Standing Together in Covenantal Community - Yom Kippur Morning Sermon 5787 / 2026

 

On a Friday evening, earlier this summer, Scott Wiener entered Dolores Park to attend San Francisco’s Annual Transgender Pride.  That’s nothing new for Scott who hasn’t missed a Trans Pride since it began in 2004.  Scott, a Gay Jew, and a self-described Progressive Democrat, represents San Francisco in the California State Senate.  He’s currently running for Nancy Pelosi’s house seat. 

This year was different.  When Scott arrived, a group surrounded him and began to taunt him.  They screamed: “Scott, you do not belong here anymore.”  Feeling unsafe, he left. 

Scott Wiener is one of the most supportive politicians in the country on LGBTQ and Transgender rights.  You’d think he’d be welcomed to Trans Pride with open arms.  But that wasn’t the case.   

Scott is no right winger.  He’s about as left as they come.  He’s been outspoken against the war in Gaza and doesn’t believe in further military aid for Israel.  Even those beliefs didn’t insulate him from attack. 

The protestors accused Scott of endorsing genocide and for being a Zionist handler.  Why?  Why did they scream, “You don’t belong here anymore?” For one simple reason: Scott Wiener believes in Israel’s right to exist.

This is truly a scary time to be a Jew.  We watch powerless from afar as violence flares up in Israel and in the Palestinian territories.  We see the rise of antisemitic attacks in America and around the world that are without modern precedent.  We navigate fractured relationships with many liberal allies who view Israel as a litmus test.  We even witness our Jewish community breaking apart at the seam.  The dividing line is Israel: right versus left, Zionists versus Anti-Zionists.

This struggle isn’t just happening in San Francisco.  It’s playing out right here in Baltimore.  Last year, Bolton Street Synagogue co-hosted a peace program held at Baltimore Hebrew Congregation which brought together Palestinian and Israeli peace makers.  A local right-wing Israel group tried their best to shut down this program.  They forced many synagogues to cancel their co-sponsorship.  They sent thousands of spam emails to every BHC employee from their rabbis down to their preschool teachers.  They interrupted the program by screaming at Jewish and Palestinians speakers: “Bushah… you are an embarrassment...  You do not belong here!”

This type of fear mongering, in San Francisco and in Baltimore, is wrong.  We condemn all intimidation or any type of verbal or physical attack.  Our community has become so tribal, so loyal to our fixed positions, that we can no longer talk to each other.  The temperature has risen to such a boiling point that every single issue becomes an existential battle for our safety or our future.

This problem of tribalism is not new.  Our Torah reading this morning describes a Jewish community as diverse as our own:  young and old; rich and poor; conservatives and liberals, the entire spectrum from the water carrier to the tribal chief.  As I’m sure you could imagine, 600,000 Jews traversing the wilderness did not always see eye to eye.  The Torah describes many disagreements and even rebellions that occurred during that forty-year sojourn in the desert

It sure seems like nothing was strong enough to keep the community from tearing itself apart, but that was not the case.  The glue that held our ancestors together was a simple one, a brit – a covenant.  Earlier we read: Atam Nitzavim HaYom Kulchem.  “You stand here today, all of you… to enter into the covenant of the Eternal Your God.”[i] 

A covenant might sound so old fashioned to our modern sensibilities, but not to our ancestors.  They believed that the covenant affirmed our commitment to one another and to God.  They believed that the covenant committed each of us to uphold the mitzvot, the responsibilities of our Jewish tradition and our ethics and morals.  A covenant is the great unifier that diminishes our tribal instincts and bridges our divisions.

No modern thinker has been more committed to this idea of covenant than Rabbi Donniel Hartman.  In his book, “Who are the Jews – and Who Can We Become,” he shares that there is not one, but two covenants in Judaism.  He calls them The Genesis Covenant and the Exodus Covenant.  Many of our biggest rifts as a community come about because we aren’t speaking about the same covenant.

