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We could all use a booster shot of hope. Where do we find it?Tomorrow we are going to examine two very different models for finding hope in dark circumstances: Rabbi Akiva in the Talmud, Makot 24 A and B, and Rabbi Jonathan Sacks in his epic Morality, published shortly before he passed away in 2020.Rabbi Akivaâs approach to hope seems to be about a new lens: Look at reality differently.Rabbi Sacksâs approach to hope seems to be about a new action plan: Act differently.What is the relationship of these two approaches to each other, and to us now?
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Fehlende Folgen?
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What, if anything, lasts forever? What is impervious to the ravages of time? What can we do today that will still be talked about a hundred years from now?
I have been thinking about these questions since May 13, which is the day that a great writer named Alice Munro died. Alice Munro won the Noble Prize in Literature in 2013. She was an absolute master of the short story genre. I had never read her work before her death, so I started reading a collection with the title Too Much Happiness, published in 2009. As you might imagine, the title Too Much Happiness is ironic. The characters in this collection do not have too much happiness.
One story is about a recently widowed woman named Nita. She had been married to a man twenty years older named Rich. They expected she would be the first to pass, because she was fighting cancer, and because he had gotten a recent clean bill of health from his doctor. But soon after the doctorâs appointment, he passed suddenly and unexpectedly while on the way to the hardware store.
It dawns on Nita that her life has changed not temporarily, but permanently. Rich is not coming back. The patterns they used to enjoy will not happen again. Who she used to be, a wife to Rich, she is no longer. And she faces this new reality with her own health challenges. She used to be a voracious reader. When Rich died, at first she thought Iâll just read. So she would sit with her books in her comfy chair. They kept her company. She liked the feel of them. But she realized she could not read them anymore. Her medical treatments had diminished her attention span. What she used to be able to do, she can do no longer. Is happiness when circumstances change permanently still possible?
Munroâs story captures a dilemma that many of us find ourselves in. The world is changing. Our world is changing. And we wonder is it changing temporarily. Or is it changing permanently? It is not always easy, or even possible, to know for sure. Think back to the worst of Covid. In the darkest days of the pandemic, we wondered whether we would we ever be able to gather in big, robust, happy gatherings without worry again. Now we know the answer is yes. But we didnât necessarily know it at the time. There is a recency bias. The moment we are in is so powerful. Remember how we all felt in the early days of the pandemic.
Now we have a different set of questions. What will be with Israel? What will be with the American Jewish community? Is our golden age over, or will the spike of anti-Semitism pass like Covid 19 passed? Will our relationship with our alma mater ever be loving and uncomplicated again?
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Kohelet famously teaches us that there is a time for everything under the sun. Does that extend to both moderation and extremism? Is there a time for moderation? Is there a time for extremism? What do our sources have to say about how we might think about the different appeals of moderation and extremism? We will consider two sources.The first is a famous love story between Rabbi Akiva and his wife Rachel. It feels like an extreme story. They fall in love, get married, and then spend two periods of 12 years apart from each other so that he can learn Torah and be a great scholar. She wants this, encourages it.The second is a teaching from Maimonides about how we should eschew extremism. Shoot for the mean. The greatest rabbi in the Talmud, Rabbi Akiva, seems to live a life that is at variance with the wisdom of our greatest medieval sage, Maimonides.How do we understand this creative tension, and what does it mean to us today?
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Dr. Michael Oren served in the IDF as a Lone Soldier in the paratroopers and then as an IDF Spokesman. He was Israelâs ambassador to the United States from 2009 to 2013, where he was instrumental in fortifying the US-Israel alliance and in obtaining U.S. defense aid, especially for the Iron Dome system. After his time in Washington, Oren served as a Member of Knesset and Deputy Minister of Diplomacy in the Prime Ministerâs Office. He spearheaded efforts to strengthen Israel-Diaspora relations, to develop the Golan Heights, and to fight BDS. He has authored several New York Times bestsellers including Six Days of War, Ally: My Journey Across the American-Israel Divide and Power, Faith, and Fantasy and is the founder of Israel Advocacy Group. Ambassador Orenâs latest writing can be found on his Substack, Clarity.
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Madness.
We all feel the madness of our time. How can it be that at the Newton Public library, groups of Newton citizens shout at each other, locked in mutual hate? How can it be that students at Columbia have to hear encampments where they can hear from their bedrooms "We love Hamas" and "Burn Tel Aviv to the ground" night after nightâand the administration lets this happen, hate unfiltered? How can it be that graduation ceremonies are interrupted by hate? How can it be that Jews feel so abandoned by so many? How can it be that Israel at 75 was (while it had been a tough year with the protests over judicial reform) basically robust and promising, while Israel at 76 feels so very different?
