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April 13, 2024

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Passover 5784 – Two Open Doors

Usually, around this time, I am pretty focused on Passover cleaning, kashering, and shopping. I am sure that next week is going to be full of that. This year, though, the question that is filling my thoughts is about how to mark this difficult time in which we find ourselves during the Passover Seder.

How will this seder be different from all other seders?

I imagine we are all wondering the same thing.

Let’s keep in mind that Jews have been observing Passover for thousands of years, often in times of suffering and distress. Our ancestors found way to hold Seders in concentration camps, as crypto-Jews, and under the threat of blood libels.

The Seder is well-designed to respond to the moment in which we find ourselves. By its nature, it invites us to relate the ancient story of Exodus, of moving from slavery to freedom, in the context of our own lives and experiences.

B’khol dor vador. In each and every generation, we are obligated to see ourselves as if we personally went out of Egypt.

The Seder is not just a bunch of ancient texts. It involves actions, movement, performance, song, taste, and observation. Each of the traditional elements holds the promise of evoking something deeply personal and relevant in us.

That is what the questions are all about, after all. Something is happening tonight that is not usual. We notice and ask why.

I would invite those of us who are leading a seder this year to invite our guests to respond authentically and honestly to what strikes them. For those who are guests, bring it with you to the seder you are attending, even if the host does not explicitly invite it.

There are many resources available. The Hartman Institute published a Seder supplement called In Every Generation which you might find helpful. It offers a number of suggestions that could be meaningful to incorporate. I’ll just share a couple.

When setting the table, set an extra seat dedicated to those who are still held hostage, unable to celebrate Pesach with their lived ones. They are, quite literally, in degradation.

The four cups of wine symbolize four acts of redemption performed by God on behalf of the Israelites. Dedicate the fourth cup in memory of those who were killed and kidnapped on October 7.

Kibbutzim have a long history of writing their own haggadot, which often reflect the backgrounds and experiences of the members themselves. The supplement includes writings out of Haggadot published by kibbutzim that were attacked.

Or, find something in the Seder that speaks to you, and introduce your own ritual or discussion.

I am thinking about the two times during the Seder in which we open the door. Once is early, and once is late. These two moments feel especially poignant this year.

The first door opening comes at the beginning of maggid, before we have even begun to tell the story of the Exodus. We open the door and recite a poem in (mostly) Aramaic.

Ha lachma anya
This is the bread of affliction that our ancestors ate in the land of Egypt.
Let all who are hungry come and eat.
Let all who are in need come and celebrate Pesach.
This year, here, next year in the land of Israel.
This year, slaves, next year, free people.

Ha Lachma anya – is an invokation of peoplehood – we open the door to let anyone in who needs it. Nobody is allowed to go hungry. Nobody can be left out of celebrating Pesach.

The earliest record we have of this tradition is from the ninth century in Babylonia. But we can imagine an earlier scene. In Temple times and before, households gathered to slaughter a lamb, roast it, and eat it at night, hurriedly. One of the Torah’s requirements is that it must be entirely consumed by morning. Households that were too small to eat an entire lamb would have to join forces. That is to say, invite guests to join them.

Anachronistically, we picture people living in tents, roasting their meat, and actively welcoming their neighbors to join them.

When we open our doors now, who is it, exactly, that we are inviting? The invitations need to have already been offered. So this is more of a symbolic invitation.

I would suggest that it is a powerful statement of unity. We start by connecting our actions with those of our ancestors in Egypt. We eat the same bread of affliction that they ate. We invite anyone who needs it to join us. We proclaim that we will not leave anyone out. We declare that we are, this year, all of us, enslaved. We share the hope, all of us, that next year we will become free.

What an incredibly powerful expression of unity!

And we need it. In many ways, Jews have become more united over these past six months.Yet our differences have also become grossly apparent. Ha lachma anya, and so many other sections of the Seder, emphasize our need to include everyone. Our table is incomplete if we do not have all four children sitting around it, after all.

A question that may challenge us is the extent to which we allow our empathy to spread. Is “let all who are hungry come and eat” limited to the Jewish people, or is it a universal invitation? As Leah Solomon writes,

In years past, this was easier. Before October 7, although we knew that Jewish history has seen many tragedies, few of us alive today had experienced such a cataclysm. Never, until now, were we confronted with the excruciating task of holding another people’s suffering even as our own is so vast and raw, let alone doing so when the perpetrators of the atrocities against us are members of that very people, and when the suffering of that people is being inflicted in large part by our own.

In other words, can our empathy for human suffering extend to Palestinians in Gaza?

The second time we open the door at the Seder, of course, is near the end, after we have already completed three of the four cups of wine. We open the door, pour a cup for Elijah, and recite four biblical verses.

Shfokh Ḥamatkha. Pour out your fury on the nations that do not know you
upon the kingdoms that do not invoke Your name.
For they have devoured Jacob and desolated his home.

Pour out your wrath on them;
may your blazing anger overtake them.

Pursue them in wrath and destroy them
from under the heavens of Adonai.

This part of the Seder is actually two separate traditions that merged. Elijah had long been known as the herald of the Messiah. He is the prophet who did not die, destined to wander the earth in disguise, standing vigil for the time when the Messiah will come. Pesach, which is described as leil shimurim, the night of vigil, became a natural place to welcome Elijah’s presence, alongside the brit milah ceremony and the end of Shabbat. It is a night of transition from slavery to freedom, from suffering to redemption. Welcoming Elijah with a cup of wine is an expression of Messianic hope.

The first records of reciting shfokh ḥamat’kha appear in the eleventh century. In response to massacres of Jewish community in the lower Rhineland during the first crusades, these verses were introduced as a call to bring down vengeance. One of several medieval commentaries explains that the four verses represent four “cups of punishment” that God will one day give to the nations that once persecuted the Jewish people.

By the fifteenth century, the traditions of welcoming Elijah and reciting “Pour out your wrath” had merged, which makes sense, as both are messianic traditions, acknowledging that the world we live in now is filled with persecution and suffering. It is part of the narrative of “from slavery to freedom,” and “from degradation to praise.”

But it is dark, is it not? To me, Shfokh ḥamat’kha evokes feelings in opposition to Ha laḥma anya. The open door of welcome, unity, and compassion gives way to anger, rage, and vengeance. In the modern era, there are those of us who are uncomfortable calling down divine retribution on our enemies.

In 1943, the Israeli poet Avraham Shlonsky composed a poem for Passover. He had recently read early reports about what the atrocities that the Nazis were commiting against the Jews of Europe. The poem was called Neder, meaning “Vow.” It is the same word as Kol Nidrei, that we recite at the beginnnig of Yom Kippur. In Kol Nidrei is an anullment of vows. We are proclaiming that if we make any vows in the coming year that we are unable to fulfill, we hereby declare them null and void. Shlonsky says the opposite. His poem is a neder which he refuses to ever abandon.

By my eyes that witnessed the slaughter
By my heart that was weighed down by cries for justice
By my compassion that taught me to pardon
Until the days came that were too terrible to forgive,
I have sworn: To remember it all,
To remember—to forget nothing!
Forget not one thing to the last generation
Until my indignation shall be extinguished
When the staff of my moral rebuke has struck until exhausted
A vow: Lest for nothing shall the night of terror have passed.
A vow: Lest for nothing shall I return to my wont
Without having learned anything, even this time.

This poem was printed in the 1956 Haggadah of Kibbutz Nahal Oz next to the text of “Pour out your wrath.” It was accompanied by a drawing of an olive branch and a sword. On October 7, more than sixty soldiers stationed at a base in Nahal Oz and more than a dozen members of the kibbutz were murdered, and many taken hostage.

“Pour out your wrath,” perhaps accompanied by Shlonsky’s poem, Neder, may have special resonance at the Seder this year.

These two open doors reflect the conflicting feelings and experiences that I am carrying in to Passover this year. I invite you to join me in finding traditions, both ancient and new, to fulfill our central task of rising from degradation into freedom.

And may all those who currently find themselves in actual places of narrowness find comfort and peace soon.

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Rabbi Josh Berkenwald

Posted on

April 7, 2024

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Divrei Torah (Weekly Sermons), Leviticus (ויקרא)

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The Silver Platter and the Ḥaredi Draft – Shemini 5784

On November 29, 1947, the United Nations voted on the partition plan. Soon after, Chaim Weitzman, who would become the first President of Israel, stated: “The state will not be given to the Jewish people on a silver platter.”