Let’s dig deeper.  The Genesis Covenant began with Abraham and Sarah.  Whether born Jewish or Jews-by-Choice, each of us inherits this covenant solely because we are the spiritual descendants of the first Jews.  The Genesis covenant relies on mutual loyalty as the essential part of Jewish identity.  As Jews, we have the same fate for we are “stuck” with one another.  We are obligated to each other’s welfare, solely because we are Jews.[ii]

The second covenant is quite different. The Exodus Covenant is based upon the Torah.  The Exodus Covenant casts Jewish identity as a mission and a lifelong project of self-improvement.  We enter the Exodus covenant to become Holy like God.  We commit ourselves to fulfill the mitzvot, the commandments around Jewish rituals and halachah as well as our ethical and moral responsibilities.[iii]

Most of us do NOT live on the extreme like the protestors in San Francisco or in Baltimore.  But most of us DO center our lives around one of these two covenants.  Some spend more energy on the Genesis Covenant: on Jewish loyalty.  Others center their time on the Exodus Covenant: on Jewish responsibility and morals. 

That’s a mistake!  Donniel Hartman believes that both the Genesis and the Exodus covenants are needed for Judaism to flourish.  Without the Genesis Covenant we become fractured into competing communities losing any larger sense of Jewish peoplehood.  Without the Exodus Covenant we lose our sense of mission and purpose.[iv]  Today, both these covenants are splintering as we become more tribal AND as we lose our moral compass.

Luckily, our tradition provides us with an answer to a fractured covenant!  The Hasidic Rebbe known as Shem Mi-Shmuel[v] expresses confusion about our Torah reading this morning.  The Rebbe points out that the original covenant was conferred to the Jewish people forty years earlier on Mount Sinai.  “Why then,” he asked, “was there a need for this second covenant just before they were to enter the Land of Israel?” 

The rebbe shares this analogy: when friends make a covenant, it’s not for the present, but for the future.  Sometimes as time passes their feelings of closeness dissolve.  The covenant is meant to help them maintain their closeness even after the events which brought it about no longer exist.[vi]

Like our ancestors, our community’s closeness has also dissolved.    We are not the same Jewish people we were forty years ago, let alone ten years ago.  Israeli Jews and American Jews have grown further apart, while our Jewish community here in America is more tribal than ever before.  Like our ancestors, we too must redefine what it means to be in sacred relationship with one another.

I believe we begin with our similarities.  We must ask the question: “What do we all believe?”  Here’s my answer, but think about your own answer as well.  In a covenantal relationship, we have an obligation and a responsibility to the Jewish people.  In a covenantal relationship, we believe that our safety and our people’s safety is paramount.  In a covenantal relationship, we believe it is our Jewish obligation to act ethically and morally so that our neighbors can flourish just like we do.

Now that we’ve set the parameters: peoplehood, safety, and ethical responsibility, let’s address the Genesis Covenant.  During the 20^th century, the Genesis covenant became central in the consciousness of American Jewry.  “We are One” became the dominant Jewish slogan, while “Jewish unity” a vital communal directive.  Caring for Israel and remembering the Holocaust became central to what it meant to be an American Jew.[vii]

That’s much harder today.  It’s almost impossible for us to stand together in lockstep on anything.  When Israel’s actions are so troubling and much of our Jewish community has moved further to the right and the left, it’s quite difficult for us to say that “We Are One.”  I believe that standing together does not mean that we walk together in lockstep with one singular voice.  That’s not what it means to be a Jew.  We stand together in covenant by talking, listening, and being in sacred relationship with one another. 

A few months after the Baltimore peace event was disrupted, the planners of that event courageously reached out to the head of the protest group to get together for coffee.  I wasn’t there but was told it wasn’t the easiest or the friendliest of conversations.  It was, however, a brave conversation because it allowed the two groups to express their concerns and to recognize that each in their own way were committed to the Jewish people and for a better future for Israel.

When we stand together in covenant, we must recognize the diversity of our opinions, left and right, Zionists and Antizionists.  We don’t always have to agree, but whether we like it or not, we are part of the same Jewish community.  We must treat each other with curiosity and respect.

