually were able to work it out amongst ourselves what to do, the services were interactive, participatory, traditional, and modern all at once. We figured it out and prayed with so much intention. The themes of repentance and freedom just resonated so profoundly that nothing could ever compare.

As uplifting as my experience at Rikers was, it was also so incredibly sad. The conditions that these humans live in are quite simply inhumane. The atmosphere is a power keg on the brink of explosion. A fight between inmates or COs can break out at any moment. We were supposed to take a break outside but didn’t, it seemed simply because the COs did not come to escort us out. Some of the folks there have been in and out of jail their whole lives, and dont have anywhere to go. It is simply heartbreaking. 

I bring this up now because when we imagine Yom Kippur services around the world, I want us not to just think of big fancy temples or a smaller but still very nice room like this; I want us to picture Rikers Island too. To picture all types of Jews in all places, places you could never even imagine, are saying these words, and praying for their lives, sometimes quite literally. 

In a moment we will recite Yizkor. Yizkor is about memory. Picturing those who are not with us, invoking their memory. They may be loved ones with whom we have cherished memories. They may be people who sat here just last year. And they may be people with whom we had more difficult relationships. Yet we are all here — and they are all here — and our responsibility right now is to picture them to remember them; just like Jews all over the world are doing with their memories.

Before we name the people we have lost in our own lives, I like to think of people in the public sphere who we have lost:

Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg

Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks, a prolific author and accomplished public personality 

TV host Larry King

Comedian Jackie Mason

Actor Ed Asner

Astronaut Michael Collins

Vice President Walter Mondale

Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh 

Rapper DMX

Author Beverly Cleary

Baseball player Hank Aaron

Among many others

We also remember the 13 American services members killed in Afghanistan a few weeks ago. 

The 14 civilians and 1 soldier killed in the violence in Israel in May.

Capitol Police Officer Brian Sicknick, murdered by the January 6th mob

CPD Officer Ella French, killed here in Chicago a few weeks ago. 

The countless victims of gun violence on our streets.

And the more than 600k Americans who have died from Covid.

Among those that we personally remember. May their memories be for a blessing, Zichronam Livracha. 

When i was in rabbinical school we did a project where we were asked to make a painting focusing on one very particular aspect of the story of Akedat Yitzchak, the binding of Isaac, of our choosing.

I chose to depict the ram, and quoted a verse from Leviticus regarding sacrifices that “it [the sacrifice] and its replacement are holy.”

There is scant data about Rosh Hashana in the Torah. We are told that it is a holiday on the 1st day of the 7th month, and we should blow a Shofar and remember something. The fact that it is the beginning of the year only came later.

You would think that the central biblical text that we focus on on Rosh Hashana would be the Creation. After all, as we say in the liturgy, “today is the birthday of the world,” “hayom harat olam.” Today we remember creation. 

However it is not. The focus is on a different, seemingly completely unrelated event — Aqedat Yitzchak, the binding of Isaac, as described in the Book of Breishit, Genesis.

Abraham is commanded to take his beloved son Isaac, born to him at the age of 100, his only inheritor, and offer him as a sacrifice to God. At the last minute an angel of God stops Abraham, telling him that this is not what God wants, and Abraham sacrifices a ram instead. This is the story we read this morning during the Torah service. The Shofar that we blow on Rosh Hashana recalls the horns of the ram Avraham killed instead of Isaac.

Rosh Hashana is referred to as “Yom HaZikaron” - remembrance day. Remembrance not of Creation but of the Aqeda. At the end of the Zichronot section in the liturgy we say “Akedat yitzchak hayom lanu tizkor”, please remember for us the binding of isaac today. That is what culminates the prayer, not Creation.

So I ask why? Why is Rosh Hashana all about this seemingly unrelated story and not something more obvious, like Creation?

And further, of all the parts of the Akeda story, why such a focus on the ram? The fact that Avraham sacrificed a ram instead of Isaac seems like a footnote to the story. I mean, who really cares? Yet the ram’s horn - and it’s for this reason that a shofar must be a ram’s horn specifically - has become the central symbol of Rosh hashana, the Shofar.

The Rabbis teach that this was in fact no ordinary ram. In Pirkei Avot, the Ethics of the Patriarchs, the Rabbis teach that there were 10 specific things that were created at the final moments of the original Creation, right before the first Shabbat started. One of the items suggested for this list is the ram that Abraham would ultimately sacrifice. This ram represents more than a footnote, it represents destiny. This ram was always meant to be killed instead of Isaac, even before Avraham was even born!

When it comes to sacrifices, the animal is not arbitrary. A ram that is designated for a sacrifice is considered “holy” even before it is sacrificed; from the moment it is designated as a sacrifice. There is actually a specific law in the Torah, called Temurah, prohibiting switching one animal for another for a sacrifice, even if the second animal is nicer than the original animal. The torah states “it and its replacement are both holy.”

In which case, the teaching in Pirkei Avot answers an important question: Didn’t Avraham violate this law by switching the ram for Isaac? The answer thus is no, he did not, as the ram was always meant to be the sacrifice, not Isaac. Isaac was the substitute, not the ram.