A few days later, the Israeli poet Natan Alterman published his famous poem in response, Magash HaKesef — “The Silver Platter.”

The earth grows still.
The lurid sky slowly pales over smoking borders.
Heartsick but still living,
A people stand by
To greet the uniqueness
Of the miracle.
Readied, they wait beneath the moon,
Wrapped in awesome joy before the light.
Then soon,
A girl and boy step forward,
And slowly walk before the waiting nation;
In work clothes and heavy-shod
They climb In stillness
Wearing still the dress of battle, the grime
Of aching day and fired night
Unwashed, weary until death, not knowing rest,
But wearing youth like dewdrops in their hair.
— Silently the two approach
And stand.
Are they of the quick or of the dead?
Through wondering tears, the people stare.
“Who are you, the silent two?”
And they reply:
“We are the silver platter
Upon which the Jewish State was served to you.”
And speaking, fall in shadow at the nation’s feet.
Let the rest in Israel’s chronicles be told.

Magash HaKesef appeared on December 19, 1947 in the newspaper Davar. This was before the War of Independence broke out. Alterman, in the midst of the joy and excitement engendered by the UN vote, anticipated the heavy price that would have to be paid.

This poem continues to be read each year as part of observances for Yom Hazikaron and Yom Ha’atzmaut, Israel’s Memorial Day and Independence Day.

This poem tragically captures the contract that is made by Israelis. Parents send their children to serve in the IDF, knowing that the existence of the state itself depends on it, knowing as well that for some of them, the ultimate price will be paid.

The official Yizkor, memorial prayer of the IDF does not begin with the traditional opening. A traditional Yizkor begins Yizkor Elohim – “May God remember.” But the prayer invoking the memory of those who fell defending the State of Israel begins Yizkor am Yisrael – “May the nation of Israel remember.” God’s name does not appear once.

It is ironic that of all the issues roiling Israeli politics right now, with so many different groups calling for the government to resign – for different reasons – one of the leading issues that could bring down the government has to do with service in the IDF. The Haredim, the most fervently observant Jews in Israel, have by and large avoided serving in the Israel Defense Forces.

When I observe the debate over the question of the Hardei draft, I do so as an outsider, as someone who does not have to face these existential questions. America does not demand a lot from us.

This Haredi draft exemption goes back to the founding of the state in 1948. David Ben Gurion, seeking a compromise to ensure stability in the new government, made a bargain with the small Haredi community at the time to exempt the 400 brightest Torah scholars from military service, as long as they remained studying in yeshiva full time as their full-time activity.

This was after Haredi communities in Europe had been decimated in the Holocaust. The goal was to try to build something back out of the ashes. The program was called Torah Umanuto – “Torah is his profession,” an expression taken from the Talmud.

For the first several decades, the numbers remained fairly steady. But over the last forty years, as the Haredi communities have grown exponentially and become involved politically, the numbers of exemptions have ballooned.

In 1974, 2.4% of eligible people were receiving Torah Umanuto deferalls. By 2012, it was 15%. Today, there are 63,000 draft eligible students receiving exemptions.

Governments have been trying to deal with the issue for the past twenty five years, and it now appears to have reached a breaking point.

Most non-Haredim oppose the Haredi draft exemptions, claiming that they should share the burden of protecting the state. There have been many commissions and proposals over recent decades, none of which have produced results.

Should funds for community institutions be tied to military service. Should citizenship and the right to vote itself be connected to entering the draft? Should military service be required for government employees, including those serving under the auspices of the Chief Rabbinate? These questions or part of wider issues having to do with pluralism in Israeli society and the integration of Haredim into the nation.

Why are they so adamant about not serving? First is the claim that their Torah study guarantees God’s protection of the state. Learning in yeshivah is itself a form of national service. Another fear is that sending their young people to serve in the army will expose them to all sorts of secular, ‘non-kosher’ influences. It will take them away from the influence of their Rabbis. Apparently, on the shidduch market, (matchmaking), the rare bachelor who does choose to serve has a more difficult time finding a good match.

After October 7, with war in Gaza and in the North, the military says that it needs more soldiers. Such heavy reliance on reservists for six months and counting means pulling older citizens away from their families and their jobs. It is no longer tenable, many argue, to allow tens of thousands of young Haredim to continue to sit out from national service.

This past week, a court appointed deadline passed that legally ended the exemptions. The only legal way to extend the exemptions would be for the Knesset to pass a law, which is not politically feasible. The government must immediately stop funding as many as 1,500 yeshivot with students who are refusing to serve.

At the moment, the Haredi politial parties who are part of the government are indicating that they are not going to leave the coalition. In their calculations, new elections would not improve their situation.

Haredi communities have been staging protests against the draft, with counter-protests by Israelis who are tired of bearing the cost, in both blood and money, of their refusal. They are demanding that Haredim share the burden of protecting the state.

I am thinking of the poem, “The Silver Platter.” There is a cost to having a nation. For the Haredim who refuse to serve, the cost they are afraid to pay is not their lives. It is their way of life, which they fear would be lost if they were forced to participate in what they view as the secular project of the state.

I am also thinking of this week’s Torah portion, Shemini, which includes the tragic story of the deaths of the High Priest Aaron’s two eldest sons, Nadav and Avihu. At the moment of glory, when the Tabernacle has just been inaugurated and Aaron and his sons anointed as priests, something awful transpires.

Nadav and Avihu offer up incense before the Lord using a strange fire. Flame erupts from out of the Holy of Holies and consumes them in an instant. We are not going to talk about what it was that they did or did not do. Aaron’s response is what concerns us. Vayidom Aharon – “And Aaron was silent.” (Num. 10:4)

Moses begins ordering Aaron, his remaining sons, and cousins around, making sure that they attend to Nadav and Avihu’s corpses properly, as well as complete the dedication of the Tabernacle. The mission must go on.

Thinking that they have made a mistake, Moses becomes angry and accosts Eleazar and Itamar, which pushes Aaron to his breaking point. He intervenes on their behalf. “See, this day they brought their sin offering and their burnt offering before the Lord, and such things have befallen me!” (10:19)

Aaron has paid the ultimate price – the deaths of his children. Why does he bear his grief with such stoicism? Perhaps he knows that he is part of something greater – a national project from which he cannot turn away – even in this moment when he should be mourning. His loss is part of the unspoken agreement.

600 soldiers, officers, and reservists, and 61 police officers have been killed since October 7. 256 of them have died in the course of the ground invasion into Gaza, sent to eliminate Hamas.

Most recently was Staff Sergeant Nadav Cohen, 20 years old, from Haifa, who was killed fighting in southern Gaza as part of the 7th Armored Brigade’s 77th Battalion.

Their lives are added to the silver platter. Yehi Zikhram Barukh. May their memories be a blessing.

Posted by

Rabbi Josh Berkenwald

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March 10, 2024

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The Rise of Civil Society – Vayakhel 5784

Two weeks ago, on Friday afternoon of the South Bay Solidarity Mission to Israel, we went to HaFundak shel Jack – “Jack’s Inn,” a well known home style restaurant at the entrance to Moshav Beit Nehemia in Shoham. We were there to pack up 450 meals for IDF soldiers out in the field.

After October 7, the owner of the restaurant, Meir, who was too old to be called up to the reserves, began providing daily hot food to families, soldiers, anyone in need. He put out a call for volunteers. Within a short time, he had a list of 650 people who regularly come to cook, package, and deliver. They rely on donations to pay for all of the supplies.

After we finished packing everything up, I carried 250 meals out to the parking lot to load into a woman’s car. She had returned that morning from a trip to France, and now her job was to shuttle the meals to Kfar Saba, where another volunteer would pick them up and drive them to a brigade of soldiers in the lower Golan.

As I carried the boxes, I was thinking about logistics. By now, Jack’s Inn has served tens of thousands of meals. How do you organize something like this?

It started with just a guy with a restaurant who felt called to employ his skills to help people in a difficult time. What an inspiring example.

This morning’s Torah portion, Vayak’hel, includes a similar such example.

After cleaning up the mess of the Golden Calf, Moses unveils the project that was supposed to take place upon his descent from Mt. Sinai the first time: the building of the Mishkan, the Tabernacle.