I challenge you, and I also challenge myself, to further our conversations with people whose viewpoints are different from our own.  That’s why I’d like to invite you to join me for a series of conversations that we’re planning for this fall.  These will be opportunities for productive conversations on topics like Tikkun Olam, Jewish values, Jewish loyalty, safety, and antisemitism, in which we will create a space for people to share their opinions about Israel and Palestine, humbly and openly.  I guarantee that you will not be the only one with your viewpoint, but you will also hear opinions different from your own.

Finally, the Exodus Covenant has become so central to our Jewish consciousness.  Over the last few decades, our liberal Jewish community has been a steady voice for a Two State Solution while also decrying the attacks on Israeli democracy.

This has become much more difficult.  As Israel continues to move further to the right, many of us can no longer remain silent about the occupation, settler violence, or the unimaginable destruction in Gaza.  We must write letters, speak out, and attend rallies.  But the thing that keeps me up at night is how the conversation has changed.  We no longer just decry Israel’s actions, but now, the discussion centers on Israel’s very right to exist.  As Rabbi Josh Weinberg teaches, “Can a Jewish State itself ever be morally legitimate and accepted?”[viii]

Today, on Yom Kippur, our prayers remind us that every person can change and move in a different direction.  So too, for Israel.  We Jews believe in teshuvah, in repentance, in repair.  We must hold Israel to account whenever its actions are immoral or unethical, but at the same time, we must believe that Israel has the capacity to change, to be better.  We American Jews do have a stake in this game.  Our responsibility is to push Israel to be “that light amongst the nations.”  That’s what it means to be in covenant with one another.

Two days after Scott Wiener was accosted in Dolores Park was San Francisco’s Annual Gay Pride Parade.  I was in California on vacation and stood on Market Street with my husband Brian.  In bated breath, we waited to see if Scott would attend the Pride Parade.  He did, proudly holding a sign that said, “Trans Kids Matter.” 

After the initial protest at Trans Pride, Scott Wiener could have stayed home.  He didn’t.  He stood strong and upheld his covenant, committed to his values, his relationships, and his belief that he and others have the capacity to change.  Scott Wiener showed those protestors that “I do belong here.”

Atam Nitzvim HaYom Kulchem.  Today, we stand together in covenant.  May we live our Jewish values.  May we take care of our Jewish brethren.  May we navigate difficult conversations.  May we recognize that we have the power to change.  May we reaffirm our covenant and work tirelessly to better our community, Israel, and the entire world.  Amen.   

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[i] Deuteronomy 29:9-11

[ii] “Who are the Jews – and Who Can We Become?” by Donniel Hartman, p. 12, 19, and 24

[iii] Hartman, p. 31-37

[iv] Hartman p. 78-79

[v]  Rabbi Shmuel Bornsztain

[vi] Shem Mi-Shmuel, commentary on Deuteronomy 29:11, Torah Gems edited by Aharon Yaakov Greenberg,

[vii] Hartman p. 128

[viii] https://arza.org/the-zionism-test/

We are Israel: Spiritual and Moral Wrestlers - Rosh Hashanah Morning Sermon 5786

 

Long ago,[i] a man named Jacob worried about an impending attack.  An ancient enemy headed his way alongside 400 armed men.  Jacob first sent his family to safety across the Jabbok River.  As he gathered his final possessions, ready to cross the river himself, he ran out of time.  Darkness fell.  Jacob found himself alone, all by himself, when a stranger appeared.  That stranger and Jacob wrestled throughout the night.  As dawn approached, the stranger pleaded with Jacob to let him go.  He replied, “I will not let you go until you bless me.”  The stranger answered, “Your name will no longer be Jacob, but Israel, for you have wrestled with beings divine and human and have prevailed.”[ii]

Jacob is our namesake.  We are called Israel, for we Jews wrestle with the divine, with fellow human beings, and with ourselves.  As Rabbi Shai Held teaches, “To wrestle with God’s word is to ask ourselves – even and especially when it is uncomfortable – what it is that God asks of us in the present moment.”[iii]  Over the course of these High Holy Days, I seek to answer the question, “How do I be a Jew in this moment?”  Last night, I spoke about being in community.  My answer this morning: “to be a Jew is one who wrestles.” 