Madness was a big theme of Elie Wiesel. Tomorrow we are going to study a number of Hasidic parables that Elie Wiesel taught at Boston University that were reported in Ariel Burger's book called Witness. Elie Wiesel brought these parables to shed light on the madness of the 1930sand 1940s.
What light do these parables shed on the madness of our own timeâthe universities, libraries, schools, and neighbors we used to love that we no longer recognize?
Shabbat Shalom.
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It is 4:52 PM. Our flight took off at 4:35 PM. Eder has finished drinking his milk. Heâs done reading books. He is not tired. He does not want to sit still. In seventeen minutes, he has already played with and discarded every toy in the diaper bag. Now heâs screeching. Solomon and I are passing him back and forth, trying in vain to appease him. The good news is there are only four hours and twenty-two minutes to go.
The woman seated in front of us turns around. âYou know, I think heâs hungry,â she says, âhave you tried giving him some milk?â Before I can answer, the woman next to me chimes in, âthe problem is you fed him too soon. You should have waited. Poor thing, his ears must be terribly painful. Put the pacifier in his mouth at least.â Thereâs a tap on my shoulder. A grandmother behind me disagrees. âI think he has gas. Did you try moving his legsâsometimes that helps to ease their tummies.â Not to be left out, the woman across the aisle leans over. âDid you pack any socks for him? Heâs coldâlook at his bare feet!â I look at my phone. 4:54 PM. There are only four hours and twenty to go. There is nothing quite like flying the friendly skies with an eleven-month-old.
4:57 PM the seat belt sign finally turns off. Solomon stands up and takes Eder to practice walking up and down the aisle. The grandmothers swoon. Heâs such a good dad. Look at him, bent over, walking with the baby. Awww, heâs so cute. And so lucky to have a such a good dad. I take out my iPad and begin furiously typing this sermon.
For me, the flight was a stark depiction of something Iâve experienced often since becoming a mother. Before Eder was born, I was never blamed for someone elseâs bad mood. Honestly, there have been plenty of times Iâve been in public with people who were grumpy or upset, even times when my congenial husband was not the cheeriest. But at those times, no one would ever suggest that Solomon might be gassy or that I had packed him the wrong clothes. But now, there is this sense if Eder is upset, it must be something that I either did or didnât do that made him feel that way. I didnât know this, but there is a right way and a wrong way to mother. The rule of thumb is whatever youâre doing is wrong.
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At Sisterhood's wonderful donor event this past Sunday, a woman shared with me that she had had a large extended family in Europe before the Shoah. The family members who said in the 1930s it will all blow over, don't be alarmist, all perished in the Shoah. She said her parents were paranoid. They said it won't blow over. The alarm is real. They got out before it was too late. She said I am only here because my parents were paranoid, and they were right.There is an edge in the air. There is anxiety in the air. There is a lot of talk about the 1930s in Germany as a lens for today. How do we think about that? In a recent Israel at War podcast, Donniel Hartman and Yossi Klein Halevi dismiss this lens as hysterical; that there is no basis for such a comparison; and that the Jewish community ought not to be talking this way as it amps up anxiety in a way that is unwarranted. Are they right?Consider the liturgy for this solemn day.I believe there is zero chance that there will ever be an Auschwitz in America. I have zero worry that there will ever be concentration camps here.That said, that is the wrong question, that is fighting the last war, the wrong war, and that does not help me sleep at night. We are fighting a new war, a different war, but it is war, and it consists of three questions.One, does Israel have a right to exist, or was its founding a historic mistake which must be rectified?Two, does Israel have a right to defend its citizens from attack, or is the IDF per se all war criminals?Three, is Hamas a terrorist organization that murders innocent men, women, children, and babies, or is it a liberation movement, and all of its violence is justified to free Palestine?The protesters at the college campuses, and the faculty defending their right to their hateful protests, answer the questions: Israel has no right to exist; the IDF are war criminals; Hamas are agents of liberation. Zionism is a dirty word. Zionists are beyond the pale morally. That is why even on October 7, and the days thereafter before Israel's war on Gaza began, they refused to condemn Hamas. They see Hamas as agents of liberation, conquering an Israel that must die so that Palestine can be free from the river to the sea.I do not know how numerous they are in the population. But they are loud. They are noisy. They punch way above their weight. And they vote.Might American politics change, in deference to this tectonic shift in thinking? If the Majority Leader of the Senate were AOC, instead of Charles Schumer, would Israel get the support it needs in times of war? If the Speaker of the House were Ayanna Pressley or Ilan Omer, instead of Mike Johnson, would Israel get the support it needs in times of war?The old war is Auschwitz. The new war is no Israel because the politics in America on Israel have changed so dangerously and so precipitously that America would not support Israel in its darkest hour. In the old war, the people who survived fled. In this new war, we have to stay and fight for Israel. We need to get active in local government. We need to join the library committee so that this atrocity now showing never happens again. We need to make sure that people who support Israel's right to exist and to defend itself are elected, and that those who support Hamas as freedom fighters are defeated at the ballot box. We have so much important work to do.