This helps us understand the story in a new fashion. It may seem that Isaac is the intended sacrifice but really it’s the ram. Like Abraham, we need to “lift our eyes and look into the thorns”, as the Torah describes, to see the truth. Finding the truth requires looking into places we wouldn’t have expected and seeing things differently. 

As we stand before God, about to be judged, however we understand that, I couldn’t think of a better time for us to remind God that He needs to remember that which is behind the bushes, the ram, our context. When we take into account our past year, we remind God that our shortcomings, our mistakes, need to be understood in context. Considering all that we have been through this year, who can blame us if we expressed anger, frustration, or despair? We cannot look at our actions out of context, especially not this year. 

We sound the shofar reminding God that fate is actually out of our hands. That we made mistakes, sure, but we ask God to understand the human condition. To understand what we are going through, as a pandemic ravages the globe for two years, our economy is still in trouble, governments are toppled, earthquakes, hurricanes, and tornadoes destroying homes. Horrors unfolding in Afghanistan, Haiti, Washington DC, our hospitals, and on our own streets here in Chicago.

While God may be all knowing, God can never understand that aspect of the human condition, the aspect of context. God operates outside of time, and thus outside of context. This is why God may need a reminder once a year to consider our context. Our context is the ram that is there in the bushes all along. 

I bless us all to bring the lesson of the Shofar into our own lives, the next time we get upset with our spouse, a family member, an employer or employee, to consider the ram; consider what may be in the bushes. It builds our compassions. 

In its merit may we all be sealed for a long, healthy, and prosperous life. 

Last year I asked my students what they are looking forward to in the new year. They virtually all said versions of “Covid being over,” “not wearing masks anymore” and such, on that theme. 

I was sad, though I bit my tongue, because I knew that Covid would never just evaporate overnight and that we would probably still be wearing masks in school one year from then. Sadly, I was right. 

We should be thankful for the progress — the vaccine has taken the pandemic from looking like an endless tunnel to a still long tunnel, but with a light visible. That I didn’t expect so quickly and am grateful for.

But there is still a lot of disappointment this Rosh Hashana. There was a time just this past May and June when it seemed we would be able to sit in a large auditorium together without masks, with Covid numbers under 1% all over the country. Last Rosh Hashana a lot of sermons and holiday wishes ended with a blessing that we all would be back to normal by this year, even if it was a tad naive to think so. It is ok to feel disappointed or let down today that last year’s Rosh Hashana prayers were not granted.

How do we understand the emotion of disappointment in Jewish text and thought? 

In some ways disappointment does not feel very Jewish. In Judaism we focus on hope. Optimism. The future. We do not linger on the past. As we recite in HaTikvah, the hope, “Od Lo Avdah Tikvatenu, our hope is never lost!

On our saddest holiday, the Fast of the 9th of Av, we recite the Book of Lamentations. The final line of the book reads: 

For truly, You have rejected us, Bitterly raged against us.

However, during the public reading of Lamentations we actually repeat the penultimate line at the end, so as not to end the book on this sad note:

Take us back, O LORD, to Yourself, And let us come back; Renew our days as of old! 

We have a discomfort with being disappointed. It is actually a principle in Jewish law that in liturgy, we always end with hope. 

Interestingly, themes of disappointment seep their way into the Rosh hashana liturgy, however.

This morning’s Torah reading speaks of a woman, Sarah, unable to bear a child. Finally she has a child, Isaac, but she is once again disappointed when she learns that Avraham’s son from his other wife, Yishmael, will also inherit Abraham’s legacy. Sarah forces Abraham to expel Yishmael and his wife Hagar. 

I think it is fair to say that all parties felt let down and disappointed in this episode. The story of Isaac’s birth actually does not have a happy ending. It leads to such a bitter and theologically troubling episode, as God sides with Sarah that there can only be one inheritor, and Hagar and Yishmael must be expelled. 

Just when it seems things cannot get any worse, they do. Yishmael collapses out of thirst in the desert. Not wanting to see her son’s death, Hagar keeps walking, leaving her son to die alone in the desert.

What a disappointment. What a let down. Abraham loved this child and he sent him out to the desert to die of thirst.

Hagar loved her son, but didn’t even have the strength to stay with him in his final moments. 

Yitzchak and Yishmael are brothers, yet they will never get to know each other.

However there is a happy ending — not for Abraham, Isaac, Sarah, or Hagar, but mostly for Yishmael. He prays out to God, and God miraculously makes a well of water appear. An angel tells Hagar about the well, and she rushes to bring water to her son, saving him. Famously, the angel tells hagar that God “heard Yishmael’s cry where he is.” The Rabbis explain, although one day Yishmael and his descendents will be evil, right now he is pure. He is judged on how he is now, not on what may happen one day. 

The text does not say that God miraculously made a well, per se (although that seems implied), it says that God “opened Hagar’s eyes, and she saw a well.” If we read that literally the miracle is not that God made a well, but that Hagar saw a well that was there the whole time. 