One person who helped me with my personal wrestling is the author, Joshua Leifer.  This summer, I read his book, “Tablets Shattered: The End of an American Jewish Century and the Future of Jewish Life.”   Leifer believes that American Jews are living in what he calls the diasporic double bind.  This means whether we like it or not, we are inescapability connected to Israel.  Leifer writes, “As long as the state of Israel exists, American Jews will find themselves pulled within its orbit.”[iv] 

He proves this point through sheer demographics.  Today, Israel is home to 7 million Jews, while 6 million live in America. By 2050, there will only be 5 million Jews in the US with over 8 million in Israel. For the first time in over 2 millennia, a majority of Jews will live in a sovereign Jewish state.  Israel has already begun to displace the United States as the focal point of World Jewry.[v]  As the war in Gaza continues, whether we like it or not, we are pulled into the orbit of Israel.

Our ancient rabbis were fascinated by Jacob’s wrestling.  They spent countless hours debating the identity of that nighttime stranger.  Did Jacob wrestle an angel?  God?  His brother Esau?  Or was it someone else?  Beresheit Rabbah,[vi] the great commentary on Genesis, teaches: “the stranger appeared to Jacob in the image of a shepherd. The stranger had sheep, just like Jacob had sheep. The stranger had camels, just like Jacob had camels. The stranger said to Jacob, ‘I’ll pass over the river, just like you will pass over the river.’”  Who was this stranger, so similar to Jacob?  It was Jacob wrestling himself.

Like Jacob, we Jews wrestle with ourselves.  As Jacob fought with himself, so to do we, American Jews and Israelis often clash with each other.  Even more difficult is the fact that the relationship between Israel and the diaspora isn’t always reciprocal.  American Jews must struggle with the reality that Israel’s actions impose a burden upon us, but we do not exert the same power over our Israeli brethren.[vii]  So what do we do?

The first option is to walk away.  More and more members of our Jewish community want nothing to do with Israel.  I’m saddened by how many wish to dissolve all ties between their Jewishness and Israel.  I’m challenged by those who see Israel only as a Goliath, as a bully.  Earlier this September, I met with a few members of our congregation who are struggling.  One member even left our synagogue because of our connection to Israel.  All shared that for them a red line had been crossed.  They were done.  The actions of the Israeli government, whether the famine in Gaza, the lack of water and necessities, the indiscriminate bombings, the ongoing occupation, or the lack of perceived effort towards a cease-fire were just too much. They were so troubled by Israel’s actions that they were unsure if they could remain a Jew.

A second option is to believe that Israel can do no wrong.  Throughout our organized Jewish community, too many never question any of Israel’s actions.  Many doubt the media.  They might counter every argument about the events in Gaza with differing facts.  Many believe that Israel can do any action it pleases regardless of the consequences to innocent Palestinians.  I’m saddened that when a famine occurs in Sudan or a bombing occurs to civilians in Ukraine, we speak up.  But, when innocent Palestinians are hurting and hungry, many in our Jewish community say not a word.

There is a third option to navigate this moment: denial.  Many of us do our best to ignore what is happening in Gaza and in Israel.  We might refrain from watching the news.  We scan the headlines, but don’t learn the details of what is going on.  We pretend that what’s happening across the world has no bearing on our lives.  Denial can go both ways.  We can deny that Israel is doing anything right.  We can also deny that Israel is doing anything wrong.  We can deny Hamas’ role in this war.  We can also deny that Israel has at times acted unjustly.  I think most of us are in denial because the situation is just too complex.  It’s much easier to put our heads in the sand and to deny that anything is wrong.