First, he lists all of the raw materials that the Israelites need to collect: the precious metals, woods, animal hides, fabric and gems. Then, he puts the call out for those who have skills in a wide range of areas such as: carpentry, smithing, carving, sewing, and weaving. He appoints two chief artisans, Betzalel and Oholiav, to direct the project.

The Torah repeatedly indicates how inclusive this project is —men and women, tribal chieftains and those at the bottom rungs of Israelite society — everyone jumps to get involved. The people are so enthusiastic that, after not too long, the artisans report some surprising news to Moses. The Israelites responded so positively to the campaign, that they have are inundated with more supplies than they know what to do with.

Moses orders the Israelites to stop contributing. The Torah reports that “their efforts had been more than enough for all the tasks to be done.” (36:7) The first and only time that happened.

One of the places that we visited during the Israel Mission was the Tel Aviv Expo Center, which had been converted into ḤaMaL Tel Aviv. ḤaMaL is an acronym for Cheder Milḥamah, or “war room.” It is a term taken from the military to refer to the command center of an operation. We spoke with Ronen, the volunteer director of the ḤaMaL Tel Aviv. Ronen has led a few startups, and still serves as a Reserve Officer in the Israeli Navy.

The ḤaMaL Tel Aviv has been the central coordination center for the Israeli civil society’s response after October 7. “Civil society” is in contrast to the government. One of the recurring stories that we heard was about the government’s continued absence, not only in its lack of military readiness, but also in failing to respond quickly after the attack, to inform the public, coordinate defense, rescue, evacuation, and then provide for all of the social needs for those who became displaced.

In the government’s absence, Israeli civil society stepped up in a way that expresses the Jewish ethic of mutual responsibility and the Israeli ethos of “Startup Nation.”

To understand how the events played out, we need to go back a little over a year. When the government announced its judicial reform plans, a group of IDF reserve officers, fearing that the changes to the judiciary would lead to the erosion of Israeli democracy, started an organization called Aḥim Laneshek – “Brothers and Sisters in Arms.” This became one of the main organizations coordinating the anti judicial reform protests that lasted for months.

In the course of those political demonstrations, Aḥim Laneshek built an incredibly robust grassroots organizational network. It included many IDF reserve officers with significant leadership experience, as well as Israelis from the high tech sector who brought their own skillsets.

When Hamas attacked on October 7, Aḥim Laneshek immediately pivoted. They renamed their organization Aḥim v’Aḥayot L’Yisrael– “Brothers and Sisters for Israel,” and made three strategic decisions that would guide their actions over the coming months: 1. The IDF must win. 2. Support civilians who were hurt. 3. For the sake of unity, they would not do anything related to judicial reform.

By Sunday, October 8, they had already divided up the responsibilities. By Monday, computer programmers were building dashboards to organize the workflow. In less than a week, Aḥim v’Aḥayot L’Yisrael had built the back-end infrastructure to run a nation. There is now a ḥamal ezraḥi, a citizens coordination center, in every part of the country.

Within four days, they set up a military-grade intelligence center to collect and analyze information, including going through photographs and videos from social media to identify hostages. When the IDF visited the site the following day, they acknowledged that they could not replicate it, so they turned over their own intelligence to the volunteers.

With Israelis in the South still hiding in safe rooms, Aḥim v’Aḥayot L’Yisrael organized volunteer rescue teams to go into places that the IDF still had not cleared to rescue families, elders, and children, and bring them to safety. In some cases, they sent out teams to search for bodies.

It quickly became apparent that many of the IDF units, especially reservists, did not have all of the equipment they needed. The network went into action, ordering a large shipment of helmets and ceramic vests.

It was going to take weeks for the equipment to arrive, but they needed it now. So they put the call out to the network and quickly identiified a supply chain specialist, who was able to track down an airplane that was not being used and bring in the helmets and vests right away..

Aḥim v’Aḥayot L’Yisrael has continued to supply soldiers, police officers, and especially Civilian Readiness Units, which despite being outnumbered and underequipped, saved thousands of lives on October 7. They have also brought 7 planeloads full of medical supplies into the country.

By the following Saturday night, it had become apparent that tens of thousands of Israelis would need housing, and the government was not doing anything about it. Volunteers went to Eilat and the Dead Sea to determine hotel capacity and to identify the needs of evacuees and their children. Aḥim v’Aḥayot L’Yisrael were the only ones supporting those families for weeks. In the months since, they have opened 90 kindergartens in hotels.

People had to leave their homes quickly, and did not have time to gather their things, so Aḥim v’Aḥayot L’Yisrael put the call out for basic household supplies, clothing, toiletries, toys, and so on, for all of the dissplaced families. Think for a moment about what would would have to happen to effectively collect and distribute essential items across an entire country. In days, they set up the infrastructure to collect donations, sort them in warehouses, and efficiently distribute what was needed to those in need. This was 100% volunteer driven.

Just as when the Israelites built the Mishkan, the nation responded so enthusiastically that they eventually had to stop collecting supplies. “their efforts had been more than enough for all the tasks to be done.”

With the departure of most of the agricultural workers, Aḥim v’Aḥayot L’Yisrael organized thousands of volunteers to go out into the fields to harvest and plant crops.

Across the country, there are now 15,000 regular volunteers, coming from every segment of Israeli society, crossing social, religious, ethnic, and political lines.

Aḥim v’Aḥayot L’Yisrael, which was initially founded as a left-wing, political organization, has managed to bridge divisions with a number of the more right-wing communities they have been working with. “The mayors love us,” our presenter shared.

Five months in to this war, the immediate needs have been met, and Aḥim v’Aḥayot L’Yisrael is transitioning to preparing communities to be able to return to their homes.

As we encountered this and other organizations and individuals, a few things occurred to me. First of all, the incredible selflessness demonstrated by so many regular people to do absolutely everything they could to help each other out. And Israel is not a homogenous society.

When I think about life here in the Bay Area, I cannot imagine such a widespread, grassroots, cross-cultural volunteer effort coming together.

Second was the attitude of “just get it done.” Israelis are not known for waiting for permission. There have been countless examples of people, recognizing a problem that needs a solution, and devoting oneself to gathering the resources, human and material, to solve that problem quickly.

Third, this is taking place in a traumatized society. In fact, within days of October 7, Israelis were already turning out in the tens of thousands to volunteer. Many of us might respond to trauma by shutting down, retreating from society. Israelis did the opposite, they jumped in, a far more effective response to trauma, I would imagine.

One person we met, a retired career diplomat, the former Ambassador to France, who is now volunteering with the Hostages and Missing Families Forum, shared that this is the most meaningful work he has ever done in his life.

What are our duties as citizens? Here in America, we tend to not think of citizenship carrying with it many obligations, other than following the laws, paying our taxes, and possibly voting.

Ronen, our guide at Aḥim v’Aḥayot L’Yisrael said that in the last year, he has learned that being citizenship is more than that: it includes a duty to give back.

He considers what they have done, both before October 7 when they were protesting against the judicial reforms, and after, when they pivoted to supporting Israeli society, an expression of Zionism and patriotism.

That is surely something to aspire to.

Posted by

Rabbi Josh Berkenwald

Posted on

March 3, 2024

Posted under

Divrei Torah (Weekly Sermons), Exodus (שמות)

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Israel Needs Us – For the Future of Judaism Itself – Ki Tissa 5784

I returned on Sunday from the South Bay Solidarity Mission to Israel. Nineteen members of our community, including five from Sinai, spent a packed week filled with meaningful, important encounters to bear witness, console the mourners, and comfort the sick.

A week and a half ago, we visited Hostages Square in Tel Aviv. As we were about to board our bus to return to the hotel, a voice boomed from the loudspeakers. Earlier that day, the far right Finance Minister Bezalel Smotrich had given an interview in which he said, rather smugly, that getting the hostages back was not as important as destroying Hamas.

An impromptu protest formed of relatives of hostages, who were, understandably, incensed.

Liri Albag, eighteen years old, has been held hostage in Gaza for 147 days. Her father, Eli Albag, cried out in the most gut-wrenching, tormented, angry voice that I have ever heard.

“Let them kidnap your children!” Calling out Smotrich by name, he shouted “Let them kidnap your children and I will shout in the street, ‘It’s not the most important thing!’”