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When was the last time you changed your mind on a matter of deep principle? You felt one way on an important issue, and then you flipped and came down on the other side? If that has happened to you, what inspired your change of thinking? What changed your mind?
Pharaoh and his courtiers changed their minds not once but twice. For a long time, he was not going to let the people go. Then after the tenth plague he changed his mind. Not only can they go, they need to go now. ASAP. And then in the reading for the seventh day, they change their minds again. What did we do? Why did we ever let them go? Letâs get them back, now. Send out our finest soldiers and chariots to take back our slaves.
When we discussed these biblical texts at services, a number of people volunteered that they had indeed changed their minds on important issues. It was always a personal relationship that prompted the change.
I was against LGBTQ plus inclusion, but then a family member came out; now I am for it.
I did not understand trans. It was not my issue. Then my grandchild announced that they are transitioning. Now I really care about this issue.
Fifty years ago I was against womenâs equal participation in Jewish ritual. Then my daughters had their Bat Mitzvah. And of course my granddaughters. I canât remember why I was ever against it.
These narratives suggest that it is personal relationships that drive changing our minds. People we know and love can cause us to think again.
What about ideas? Have you ever changed your mind because of the power of an idea? Has anyone ever sent you an article, a podcast, a book, a video link, an op-ed, and your response was: I was wrong after all. Does that happen, ever?
What do our sources suggest? Do ideas ever change our minds? Or is it only people and relationships that change our minds? What does all this suggest about the minds we need to change now, and how do we go about doing it?
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Yizkor sermons tend to be challenging for rabbis because we give a lot of them. We say Yizkor four times a year. If you do the math year after year, that is a lot of Yizkor sermons, and what is there new to say? What is there to say that we havenât said before? That you havenât heard before?
I wish we had that problem again this year. Unfortunately we donât. This is a Yizkor with an entirely fresh angle. The last time we said Yizkor was October 7. I donât need to tell you that the months since October 7 have been, and continue to be, the most harrowing for the Jewish people, since the Shoah. What is the impact of this hard new chapter on our private Yizkor mediations now?
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I want to ask you to imagine for a moment that you are one of the Israelites fleeing Egypt. And letâs be granular. I want you to imagine that youâve been a slave for decades. That your life is dictated by the whims of a cruel pharaoh, that your days are spent lugging huge stones, that youâve been separated from your family, kept apart so that you can work harder. I want you to imagine that after decades of hard work, you are tired. Your bones creak. Your muscles are sore. When Moshe tells you that God has heard you, that heâs going to get you out, you canât even process that possibility. You canât even catch your breath.
You might have stayed in Egypt, and simply enjoyed a few days off, but during this past week, Egypt has become more miserable than ever. Youâve endured water shortages, frogs, lice, hordes of wild animals, disease, hail, darkness, and widespread destruction. There arenât enough resources to stay. And so, even though walking is the last thing you want to do, youâre marching with 3 million Israelites, following some cloud towards a âPromised Land.â
After what seems like forever, walking day and night following Godâs mysterious pillar of clouds and fire, you make it to the Sea of Reeds only to hear Pharaohâs army following behind. Wearily you race ahead, walking through the water on dry land. In terror you watch as Pharaohâs armies give chase, and then with relief you see the waters crash down on them.
Youâre safe. Youâre exhausted. Youâre relieved. What do you do?
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Abe and Sarah have been happily married for more than 60 years. They share children, grandchildren, great grandchildren. One fine day, Sarah says, Abe: Iâd like a banana sundae. Would you please go to JP Licks? Of course! It would be my privilege! What kind of banana sundae do you want? Abe, write it down. A banana sundae has a lot going on. Would you please get me three flavors: chocolate chip, Oreo, and cake batter. Then whipped cream. Lots of hot fudge. With a cherry on top. Abe, write it down. I donât need to write it down. Iâve got it. Off he goes. Thirty minutes later, he comes back, smiling and triumphant. Sarah, I got you just what you wanted! A dozen hot, fresh bagels. And delicious plain cream cheese, which you always love. Abe, I told you to write it down. I told you youâd forget. I donât want plain cream cheese. I want cream cheese with scallions.