Sometimes we chose one of these options and sometimes we take a little bit of this and a little bit of that.  Honestly, I believe all of these options are missing something important: wrestling.  We aren’t wrestling! 

A few weeks ago, I hosted 12 local rabbis at Bolton Street Synagogue who sat down with Shira Ben Sasson Furstenberg, the Associate Director of the New Israel Fund.  Since 1979, the New Israel Fund (NIF) has worked to strengthen civil society in Israel: supporting women, LGBTQ people, religious minorities like Reform Judaism, and Palestinians.  As you can imagine, this has been a difficult three years for NIF, from the judicial overhaul, to the immediate needs after October 7^th, to the long Gaza war. 

Shira Ben Sasson Furstenberg shared with us a recent, and shocking, Israeli poll result.  61% of Israelis do not believe there are any innocent Gazans.  61%!  That’s shocking because this includes children, babies, and the elderly.  And yet, at the same time, thousands upon thousands of new Israeli donors have donated to NIF for the sole purpose of providing food to hungry Gazans.  NIF has been able to provide three times the number of grants than before October 7^th to help Israelis and Palestinians as well as strengthen Israeli democracy.

Shira shared that what Israel needs right now is healing.  Healing for the Israeli political system, healing for the hostage families, healing for Israeli soldiers fighting in this long war, and healing for all in innocent Gazans in harm’s way.  I heard Shira’s call loud and clear.  If we’re not going to respond by walking away, or believing that Israel can do no wrong, or living in denial, our role as American Jews can help Israel heal.  We can donate to Progressive Zionist organizations, we can speak out in a loud voice at rallies, we can stay informed, and we can wrestle with the complexity of this war.  We can help our Israeli friend and family, and help ourselves be healed.

For we need healing too.  This war is tearing our Jewish community apart.  We are screaming at one another.  The temperature continues to rise with the language of violence permeating our conversations.  We are dividing ourselves into two communities. 

A few years ago, Natan Sharansky and Gil Troy wrote an article in Tablet Magazine in which they call Jews who are avowedly Anti-Zionist, “Un-Jews.” [viii]  As they write, “We call these critics “un-Jews” because they believe the only way to fulfill the Jewish mission of saving the world with Jewish values is to undo the ways most actual Jews do Jewishness. They are not ex-Jews or non-Jews, because many of them are and remain deeply involved Jewishly, despite their harsh dissent.”

This division between “Jews” and “Un-Jews” is not new.  In the Babylonian Talmud,[ix] our rabbis over fifteen-hundred years ago, called those Jews who were outside their circle Amei Haaretz which we often translate as the uneducated.  The rabbis saw Amei Haaretz as a threat because they observed Judaism and ritual practices differently than they did.  The rabbis were so worried about Amei Haaretz that they forbid one another to eat at the same table, to live in the same neighborhood, to marry one another, and even justified violence against them.  Coexistence was not possible.[x] 

Deborah Barer, at the Shalom Hartman Institute, connects this ancient struggle to our modern moment: “We have been operating from a sense of threat...  We have closed ranks in order to protect that which we hold most dear, and in doing so, we have framed a conversation as a dispute between us and them, between the “Jews” and the “un-Jews,” rather than as an exploration of what is and what should be, of what is possible and how to build it.”[xi]

This is such a difficult time.  It’s often much easier to divide ourselves into our different camps instead of wrestling with what is and what should be.  It seems simpler to spout out our own facts, terms, or opinions, instead of discussing together what is possible and how to build it.  For Israel is in an existential crisis.  Missiles reign down on its cities, and we’re still waiting for the hostages to come home.  And at the same time, thousands of innocent children and the elderly have been killed by Israel’s bombs, while too many Gazans are starving.  Our dream of vibrant home for the Jewish people living peacefully with her neighbors seems so far away.

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks teaches: “[The] path chosen by [Jacob] is not for the fainthearted… It is not easy to face our fears and wrestle with them, refusing to let go until we have turned them into renewed strength and blessing.”[xii]  If we believe Israel is always in the wrong, we aren’t wrestling.  If we believe that Israel is always in the right, we aren’t wrestling.  If we can’t respect and hear differing opinions, we aren’t wrestling.