“I’m talking to all citizens of Israel — whoever thinks that the citizens, the hostages are unimportant, let them kidnap your children and then you can speak!”

“We have suffered for 137 days, day after day, minute by minute, we don’t sleep at night,”

Referring to the Israeli cabinet, he continued, “It will not protect you… They are abandoning us above. They are laughing at us, dragging their feet, they are not going to negotiate. I say to you citizens, take to the streets because today it is us and tomorrow it will be you.”

This may have been the most painful thing I have ever heard another person say.

As someone who follows current events fairly closely, the week long trip was an eye-opening experience nonetheless.

We met Israelis from many different backgrounds, gaining a sense of the complicated, conflicting ways in which social, economic, religious, and political differences play out in society.

One thing that was obvious was that the language and rhetoric that surrounds us here in America is very different from that which permeates Israeli society right now.

The most dominant issue we encountered, by far, was the chatufim, the hostages. From the moment one walks down the ramp to exit Ben Gurion airport, photos of each of those still in captivity are everywhere. On the sides of buildings, on café counters, in bank windows, on t-shirts, their faces are impossible to miss.

Alongside the photos, at least in Tel Aviv, are signs, grafitti, and billboards casting blame for October 7 on the government, and Benjamin Netanyahu in particular. One huge poster visible from the Ayalon Highway, covering the entire side of a building, has a photo of Bibi and the words Attah haRosh! Attah Ashem!“You are in charge! You are guilty!”

Along with this are calls, everywhere, for the government to resign so that new elections can be held.

Most of the Israeli voices we heard did not express much concern for the things that fill our airwaves. There were few mentions of the Palestinians, a two state solution, or even the thousands of civilian deaths in Gaza.

The closest to calls for a ceasefire occurred within the context of “Bring the hostages home at any cost.” Even when we met with Achinoam Nini, one of Israel’s most famous singers and a peace activist for the past thirty years, she did not go so far as to call for an immediate ceasefire, although she did speak passionately about the need for a Palestinian state alongside Israel and the moral obligation to empathize with all human suffering.

Antisemitism came up, but usually in the context of Israelis being concerned about all the antisemitism that we are facing in the West.

It should not really surprise us that the issues we are dealing with here are largely absent from the Israeli discussions. This is not to justify, but to explain. Israelis are still in trauma from October 7. They freely admit it. The fate of the hostages is front and center, with photos everywhere. The 134 who are still missing have become household names. I could not imagine being able to think of anything else if my child was in captivity.

Hundreds of thousands of Israelis are currently serving as active duty soldiers or reservists. When your child or spouse or brother or sister is fighting a war, it is hard to muster much emotional energy for those on the other side of the border.

And don’t forget the tens of thousands of Israelis who are displaced from their homes around the Gaza envelope and the northern border.

This past Saturday night, the first major anti-government protest since October 7 took place in Tel Aviv. We were there for the beginning of it. Tens of thousands of Israelis filled the streets. It was clear that there were a wide range of coalitions comprising the rally, ranging from families of hostages, relatives of victims of October 7, life-long Likud members, and pro-peace activists.

The messages were simple and clear: The government is responsible for the failures of October 7. They should resign and new elections should be held. The word achshav kept coming up as a chant. Achshav! “Now!” Israeli flags were everywhere.

A few weeks ago, we read Parashat Yitro, in which God’s Presence descends upon Mt. Sinai in revelation to the children of Israel, who are encamped below.

This moment is imagined by our tradition as a wedding. So let’s run with that metaphor a bit. We would say about a newlywed couple that they are “in love.” They only have eyes for one another. They do not see each other’s faults, and their only desire is to be together.

Now here we are in Ki Tissa, a few Torah portions later. Moses has been on top of Mt. Sinai for forty days. He has literally gone up to heaven to speak with God. Meanwhile, back down on earth, what have the Israelites done? They have built a golden calf.

The honeymoon is over. The rest of their time through the wilderness will be frought with misunderstandings, miscommunications, and disappointments, punctuated by occasional moments of bliss.

This is a useful metaphor for us to consider with regard to our relationship with Israel as American Jews.

My parents and grandparents’ generations were around when Israel came into being in 1948 and in its early years. The Holocaust was a recent memory and the need for a Jewish homeland was clear. The exciting, miraculous fact of its existence, the ingathering of the exiles, and the pioneering Jews taking charge of their own destiny after 2,000 years as an opressed minority in the Diaspora was a source of pride.

After 1967, with another miraculous victory over its enemies in the Six Day War, Israel could do no wrong. 1967, by the way, is when Jews in America began to feel comfortable wearing Kippot out in public.

The 1973 Yom Kippur war began to chip away at this image of invincibility. Israel was shown to be vulnerable. This is when things started to get more complicated in the relationship. I was born in this post-1973 generation.

Beginning with the war in Lebanon, which lasted nearly 30 years, and the first Intifada, Israel was now in a position in which it was unquestioningly the stronger military power. It was occupying land and was responsible for the Palestinians, who were not citizens of the state. It now had to deal with a challenge that Jews had not faced for more than two thousand years: How do we use our power Jewishly?

Let’s come back to the marriage metaphor. Up until 1973, American Jews were in the honeymoon phase. We were “in-love” with Israel. The agreement was that we would buy trees through JNF, purchase Israel bonds on the High Holidays, and take pride in this growing, thriving, Jewish nation. And we would feel more safe and secure about our place in the Diaspora.

My generation began to develop a different relationship with Israel. Let’s call it “marriage.” The honeymoon is over. We are committed to each other, but we are starting to see the faults.

In the early 1990’s there was tremendous hope that the Oslo Accords would finally bring peace. Most American Jews were ecstatic, and the majority of Israelis were cautiously supportive.

The assassination of Yitzchak Rabin in 1995 by a right wing Jewish terrorist, followed by a string of terrorist attacks by Hamas, shattered that hope. This led to the third phase, comprised of young American Jews who claim that the Israel they know is not in alignment with the Jewish values they have been taught in our synagogues, Jewish schools, and summer camps.

Those of us from earlier generations can complain until we are blue in the face, but let’s consider for a moment that for someone who was born in the last thirty years, the only Israel they have experienced is one which has waged a near constant series of assymetrical wars.

They have seen ultra religious factions in Israel flexing their muscles in ways designed to deliberately suppress the liberal movements that they grew up in. They have seen a constant expansion of Jewish settlements in the West Bank, making the prospect of a two state solution seem more and more unlikely.

When it comes to Israel, what we are hearing from many young American Jews is simply “I want a divorce.”

This is tragic and frustrating. But if we, from the Honeymoon and Marriage generations, are to perform our duty of teaching our children of the Divorce generation, we have got to recognize where many of them actually are, and what they have experienced.

Congregation Sinai’s mission is to connect Jews to Judaism, each other, Israel, and the world.

What does it mean to be connected to Israel?

At the very least, it means recognizing that, as the home for half of the world’s Jews, our fates are connected in extremely tangible ways. Like it or not, what happens in Israel socially, religiously, and politically, impacts Judaism everywhere.

The current Israeli government is comprised of quite a few figures who embody what many of the anti-Zionists of the world say about Israel. Figures, like Smotrich, whose stated goal is to transform Israel into something resembling a messianic theocracy with all non-Jews holding a form of second class citizenship.

These are the people whose statements were brought by South Africa to the International Court of Justice in the Hague in its case accusing Israel of genocide.

The reality is, these extremists are extremely unpopular for most Israelis also. They are not, in fact, representative, but because of the particular nature of the Israeli political system, they enjoy a lot of power and influence right now.

If their vision is realized in the Jewish homeland, the results for us here in the Diaspora will be terrifying. As one of our speakers claimed, the future of Judaism itself is at stake.

And so, it matters to us.

Lately, (and I myself am guilty of this) we have been using the expression kol Yisrael arevim zeh lazeh. “All of Israel are responsible for one another.” We use this expression to describe the sense of deep connection we feel with our Jewish brothers and sisters around the world, particularly when they are under attack.

But the original use of this expression in the Talmud (BT Shevuot 39a) is a little different. If a Jew is about to sin, and I fail to intervene to steer them correctly, then my fate will be tied to their fate. We will all suffer the consequences of their wrong behavior. This expression is really about communal responsibility. I have to act.