Hagar was so wrapped up in despair over all that had transpired - and rightfully so - that she didn’t see the well of water right in front of her eyes. The Angel had to tell Hagar that if she wants to improve her situation she needs to open her eyes; she needs to look for the well. 

If you are feeling let down or disappointed, I encourage you to turn to Yishmael. In this whole story he is the only one who never gave up hope; he prayed until the last moment and was saved. 

Tired and thirsty, he uses his last breaths to cry out to God from where he is — both literally, alone in the desert abandoned by his parents, and where he is spiritually as a person. His prayers, in some cosmic sense, helped Hagar see the well that was there the whole time. 

I can’t say what will be next year. With a relentless pandemic, chaos in Afghanistan, destructive wildfires and hurricanes ravaging our country, I wouldn’t blame someone who took the route of Hagar and just kept walking, saying “let me live in my despair, I can't deal with it, it’s all too much.” That sense of nihilism - that we’re all doomed, so what does anything matter - is so evident in society and politics today.

But my prayer this Rosh Hashana is more realistic than last. I don’t think we can just pray all of the world’s problems away. That will only set us up for disappointment. But I pray that we can still hold on to hope. That no matter what happens between this RH and the next, we can say we approached each day with our best selves. That we never gave up on ourselves, our community, our country, our world, even until the very last moments. Because maybe those prayer will help us see the wells that are right in front of our faces, but we cannot yet see.

Despite the popularization of the holiday, the story of Hanukkah is not well understood. 

As the legend goes, in 164 BCE Judah the Maccabbe conquered the evil Greeks who tried to outlaw Judaism and put an idol in the Temple. Judah rededicated the Temple and the oil lasted for 8 days when it was only enough to last for one. 

However, that's hardly the story. The story starts as an internal conflict among Jews over how integrated they should be with the dominant Greek Empire, specifically with the Seleucids, the group of Hellenists living in Syria after the destruction of Alexander the Great’s empire in 311 BCE.

A man named Jason, who was a moderate reformer - believing in preservation of the Jewish faith with integration into Hellenistic society, fairly similar to the way we live our lives - purchased the position of Kohen Gadol, high priest. Hardly noble, but that’s how things were done. 

However, some wanted to go further and totally integrate into Hellenisitc society. This group was called the “tobiads” and was led by the High Priest Menelaus, who was the one who put the idol in the Temple, driving out Jason and the Jewish faith as it was known. 

Now, of course, there was a rebellion, led by Judah the Maccabee, and King Antiochus sent military help to the Menelaus and the Hellenizers, who were ultimately defeated a few years later. However, Hanukkah’s celebration was brief. Battles continued, and Judah fell in battle only 4 years later and his brother, Jonathan took control. In 152 BCE Jonathan signed a peace treaty with the Seleucids, thus officially ending the war, and in return the Seleucids supported Jonathan becoming the High Priest himself. 

So what exactly are we celebrating? 

Yes we won the war against the Seleucids and got the idols out of the Temple, however, battles still raged on, and the war ended not in triumph but in corruption, with Jonathan becoming High Priest on a quid pro quo agreement with the enemy. 

The Talmud tells us that the first Hanukkah was the year after the events - the 25th of the Hebrew month of Kisslev, 163 BCE. Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik, a 20th Century philosopher and scholar, asks, “why did the not celebrate the war’s end immediately? Why wait a year?” He answers that it must be that it took them a year to recognize the significance of what had just happened. Perhaps, in its context, what just happened didn’t seem like a major miracle or cause for celebration. But, with retrospect it was. Yes this redemption was imperfect, but it is a heck of a lot better than things were in 165 BCE, when Judaism was outlawed and there were idols in the Temple.  

Perhaps at first Judah and the Maccabees were still waiting - they were waiting for all the Hellenizers and idol worshipers to disappear. But they realized that wasn’t a realistic goal; a much more realistic goal was getting back to where they were before this whole mess started - slightly hellenized but not entirely, still kinda corrupt, but preserving the Jewish faith and worshipping God alone. We’ll take it. 

So on Hanukkah, we celebrate a redemption of “we’ll take it.” It’s a very different type of redemption than the ultimate and powerful redemption we celebrate on holidays like Purim or Passover. But it’s also worth celebrating. Rarely in life do we miraculously make all of the problems around us disappear. But sometimes things can get better. And it shouldn’t be lost on us that Hanukkah is the first post-Biblical holiday, and perhaps that’s what living in a post-Biblical world is about. The fantastical past is over, we are now living in harsher and more grounded realities.

Last Thanksgiving and Hanukkah we all saw each other on Zoom. This year many - not all, but many - of us reunited with our families. I traveled to my family in New York for the first time in 2 years. It’s far from perfect right now. But it’s better. And while we pray for a continued improvement in the situation, we’ll take what we have now.

Ironically, Hanukkah teaches us that we don’t actually need huge miracles. Small steps of improvement are worth celebrating.