We are called Israel.  It’s the name of our people and it’s the name of our land.  We are not the ones who walk away.  We are not the ones who forego our ethical responsibilities.  We are not the ones who deny what is happening.  We are the ones who wrestle.  Wrestling is not easy.  Jacob was wounded in that nighttime attack and forever after he walked with a limp.  Our wrestling is not for the fainthearted and there might be wounds.  But wrestling is what we do. We are the ones who wrestle with ideas. We are the ones who wrestle with each other.  We are the ones wrestle with ourselves.  For we are Israel: the Ones who wrestle.  Amen.

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[i] Genesis 32:24-33

[ii] Genesis 32:29

[iii] Rabbi Shai Held, “Judaism is About Love,” p. 191

[iv] “Tablets Shattered: The End of an American Jewish Century and the Future of Jewish Life,” by Joshua Leifer, p. 209

[v] “Tablets Shattered,” p. 210 - 219

[vi] Beresheit Rabbah 77:2

[vii] “Tablets Shattered,” p. 210

[viii] https://www.tabletmag.com/sections/news/articles/the-un-jews-natan-sharansky

[ix] “When Community Becomes a Zero-Sum Game: Lessons from a Troubling Talmudic Text” by Deborah Barer, in Sources: A Journal of Jewish Ideas: Summer 2025, p. 85-88

[x] “When Community Becomes a Zero-Sum Game…,” p. 87

[xi] “When Community Becomes a Zero-Sum Game…,” p. 91

[xii] Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, “Covenant and Conversation, Genesis: The Book of Beginnings,” p. 241

Letting Go of Hate - Yom Kippur Morning Sermon 5785

 

One of the highlights of this past summer was spending time with my oldest friend.  He’s a proud Jew who cares deeply about Judaism and Israel.  We’ve had lots of debates over the years!  We don’t always agree on every issue, but our discussions always feel important.  We were in the midst of an intense conversation about the current crisis in Israel, when a woman wearing a headscarf walked by.  She looked to be Muslim.  My friend turned to me and asked, “Do you think she hates us because we are Jews?”  I was surprised.  “No, of course not.”  He looked at me.  “I’m sorry, but I do.”

My friend is a compassionate and kind person who cares deeply about the world.  But, at that moment there was fear and perhaps a bit of anger.  She had said nothing and did nothing to us.  My friend didn’t know her story or her opinions, and yet, in his heart, he believed she hated us because we are Jews.  I silently asked myself: If we believe others hate us, does that mean we hate them too?

Unfortunately, this isn’t a new problem.  Throughout Jewish history, there have been many moments filled with fear of the other.  One surprising story is that of Elijah, the prophet.  You know Elijah!  We open the door for him at each Passover and provide a seat of honor when we welcome every baby into our community.  He represents… but wasn’t always such a compassionate figure in Jewish tradition. In the Bible, Elijah possessed a different type of temperament.  He was unpredictable, boiled with rage, and was filled with zeal. 

During the ninth century BCE, Elijah was a prophet of Adonai.  The rulers of Israel, King Ahab and Queen Jezebel, wished to bring a new religion, the worship of the idol Baal to the people.  Queen Jezebel persecuted the prophets of Adonai and murdered many in cold blood.  Elijah decided to act.  He brought the priests of Baal together for an old-fashioned showdown.[i]  Each side would ask their God to accept a sacrificial offering.  The prophets of Baal prayed their hardest, but nothing happened.  When it was Elijah’s turn, a fire came from the heavens and accepted his offering.

That’s all fine and good.  It’s what happens afterwards that is surprising and deeply troubling.  Elijah tells the Israelite people: “’Seize the prophets of Baal, let not even one of them get away.’  They seized them, and Elijah took them down to the Wadi Kishon and slaughtered [the 450 prophets] there.” 