We are being encouraged, by Israelis, to get involved in a more substantive way than we have been. Many of the people with whom we met begged us to be involved. What we saw is that there is tremendous diversity in what it means to be pro-Israel, to be a Zionist.

At its most basic level, Zionism is the belief that Jews should be able to determine our own destiny, and this can only happen if Jews are living in the Jewish homeland. Think about the final words of Hatikva – Lihyot am chofshi be’artzeinu: Eretz Tzion virushalim – To be a free nation in our land: the land of Zion and Jerusalem.

The conviction that we should be able to self identify and self actualize as a nation is the essence of Zionism. The rest is commentary.

We have to participate in that commentary, not only for our own sake, but also for our children’s sake, and for the sake of Judaism itself.

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December 15, 2023

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Don’t Make it Worse – Letter to San Jose Mayor and City Councilmembers

Groups have been pressuring city councils throughout the Bay Area to pass ceasefire resolutions on the war between Israel and Hamas. Not only do these resolutions tend to be extremely one-sided, the rhetoric that surrounds them often crosses the line into antisemitism.

The following is a letter that I sent to on December 8, 2023 to San Jose Mayor Matt Mahan and each of the ten city Councilmembers urging them not to take up a resolution on the war between Israel and Hamas.

December 8, 2023

200 E. Santa Clara St.
San José, CA 95113

Dear Mayor Mahan and San Jose City Councilmember,

I hope this letter finds you well. I am writing to you as the Rabbi of Congregation Sinai in San Jose, District 6, a position I have held for the past sixteen and a half years. As we approach the 70th anniversary of Congregation Sinai, I reflect on the active and proud role our congregation has played in the civic life of San Jose and Silicon Valley.

The purpose of this letter is to express my deep concerns about the current atmosphere of fear and uncertainty within our community following the terrorist attacks by Hamas on October 7.

I was recently reflecting on the daily experiences of the approximately 40 children in the Sinai Nursery School when they come to school. Before they reach their classrooms to be lovingly greeted by their teachers, they must first pass by an armed security guard and be admitted through three locked doors. I suspect their situation is unique among the children in our city.

As you know, organized pro-Palestinian groups have been pushing local city councils in the Bay Area to pass resolutions calling for a ceasefire between Israel and Hamas. At the city council meeting on Tuesday, December 5, you already witnessed a sample of the anger and animosity which has characterized these meetings.

I am not writing to debate the merits of a ceasefire, but rather to share the lived experience of Jewish residents in San Jose. Over the past two months, we have been feeling unmoored in our beloved city. Members of my community are afraid to openly express their Jewish identity, and we have had to intensify the already substantial security measures at our synagogue. This not only incurs significant time and expense, but also exacerbates the feeling that we are under siege.

I respectfully implore you to refrain from introducing any resolutions concerning the Middle East conflict to the San Jose City Council. These resolutions have no impact on decisions made by the Israeli government, Hamas, and other involved parties. However, their local impact is tangible, fanning the flames of antisemitism in our community and increasinganimosity among residents of our shared city. Similar resolutions in Richmond, Oakland, and San Francisco have provided platforms for vitriolic antisemitism and explicit endorsement of terrorism.

My community is scared already. Please do not make it worse.

Please feel free to contact me if you have any questions. We would be happy to have you join us for for Shabbat (Sabbath) services.

L’Shalom,

Rabbi Josh Berkenwald

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Rabbi Josh Berkenwald

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November 28, 2023

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Thanks, It’s Not Enough – Vayetze 5784

This Shabbat of Thanksgiving weekend carries with it special significance. Fifty Israeli hostages are in the midst of being released as we speak. We must be grateful for their freedom, and pray for their and their families’ healing from the harm—physical, psychological, and emotional—that they have suffered after more than 40 days in captivity.

While feeling gratitude, we must also cry out that it is not enough. We want more. The remaining 190 hostages must be returned home. Israelis fleeing from the northern and southern borders, from the shadow of Hamas and Hezbollah rockets, must be able to go back and live in peace. Antisemitism around the world must end.

It is difficult to celebrate in the midst of loss and fear.

This morning’s Torah portion, Vayetzei, can be seen as a second beginning to the story of our Jewish family. You’ll remember that Abraham’s journey begins when God instructs him to leave his land, his birthplace, his father’s home, and embark on a journey to a new land. As Abraham and Sarah set off, he is already a wealthy man, the head of a great household.

As our parashah opens, Jacob begins his journey in the opposite direction. Like his grandfather, Jacob is leaving his land, his birthplace, and his father’s home. He is going back to Haran, however, away from the Promised Land. He leaves with nothing but the shirt on his back.

God appears to Jacob in his famous dream at the top of a ladder, upon which angels are rising and descending.

I am the LORD, the God of your father Abraham and the God of Isaac: the ground on which you are lying I will assign to you and to your offspring.

Your descendants shall be as the dust of the earth; you shall spread out to the west and to the east, to the north and to the south. All the families of the earth shall bless themselves by you and your descendants.

Remember, I am with you: I will protect you wherever you go and will bring you back to this land. I will not leave you until I have done what I have promised you.

Awaking, Jacob declares, “Surely the Lord is present in this place, and I did not know it.” Then Jacob makes a vow, incorporating much of what God has just promised him:

If God remains with me, if He protects me on this journey that I am making, and gives me bread to eat and clothing to wear,

and if I return safe to my father’s house—the LORD shall be my God.

And this stone, which I have set up as a pillar, shall be God’s abode; and of all that You give me, I will set aside a tithe for You.

It is a standard vow formula. Note what Jacob asks for from God: protection on his journey and the eventual safe return to his home. No time frame is given, but Jacob promises allegiance and tithing to God if these conditions are met.

How does it play out? Jacob makes his way to the house of his uncle, Laban. Let’s fast-forward through the next twenty two years. Jacob marries Leah and Rachel, has twelve children with them and their two handmaidens, Bilhah and Zilpah.

He works the entire time for his uncle Laban, whom he makes fabulously wealthy. Despite Laban trying to cheat Jacob, Jacob still manages to prosper himself as well. We learn that God has been taking care of Jacob this entire time, ensuring that Jacob will be successul despite the adverse conditions under which he lives.

Finally, the time arrives for Jacob to return home. Consulting with his wives, Leah and Rachel urge him to make the journey as well. They know exactly what kind of men their father (and their brothers) are. So Jacob sneaks away with his household while Laban is off shearing sheep.

Laban takes off in hot pursuit. This is where I’d like to return to the details of the story. Observe how Laban treats Jacob, the assumptions he makes about him.

Before reaching Jacob, God appears to Laban in a dream with a warning: “Beware of attempting anything with Jacob, good or bad.”

Overtaking Jacob, Laban accuses his son-in-law of carrying off his daughters like “captives of the sword.” He insists that he would have sent Jacob off with a great party, but then flexes his muscles: “I have it in my power to do you harm; but the God of your father said to me last night, ‘Beware of attempting anything with Jacob, good or bad.’”

It turns out, that is exactly what Jacob was afraid of: “I was afraid because I thought you would take your daughters from me by force.”

Jacob complains to Laban that he has been duplicitous and manipulative the entire time that Jacob has spent with him, changing his wages constantly. If not for God’s protection, Jacob would be returning empty-handed, exactly as he had arrived 22 years earlier.

Consider next how Laban responds and what it says about how he really feels about Jacob:

The daughters are my daughters, the children are my children, and the flocks are my flocks; all that you see is mine. Yet what can I do now about my daughters or the children they have borne?

Come, then, let us make a pact, you and I, that there may be a witness between you and me.

Laban does not want to recognize Jacob as an equal, as the head of a household, as a political entity in his own right. He does not respect Jacob’s marriage to Leah and Rachel, nor the possessions that he earned fair and square. If it were up to him, Laban would take it all for himself.

The only factor that brings Laban to the negotiating table, or the negotiating pillar, as it were, is God’s protection. Or, put a different way, Jacob’s power. Jacob is negotiating from a position of strength.

They assemble a pillar and a mound and strike a treaty, each side promising not to cross past the location, that is to say, the border, with ill intent. Now Jacob can return home.

It seems to me that this story captures much of the experience of the Jewish people for the past two thousand years. Alone in the world, mistreated and taken advantage of by more powerful neighbors. Somehow managing to keep going despite it all, and only earning our seat at the table through strength. And let’s be clear, Jacob’s power is not one of military might. His is a spiritual strength and a cleverness, an understanding of human behavior and motivations.