This is an old joke that my father in love used to tell, but the older I get, the more I realize that this joke is no joke. This joke has a deep pathos. The pathos that Abe is not the person he used to be. The pathos that Sarah is not the person she used to be. The pathos that their decline does not have an answer or a happy ending. The pathos that their children, grandchildren and caregivers are increasingly going to be called upon to help get them through their days safely. The pathos that their life is going to be changing in ways that they would not have chosen and cannot control.
Abe and Sarahâs 60-year love story has complexity to it. A lot of joy. A lot of love. A lot of rich shared history. A lot of what matters most in the world. And a lot of pain and loss. How do we think about the totality of their storyâand of ours? How do we make sense of not only the happy parts but also the rough patches?
This morning we are trying to make sense of two things that have their own cycle, their own rhythm, their own ups and downsâand that at first blush do not seem connected but in fact deeply are. The first is Through the Decades membership in Temple Emanuel for folks who once celebrated their Bar or Bat Mitzvah here, as an adult or as a teen, and are still connected to our community. The second is the outburst of hatred on college campuses directed against Israel and the Jewish people.
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This year, on the 8th day of Pesach, we will say Yizkor. In a recent clergy conversation as we were planning out this class, Michelle asked the simplest and most profound question, one I had never thought about before. Why do we not say Yizkor for fallen ideas and ideals? For broken hopes and dreams?If we did, there would be so much to say Yizkor for this year. Think of all the ideas and ideals that have fallen since October 7. Think of all the hopes and dreams that feel utterly vanquished.Michelleâs question shined the light on a simple fact: we only say Yizkor for dead people, not for dead ideas and ideals. We say Yizkor for parents, spouses, children, siblings, friendsâpeople. We donât say Yizkor for a peace process that feels terminally derailed; for a sense of pre-October 7 normalcy in Israel; for the rise of eliminationist Jew hatred on college campuses throughout our country; for the golden age of American Jewry that is either over or seriously threatened; for democracy in our own country and throughout the world that feels so very tenuous.Why not? What wisdom is encoded in our holiest and wisest sources for how to think about ideas and ideals, hopes and dreams, that feel not realizable in our lifetime?
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Do you remember where you were last Saturday night when we learned that Iran was firing more than 330 drones and cruise missiles into Israel? Shira and I spoke to several Israelis, and they used three words to describe last Saturday night.
One word was apocalyptic. We spoke with an Israeli woman living in Boston who spoke to her Israeli sister living in Tel Aviv, and the sister said the sirens are blaring, we are going into the bomb shelter, and I do not know what will be on the other end of this attack, whether Israel will be, whether we will be. Please know that I love you. The Israeli sister who received this called it apocalyptic. Can you even imagine what it would be like to make or to receive a call like that? Thank God, Israel and Israelis survived. Thank God, there were no fatalities from Saturday night. But the Israeli sister who went with her three young children and husband into the bomb shelter did not know that at the time, nor did the Israeli sister in Boston.
Then there was a second word: surreal. We spoke with our brother and sister-in-law in Jerusalem. They said the night was surreal. When the sirens were sounding, they went to their safe room where they could not sleep. When the sirens were not sounding, since they could not sleep anyway, they cleaned their kitchen for Pesach for the umpteenth time. Their kitchen has never been so clean. And the morning after, it was over, the missiles and drones had been shot down, the sun was shining, and people went about their Sunday, seemingly as if they had not been attacked by 330 drones and missiles. Surreal.
And then a third phrase, courtesy of Micah Goodman. Radical uncertainty. There is radical uncertainty about the narrative that best captured Saturday night and its aftermath.
One plausible narrative: This was an evening of miraculous strength and success for Israel. After all, virtually all 330 drones and missiles were shot down by Israelâs defense systems, and by Israelâs partnership with its allies--America, England, and other unnamed regional partners. They worked in concert to produce a biblical miracle. 330 fiery agents of death, zero deaths.
But there is a second narrative, also plausible. Israel was attacked by Iran in a brazen way. Israelâs citizens were forced to scurry to shelters. This time they emerged okay, who knows about next time.
Which leads to the next radical uncertainty: what to do next?