Elijah flees and hides out in a cave.[ii]  Adonai appears and asks him: “Why are you here Elijah?”  He responds, “I am moved by zeal for Adonai.”  God tells him to stand on a mountaintop.  A great and mighty wind passes, but God was not in the wind.  An earthquake occurs, but God was not in the earthquake.  A fire appears, but God was not in the fire.  Finally, God appears in a soft murmuring sound.  God whispers, “Why are you here Elijah?”  Again, he responds, “I am moved by zeal for Adonai.”  And then… God fires him.  Literally, God says: “Go, find your replacement, Elisha the prophet.”  Because Elijah is a whirlwind of anger and vengeance, Adonai believes he’s not fit to be a prophet.

We’re living in a time where many possess a zealousness for their cause.  Hateful rhetoric and vitriolic statements raise the temperature to a boiling rage.  Certain politicians tell lies about Haitian immigrants, a modern blood libel.  Some leaders of the Israeli government unapologetically state their wish for a Greater Israel and the destruction of all Palestinians.  While at the encampments on college campuses, some chant “From the River to the Sea,” which whether knowingly or not, undermine Israel’s right to exist.  I’m worried that this type of rhetoric fans the flames and leads us towards the fiery actions of Elijah.

Judaism has always recognized that vitriol exists.  We can’t rid our world of hateful rhetoric, but we can do our part to keep hate in check.  In the Book of Deuteronomy, we learn: “You shall not abhor an Edomite for such is your kin.  You shall not abhor an Egyptian for you were a stranger in that land.”[iii] 

Too many times in the Torah, we are commanded to attack or destroy our enemies like the Midianites, the Moabites, and the Amalekites.  Why here are we specifically told to “not abhor” an Edomite or an Egyptian?

Our sages[iv] teach that during the time of Joseph, the Egyptians welcomed us with open arms.  While the Edomites were our kinspeople.  Their patriarch Esau was the brother of Jacob.  They’re family.

But you might be thinking - These statements are outrageous!  The Egyptians enslaved us and were our taskmasters for over 400 years; the Edomites our ancient enemies.  The Torah here teaches a valuable and sometimes very difficult lesson.  We can redefine our relationship with our perceived enemies, even our current or past enemies[RS1] .  The Egyptians could be viewed as taskmasters or those who welcome us.  The Edomites could be foe or family.  We too can reframe our  relationship with all those whom we disagree.

Perhaps there is a clue in a second interpretation to this verse: “You must not abhor an Edomite or an Egyptian.”  At the heart of Torah is the belief that each one of us is created b’tzelem Elohim, in the divine image.   Each of us is a unique individual who possesses our own beliefs, our own opinions, and our own actions. We are told to not abhor an Edomite or an Egyptian not THE Edomites or THE Egyptians.  We are to see humanity in each person.   

That’s hard in our black and white society.  Too many can’t distinguish between Prime Minister Netanyahu’s policies and the Israelis who protest after each Shabbat at Hostage Square.  Too many can’t differentiate between a Hamas terrorist and a Palestinian civilian. Too many can’t separate a college student who feels passionate about the suffering of Palestinians and one who has bought into antisemitic rhetoric.  I pray that we take a step back and don’t jump to conclusions about a person’s beliefs.   I sincerely believe that the only way to mitigate our feelings of distrust and fear is by breaking down barriers and learning more about who we each are as individuals.

Our great sage, Hillel, takes this a step further, in his most famous statement: “That which is hateful to you do not do to another; that is the entire Torah, the rest commentary.  Now Go and Learn!”[v]  Other religions often downplay Hillel’s interpretation of the Golden Rule and believe that his double negative is pessimistic.  “Where’s the love?” they ask.  We know there can’t always be love.  Not every political position is worthy of empathy.  There are views that are beyond the pale. Too many of us this past year have encountered antisemitism and hateful rhetoric.  We can’t ignore these comments, we must speak out.  But, we can act differently when we encounter malice.  We might want to fight fire with fire.  We might want to stew in anger.  Hillel reminds us that we must not mirror their hate or fan the flames of distrust.   