As we tell the story of our people over the past two thousand years, we point to these qualities to explain how our ancestors managed to retain their identity despite so much oppression and persecution.

The past seventy five years has seen a change. For the first time since the Maccabees, Jews have been able to bring our physical might into the world. The state of Israel has survived, and thrived, because it has retained the spiritual and intellectual cleverness of Jacob, while adding military power.

As it turns out, that is what other nations respect. It is what has brought enemies to the negotiating table in the past.

The forces that would deny us are still loud. So called Anti-Zionism is nothing more than Laban telling Jacob “The daughters are my daughters, the children are my children, and the flocks are my flocks; all that you see is mine.” He denies Jacob’s right to be a political entity. There is no convincing Laban to see Jacob differently. But he can be forced to come to the negotiating table. Jacob is prepared to negotiate when he does.

Returning to the beginning, has God’s promise to Jacob been fulfilled? God has protected Jacob during his exile. He has blessed him with wealth and family. He is now poised to reenter the Promised Land. We know that as the story continues, Jacob’s position will remain tenuous, and he will continue to struggle for recognition and respect for the rest of his life. He is grateful to God, and he wants—and demands—more.

This is where we still find ourselves. God’s promise is incomplete. Whether in the land or outside of it, we continue to struggle against those who deny our right to exist.

As for the return of our hostages, our Jewish family, such negotiations only succeed from a position of strength. It is not for me to judge whether the price was worth paying. I trust that those who make these decisions have more information than any of us.

Regardless, it is a time for thanks and relief, as well as for saying, “it is not enough,” redoubling our efforts to bring home those who remain in captivity.

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Rabbi Josh Berkenwald

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November 5, 2023

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The Problem with the Story of Sodom and Gomorrah – Vayera 5784

I have a problem with the story of Sodom and Gomorrah.

It is a story that is set up to be about Justice and righteousness. Those are the words that are used repeatedly over the course of the narrative.

Let’s review the story in broad outlines, so we know what we are talking about. God sees the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah and that they are evil, and decides to completely annihilate them. But first, God consults with Abraham. God reveals the plan. Abraham then argues on behalf of the cities. There may be innocent people there. In the end, not even ten can be found, and the cities are destroyed.

When we look at a story in the Torah, we have got to accept the way that the story is told, and the facts that the Torah presents, as being very deliberate. It is trying to tell us something, and so we have got to be true to the text when we approach and try to analyze it.

What are the starting assumptions?

First. Abraham has been singled out to instruct his children to “keep the way of the Lord by doing what is just and what is right—la’asot tzedakah umishpat.” (18:19) That is why God consults with Abraham.

Second. The cities are evil – so evil that God determines that the only course is to destroy them entirely, to literally turn them upside down. “The outrage of Sodom and Gomorrah is so great, and their sin is so grave.” (18:20) Justice demands that they be punished.

What is Abraham’s argument?

He argues that the presence of a few righteous individuals is sufficient to reverse the decree against a city that, in the eyes of God, is entirely wicked. Abraham starts with 50 innocent people. “Will You then wipe out the place and not forgive it for the sake of the fifty righteous individuals who are in it?” (18:24)

Throughout, in his description of the people living in Sodom and Gomorrah, Abraham uses the langague of tzadik and rashah: Righteousness in opposition to wickedness. Abraham’s argument is that it is unjust to bring the same punishment upon the righteous as upon the wicked. Collective punishment is wrong.

God agrees to follow Abraham’s basic premise. Over the course of their discussion, Abraham drops the number down from fifty until he eventually settles at ten. Also, God uses three different terms to express God’s willingness to not destroy the cities: nasa’ti – I will lift [their iniquity]; lo e’eseh – I will not do it; lo ashḥit – I will not destroy.

The argument that Abraham is bringing to God is that mercy should overcoming justice.

Notice that God and Abraham are making inverse arguments.

God says: I’ll wipe out everyone because of the preponderance of evil people – This is justice taking precedence over mercy.

Abraham says: You should save everyone because of the minority of good people – This is mercy taking precedence over justice.

I would argue that there are some major gaps in their arguments.

One. There is no call for repentance. Just like with Noah, it does not even occur to Abraham to walk down the mountain to Sodom and Gomorrah to speak with the people themselves.

This is a successful tactic, after all. Think of Jonah, the most successful prophet in the Bible. God sends him to the people of Nineveh, who are also described as completely evil, all the way down to the livestock. Jonah’s mission, which he tries to avoid at all possible costs, is to call upon them to change their ways, to repent, so that they earn their own salvation.

And it works! Perfectly, to Jonah’s dismay.

Does Abraham have such a low opinion of the residents of Sodom and Gomorrah as to think that they are irredeemable?

Should he not have given them an opportunity to save themselves?

Here is my second problem with this story. Abraham is only partially concerned with justice. Justice is the premise that people get what they deserve.

Consider that if Abraham succeeds, two whole cities filled almost entirely with wicked people are going to get away with it. What then of their future victims? Will Abraham bear any responsibility? That does not sound like justice to me. With too much mercy, wickedness thrives. If we forgive too readily, we allow evil to spread.

How does the story end? Abraham goes to bed that night feeling good about himself. He is confident that the has saved the people of Sodom and Gomorrah by bargaining God down: the presence of just ten righteous people will save the cities. Mercy wins over justice.

When he wakes up and walks to the overlook from which he can gaze down upon the plain, he is surprised to see a smoking ruin. There were not even ten righteous people.

Meanwhile, God has taken it upon Godself to save the few innocent people: Lot, his wife, and two daughters.

The coda to the story is strange: “Thus it was that, when God destroyed the cities of the Plain and annihilated the cities where Lot dwelt, vayizkor Elohim et Avraham—God rememberd Abraham and removed Lot from the midst of the upheaval.” (19:29)

What does it mean in this text to say that God remembered Abraham? This result does not resemble anything that they have discussed. It is, however, the solution that is the perfect execution of justice. The wicked are punished and the innocent are saved.

Maybe that is what Abraham should have demanded from God in the first place. Save the innocent. Bring them out, and then do what You are going to do.

As a model for justice, mercy, the question of collective punishment or collective redemption, this story is overly simplistic. It lacks nuance.

In this particular framework, the Torah depicts people as either wholly righteous or wholly wicked, and this is just not how people are. People are not so black and white.

This is not a story about repentance and reconciliation. It sees people’s character, their morale stature, as static, something that cannot change. Either the presence of the wicked dooms the fate of everyone, or the presence of innocents releases everyone from punishment. There is no nuance here.

These problems strike me as bearing certain similarities to what Israel faces right now.

An evil, unjustifiable act was perpetrated against innocent people by Hamas. I do not think that repentance and eventual reconciliation is a reasonable goal for the estimated 40,000 members of that organization who are hiding underground, often under schools, mosques, and hospitals. But what of the fate of the 2.3 million Palestinians living in Gaza? Many of us have tried to specify that this is a war between Israel and Hamas. Noa Tishby, the Israeli actress who has emerged as a strong voice explaining Israel and fighting against antisemitism and anti-Zionism, describes herself as “pro-Palestinian” and “anti-Hamas.” I identify with that.

But this is messy. How many dead and injured men, women, and children, destroyed homes, and uprooted lives are justified in the mission to eliminate Hamas and rescue the 240 hostages who have been held now for four weeks?

How does one balance justice and mercy in a situation like this? Should one lean towards collective punishment or collective redemption? Can those who commit atrocities be allowed to go free because of the cost to civilians? Is there a way to thread that needle? I do not pretend that there are any easy or obvious moral answers here.

I would just like to point out that the outcome of Abraham and God’s argument over the fate of Sodom and Gomorrah does not resolve the dilemma either, even when it paints people in moral black and white.

My prayer is that those in Israel who are responsible for waging this war are truly aware of these moral dilemmas and are putting them at the forefront of the very difficult decisions that they are forced to make. I wish there was more nuance in the discussions taking place around the country and around the world to recognize how difficult this situation is.

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October 28, 2023

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Pidyon Shvuyim – Bring Them Home – Lekh Lekha 5784

The Masorti Movement in Israel, along with the Conservative Movement here, has designated this Shabbat as Solidarity Shabbat. We stand with Israel and all the victims of the terrible attack against our brothers and sisters three weeks ago and the ongoing war. We unite in the face of hatred and proclaim our love and pride as Jews.