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Within the last few weeks, something has happened to give me a new lease on life. A new glide in my stride. We are all looking for hope and energy, and I got mine from an unexpected source: the release of Beyonceâs new album of country music, Cowboy Carter, in particular one incredible song, a duet with Miley Cyrus called II Most Wanted. I have listened to this song easily 100 times in the last few weeks. I listen to it in the kitchen when I am doing dishes. I listen to it in the family room when I am folding laundry. I listen to it in the gym when I am working out. I listen to it in my bedroom when I am getting dressed. Shira thinks that listening to the same song 100 times is excessive. Can you believe that? Every time she walks into a room where the song is playing, she says: again?
I love this song for so many reasons. Beyonceâs voice is beautiful, Miley Cyrusâs voice is beautiful, and their voices together are beyond gorgeous.
I love this song because the melody is also gorgeous.
But mostly I love this song because of its message.
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What happens to love in a world of not love? Consider this past Sunday at Temple Emanuel.In the morning Shai Held was in dialogue with Marc Baker about his new book Judaism is About Love. It was a truly inspiring conversation. After their dialogue, I heard many people offer some version of the following statement which, to my mind, is the single greatest compliment any rabbi could ever earn. âShai Held inspires me to want to be a better human being.âTotally beautiful, and totally well earned. There is only one catch. In their dialogue, there was no mention of October 7; Gaza; the hostages; the war. Their dialogue did not explicitly deal with the mess that isâand raised the question, can we deal with the mess that is, and still be inspiring?After Shai and Marcâs dialogue, there was a robust TE contingent at the rededication of the wall at the home of Jeff and Miriam Kosowsky, the wall whose photos of the hostages were blacked out, faces blotted out, names blotted out, and âFree Gazaâ written on their wall of hostages.What happens to love in a world of hate? Can love survive?Click here to view Chapter 11 of Shaiâs new book, Love in the Ruins. Three questions to guide your reading:
Shai quotes a rabbinic text that after the destruction of the Temple the Jewish peopleâs best move was to engage in acts of lovingkindness (hesed). What is the role of hesed for you now? (pg. 249)
Shai talks about how the 9th of Av was the day of endless pain and destruction. And yet not six days later, on the 15th day of Av, before shiva was over, there was a day of love, renewal, blessing as the maidens of Israel would find their partners. What does this âdizzying transitionâ (pg. 251) say to us now?Shai quotes Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik as teaching that when inexplicable suffering befalls us, we donât try to explain it or analyze it or understand the hidden ways of God. Rather, we try to act in helpful ways. (pg. 252-253). What does the Rav's insight teach us now? Can love survive in a world that is the opposite of loving? Can these three moves get us there?
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This Shabbat, we hear reflections from two visiting members of Brothers for Life. Since October 7, Amit Gilboa has served 155 days of active duty in the IDF and is currently participating in a workshop to facilitate support groups for newly wounded soldiers. Shahaf Segal, who served in the Golani Brigade, volunteers with Brothers for Life visiting newly wounded soldiers, showing them there can be a better future.
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I must tell you that whenever I have entered this sanctuary, I am reminded of the Starship Enterprise of Star TrekâŠ.and now I have the honor of speaking from the Control Room, And I flash to Spock communicating âBeam me up Scottyâ⊠For me, this is a metaphor of how we use the spiritual power of this Sanctuary to create a Place For Healing. A true story. When my 40 year old son Adam Goldman-Yassen was in second grade, they brought the class to the Temple Emanuel sanctuaryâŠand they showed them around and said of these chairs back here, â These is where the rabbis sit. And Adam, having been brought up the the Newton Centre Minyan, the precursor of Minyan MaâOr, A LAY-LED CONGREGATION, raised his hand and asked :âWhatâs a Rabbi?â I share that story with you because I believe Psychotherapy is the attempt to create a secular clergy to supplement what the religious clergy can offer. We are ALL the Purveyors of Hope.
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For Talmud this week a different kind of move, in two ways. First, we are actually going to study a page of Talmud, tractate Megillah 14a. Second, we are going to examine a halakhic question: why do we not say Hallel on Purim?We say Hallel on Pesach, when we were rescued from Egyptian slavery.We say Hallel on Hanukkah, when we were rescued from the Syrian Greeks.We say Hallel on Yom Haatzmaut, when we established the State of Israel.Why do we not say Hallel on Purim, when we were rescued from genocide in the Persian Empire?And what does this halakhic conversation teach us about how traditional Jewish sources value Israel and value the diaspora as places for Jewish living?
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