That’s not always easy.  When we’re hurt or harmed, we often just want to lash out!   Rabbi Sharon Brous in her new book, The Amen Effect,[vi] shares a different approach on how to face hate. A few years ago, a Shock Jock who had an incredible reach became an unapologetic purveyor of racism, misogyny, homophobia, and ableism.  He felt he was permitted to speak freely and share a long list of perceived grievances.  After he published an inflammatory piece targeting transgender people, Rabbi Brous recognized that his rhetoric could lead to harassment, violence, discrimination, and even criminalization of transgender friends and family members.

She reached out and asked for a one-on-one meeting.  When they met in person, she told him that his words broke her heart and endangered the safety of her congregants and people that she loved.  Unfortunately, that meeting didn’t change anything.  His writing still fuels racism and anti-trans hatred today.

Rabbi Sharon Brous summed it up this way: “Even though the meeting was a failure, it didn’t feel like a waste of time.  It was the effort to try and puncture even one layer of the thick residue of hate around his heart.”[vii]

Rabbi Brous could have hated the Shock Jock for his vicious words and actions.  She could have upped the ante, pouring more hate on his hate, enflaming tensions, but she didn’t.  Instead, she did the difficult work of sitting down and talking.  She hoped that by sharing her views, it would change his ugly rhetoric.  It didn’t work that time, but every conversation is a possibility.  Every discussion is a moment of action.  Every meeting can puncture a small residue of hate in their hearts.  That is the power of a conversation because we aren’t screaming into the void.  These days, we do too much screaming and not enough talking. 

By putting herself out there, Rabbi Brous also changed herself.  When we step up for what’s right, when we speak up for our values, when we stand alongside our community and our loved ones, we too change for the better.  We reaffirm who we are and what we believe.  We open our hearts to bring more justice and love into this world.

Long ago, Elijah was unpredictable and boiled with rage.  He boarded a fiery chariot and flew to the very Heavens.  That should have been his end, but our sages gave him a second act.  Over time, in their stories, Elijah learns and grows.[viii]  His zeal for the enemy disappears and transforms into an undying support for the downtrodden.  Elijah appears in every generation.  His greatest miracle is the opening of hearts and the transformation of how people act towards one another.  Each Passover, we welcome him into our homes, not because of his zeal, but because he will herald the coming of the Messianic time.  He reminds us that even when hate and fear are seemingly everywhere, we must not close our hearts from the world.

My friend and I have known each other for a long time.  We’ve had many enriching and challenging discussions and I’m sure there will be many in the future!  Our conversation this summer is still with me.  I hear his worries and his fears, but once again, I answer “No” to his question. I won’t assume that  every person hates us because we are Jews.  And perhaps I’m putting words in his mouth, but, “No, I don’t believe we are justified to hate others, even if they do hate us.” 

I know this is not an easy time to be a Jew.  We are scared and worried.  I believe firmly in my heart that there is a different path than hate or fear.  We have little ability to upend the political leadership in Iran, Gaza, or even in Israel.  We are unable to change every person’s perspective, especially those who harbor antisemitism in their hearts. But we do have the power to focus on our own emotions and our own actions.  We can locate the sliver of humanity in each person.  We can live by Hillel’s maxim “that which is hateful to you do not do to another.”  We can speak up for our values, our community, and never back down.  We can live our days filled not with fear or retribution, but with justice and love. It might be naïve, but I believe this is the only path forward, to make our community safe, and to bring peace to us all.  Amen.

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[i] I Kings 18

[ii] I Kings 19

[iii] Deuteronomy 23:8

[iv] See Rashi and Chizkuni’s commentary on Deuteronomy 23:8

[v] Babylonian Talmud, Shabbat 31a

[vi] The Amen Effect by Sharon Brous, p. 166-168

[vii] The Amen Effect, p. 168

[viii] Becoming Elijah: Prophet of Transformation by Daniel C Matt, pp. 148-151

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