This Shabbat is also the fifth anniversary of the massacre at the Tree of Life Synagogue in Pittsburgh, the worst attack against Jews in the history of the United States. We remember the lives of those who were murdered then.

The massive increase in antisemitic and anti-Israel incidents in the United States, including some violence, are bringing up a lot of fear and anxiety here at home. We must always remain proud of being Jewish, proud of our tradition, and proud of our extended family.

Parashat Lekh Lekha begins the story of the Jewish people. It is the story of a family struggling to find its place in the world. Avram and Sarai Follow the Divine command to a new land with a promise that it will one day become home to their descendants. They themselves are wanderers, struggling to find a place, to find peace.

Their situation is tenuous in the early years. They wander. They experience famine and become economic migrants. They eventually begin to prosper as nomads, but do not have access to sufficient land, forcing Avram and his nephew Lot to go separate ways. Lot pitches his tents outside the city of Sodom, in the verdant Jordan River valley, while Avram settles at the Terebinths of Mamre, near Hebron.

One day, a refugee comes to town with news that is of interest to Avram. A confederacy of Kings from the East came to attack five cities in the Jordan River valley, including S’dom. The leaders of those cities hid in caves, but the cities themselves were plundered, and Lot, his household, and all of his possessions were taken captive.

Without hesitation, Avram jumps into action, assembling a force comprised of 318 retainers from his own household. They travel a long distance, all the way to Dan, which is located in the northern Galilee, about 250 km away. Avram and his forces attack at night. They defeat the enemy, and pursue them for another 60 km or so, as far as Damascus, in order to rescue Lot, his household, all of his possessions, and the possessions that had been captured from the cities that were attacked. Afterwards, when he returns home with Lot and his family, Avram refuses to keep any of the plunder for himself, even when the kings of the towns offer him a reward: “not so much as a thread or a sandal strap.” All he wants is his nephew.

This is a story in which Avram puts absolutely everything on the line for his family. He puts his own life at risk, the lives of his entire household, and the Divine destiny which he has been following. There is no question, whatsoever, in Avram’s mind as to what he must do. Lot is family, and despite any differences they may have had in the past, he must be saved.

This story serves as the paradigm of the mitzvah of pidyon shvuyim, redeeming of captives. It is a religious obligation to every one of us to rescue our fellow Jew from captivity. Listen to how Maimonides describes this commandment.

The redemption of captives receives priority over sustaining the poor and providing them with clothing. [Indeed,] there is no greater mitzvah than the redemption of captives. For a captive is among those who are hungry, thirsty, and unclothed and he is in mortal peril.

To emphasize how significant redeeming captives is, Maimonides goes on to list all of the mitzvot that a person violates if they fail to act. First come the negative commandments:

If someone pays no attention to his redemption, he violates the negative commandments: “Do not harden your heart or close your hand” (Deuteronomy 15:7 , “Do not stand by when the blood of your neighbor is in danger” (Leviticus 19:16 , and “He shall not oppress him with exhausting work in your presence” (ibid. 25:53).

Next, Maimonides lists the positive commandments that a person violates if they fail to act:

And he has negated the observance of the positive commandments: “You shall certainly open up your hand to him” (Deuteronomy 15:8), “And your brother shall live with you” (ibid. 19:18), “Love your neighbor as yourself” (Leviticus 19:18),

In total, Maimonides lists six distinct mitzvot from the Torah which all pertain to the obligation of redeeming our fellow Jews who are taken captive. Then, to put an exclamation on the matter, he concludes with a quote from Proverbs:

“Save those who are taken for death” (Proverbs 24:11) , and many other decrees of this nature. There is no mitzvah as great as the redemption of captives.
Maimonides, Gifts to the Poor 8:10

Maimonides’ description of pidyon shvuyim feels personal. And we know that these are not mere words. Jewish history is filled with examples of communities setting absolutely everything aside to free their fellow Jews. Throughout the middle ages and into modern times, Jewish organizations were established to raise funds to ransom captured Jews. When sufficient local funds could not be raised, fundraisers were undertaken to collect money from Jews living abroad.

A 16^th century French traveler expressed surprise that, during his travels throughout the Ottoman Empire, where slavery was legal, he never encountered any enslaved Jews. Explaining this surprising discovery, he wrote that Jewish solidarity “never permitted one of their people to remain in servitude.”

So it should not surprise any of us to witness how Jews all over the world, religious and secular, Israeli and non-Israeli, have mobilized to demand that the approximately 220 Israelis taken captive be brought home now.

Sadly, terrorists know how personal it is for Jews, how hard we will work for the release of Jewish hostages, how high a price we will be willing to pay. For decades, they have taken hostages to further their aims.

Hamas and their ilk are a cult of death. They celebrate suicide bombers, use their own people as human shields, and rejoice over the murder, rape, and torture of civilians.

The commandment to redeem captives is indicative of how much Judaism values life. We cannot rest until captive Jews are freed.

Halakhah (Jewish law) on redeeming captives developed at a time when Jews were living as minorities without the capacity to rescue captives. So the Jewish laws deal mainly with paying ransoms, trying to walk the tightrope between rescuing Jews and not encouraging further hostage taking. But Avram offers us a more forceful example: a man who acted with conviction and purpose to rescue family.

By now, I am sure you know all about the current situation. There are approximately 220 hostages, among them 30 children, even babies. Four hostages have been released. One of those who was taken is named Omer Neutra. Born and raised in the United States to parents from Israel, he celebrated his Bar Mtzvah at Midway Jewish Center in Syosset, New York. He went to Young Judea summer camp and was a counselor at Camp Ramah Day Camp in Nyack. Omer was the Regional President of METNY USY, and was captain of his soccer, volleyball and basketball teams at the Schechter School of Long Island. After high school, Omer took a gap year, and then decided to put off university and enlist in the IDF as a Lone Soldier. He became a tank commander.

Omer is believed to be one of the more than 220 souls taken captive by Hamas on October 7. Omer turned 22 two weeks ago. As is his family custom, his parents, Orna and Ronen, and his brother Daniel, had a cake for Omer with 23 candles – 1 extra. They did not blow out the candles. They let them melt into the cake while they recited prayers for their son.

This Shabbat, we set a symbolic seat for Omer in our shul, and pray for his freedom and the freedom of all our brothers and sisters in captivity and distress.

Posted by

Rabbi Josh Berkenwald

Posted on

October 22, 2023

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Divrei Torah (Weekly Sermons), Genesis (בראשית)

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Might and Peace – Noach 5784

My heart is still broken, broken for 1,400 Israelis who were killed and their families. We have been witnessing the funerals and the shiva and a nation that is still in the midst of trauma.

I am relieved for the release of mother and daughter Judith and Natalie Raanan yesterday, and praying for the 200 others who were taken hostage, particularly 30 children whose fate and whereabouts remain unknown.

Once again, we have in our Torah portion a fitting story to describe our current reality.

By the end of last week’s parashah, the humans, who were created in the image of God, whom God blessed and declared to be tov me’od, very good, have failed to meet expectations. After just ten generations, God sees “how great was man’s wickedness on earth, and how every plan devised by his mind was nothing but evil all the time.”

How sad. The creation that God declared to be “very good” is now “nothing but evil all the time.”

As this morning’s Torah portion, Noach, opens, the Divine displeasure continues.

וַתִּשָּׁחֵ֥ת הָאָ֖רֶץ לִפְנֵ֣י הָֽאֱלֹקִ֑ים וַתִּמָּלֵ֥א הָאָ֖רֶץ חָמָֽס׃

The earth became corrupt before God; the earth was filled with ḥamas. When God saw how corrupt the earth was, for all flesh had corrupted its ways on earth, God said to Noah, “I have decided to put an end to all flesh, for the earth is filled with ḥamas because of them: I am about to destroy them with the earth.
Genesis 6:11-13

The irony is tempting. Ḥamas is the Hebrew word for lawlessness. It is a word that expresses the chaos and evil of the world before the flood, the complete lack of boundaries and respect for the divinity contained within every human being.

God decides to wipe it all away, to allow the waters of chaos to undo all of the order and good that God had created. And God decides to give us another chance.

After the flood subsides, Noah offers a sacrifice. When God smells the pleasing odor, God says to Godself, “Never again will I doom the earth because of Adam, since the devisings of Adam’s mind are evil from his youth…”

Notice that human nature has not changed one bit. God uses nearly identical language to describe humanity’s proclivity for evil. But this time, God provides some instructions. Among them, one stands out in this moment.

For your own life-blood I will require a reckoning… of every man for that of his fellow man! Whoever sheds the blood of man, by man shall his blood be shed, for in His did God make man.
Genesis 9:5-6

This verse, considered by our tradition to be the basis of one of the seven Noachide commandments, forbids murder, the wrongful taking of human life. And, it obligates human beings to punish the one who commits murder.

This is the foundational principle of justice. Human beings may not wrongfully harm one another, and society must have institutions in place both for protection, as well as for lawful adjudication and punishment.

In a world that is prone to chaos, this is the only way that we can hope to live together.

In the next passage, God makes a covenant with Noah and his children, establishing the rainbow in the clouds as a sign of God’s commitment to never destroy the earth by flood again.

We tend to think of the rainbow as a symbol of peace, but that is not quite right. In the language of the Torah, the rainbow is a sign only for God. For God, it is a sign of stepping back. It is a sign of God being resigned to the inherently selfish and violent qualities of humanity. The Torah does not say anything about what the rainbow is supposed to mean for us.

But implied by stepping back is that God is saying to us, “I cannot solve your problems for you. From now on it is your resonsibility. You may not allow the lawlessness that existed before the flood to persist. You are created in My image, and that means you have an obligation to rise above your evil nature.”

From this perspective, to hold someone accountable for their evil actions is to treat them as a human being. When Hamas commits its atrocities, justice demands a response.

When innocent civilians are taken hostage, every effort must be made to bring them home, and those who took them must be punished. Why? It is because every human is made in the image of God.

We know the problem. Hamas and its allies surround themselves with civilians. They hide in schools and mosques, and fire rockets from right next to hospitals.

This makes it impossible for Israel to target its enemies without harming civilians. I trust that the IDF, in its training, its policies, and in its wartime decision making, strives to abide by the ethics and laws of war. But war is messy, especially in the Middle East. I do not envy those who have to make the decisions.

While none of us can know what the future has in store, this war will likely go on for some time. It will be ugly. Many civilians will die, mostly Palestinians. The propaganda battle will be intense, and we can predict how it will play out. As time goes on, Israel will come under increasing pressure to agree to a cease-fire.

The reality is that from here in San Jose, there is a little that we can do to impact any of this, other than by sending money and continuing to reach out on the human level to friends and family in Israel and here at home.

For me personally, I worry about what this war will do to my ability to see the Divine in every human being.

When news of the Ahli Arab hospital explosion came out earlier this week, my first reaction was to feel ill, saying to myself something along the lines of “I hope it wasn’t an Israeli bomb.”

When it appeared to have been caused by an errant Palestinian Islamic Jihad rocket, I felt relief and vindication… and also anger and frustration that for so many, the truth of which side’s explosives caused the damage does not matter.

What I did not feel and still do not feel so much of, is sadness for the deaths of people who were already injured and already seeking shelter from violence. For them, what difference does it make whose bomb caused the explosion? They are human beings, made in God’s image. We are supposed to fell a connection to that. In the midst of war, it is so easy for that fact to be smothered by our tribalism.

This is what war does. It hardens our hearts, making it difficult to feel compassion, making it hard to see the Divine in my fellow human being who is on the other side of the battle line.

It should be possible for us to simultaneously hold on to our love and support for our Israeli brothers and sisters, to pray for the safe return of the hostages, and also feel empathy for Palestinian civilians.

We should be able to pray for the defeat of Hamas, while also mourning civilian deaths.

And I know that there are not a lot of voices within the Muslim world that are calling for that kind of nuance right now. I was there were.

Is that not the burden that God placed on the children of Noah after the flood? To treat all life as sacred, as well as to hold to account anyone who violates that sanctity.

We recite Psalm 29 twice on Shabbat, once during Kabbalat Shabbat, Friday night, right before Lekha Dodi, and then when we return the Torah to the ark. The final two verses may sound familiar. Especially the last verse, which is used as the last verse in Birkat Hamazon, the Grace After Meals.

יְ֭הֹוָה לַמַּבּ֣וּל יָשָׁ֑ב וַיֵּ֥שֶׁב יְ֝הֹוָ֗ה מֶ֣לֶךְ לְעוֹלָֽם׃

יְֽהֹוָ֗ה עֹ֭ז לְעַמּ֣וֹ יִתֵּ֑ן יְהֹוָ֓ה ׀ יְבָרֵ֖ךְ אֶת־עַמּ֣וֹ בַשָּׁלֽוֹם׃

The Lord sat enthroned at the flood, the Lord sits enthroned, King forever

May the Lord grant oz, might to His people, may the Lord bless His people with shalom.
Psalm 29:10-11

I never thought about it before, but this last verse might seem contradictory. Asking for might sounds pretty militaristic, the direct opposite of peace. But history has shown that in our imperfect world, strength is what often makes peace possible. This is a lesson that the State of Israel certainly knows well.

Does shalom in this context really mean “peace.” I cannot accept that when we say “peace,” we mean “the annihilation of Gaza.”

I suggest that shalom, paired with oz, might paired with shalom, means something like wholeness and balance. When we are blessed with might, we pray that we not lose ourselves, that we not fall from the divine image, nor lose the ability to see the divine image in others, including even our enemies.

If we can’t strive for that, what business do we have praying for shalom?

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Rabbi Josh Berkenwald

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October 14, 2023

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Divrei Torah (Weekly Sermons), Genesis (בראשית)

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Who we are, and whom we are meant to become – Bereishit 5784

All week I have been dreading this moment of having to say something in front of the congregation. We have all been struggling with disbelief and anger, grief, fear, our hearts ripped open; emotions too raw to express in words.

And of all Torah portions to read this week, we have Bereishit. The beginning. This is a parashah which lays out the core aspects of what it means to be a human being. As a Rabbi, I turn to our tradition, our words.

Let’s look at five details, five snapshots that tell us who we are and what we are here for.

First comes creation. God spends six days making heaven and earth. As the Torah opens, we learn that the primordial state is one of chaos—tohu vavohu—with the spirit of God hovering over the deep. Reading on, the earth and sky form when God pushes out the watery chaos, the forces of evil and destruction. God divides them above and below, and from side to side. There, those waters, with their monsters and evil dragons, wait, eager to rush back in to reawaken the chaos. As the final creative act, God forms human, male and female, in the Divine image. God blesses them, us, and assigns us responsibility of dominion over the earth, the sea, and all they contain. Humanity is God’s partner, our duty unique among the rest of Creation. Our job is to keep those waters of chaos and evil at bay, to allow the rest of the world to flourish.

The next snapshot is in the Garden of Eden. God forms the first human out of the dust, and almost immediately declares lo tov heyot ha-adam levado – “It is not good for the human to be alone.” The solution is to divide the human into two, male and female, to serve as one another’s companions. We learn that humans are social creatures. We rely upon one another in the most fundamental ways.

The third snapshot is also in the Garden of Eden. God had planted the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, with instructions to not eat from its fruit. You know what happens. The woman and the man eat the fruit, and thereby gain moral knowledge. They experience something new: shame, as they hide their nakedness from one another, and from God. Their punishment is to be expelled from the Garden.

The fourth snapshot is of their children: Cain and Abel. When God favors Abel’s sacrifice, Cain is overwhelmed with jealousy and anger. God warns, “Sin couches at the door. It’s urge is toward you, but you can be it’s master.”

Cain does not master his rage, and he murders his brother.

“Where is your brother Abel?” God asks.

“Am I my brother’s keeper?” is Cain’s response. I believe his question is an honest one.

God does not answer the question with a simple yes or no, but with an expression of horror and disbelief. “What have you done? Hark, your brother’s blood cries out to Me from the ground!” Cain’s punishment is to wander the face of the earth, marked with the sign of a curse.

The final snapshot: Zeh sefer toldot adam —“This is the book of the generations of Adam. When God created man, God make him in His likeness; male and female He created them.” What follows is a geneaology of the children of Adam and Eve, covering the ten generations to Noah. The Talmudic Sage Ben Azzai declares this verse to be the fundamental principle of the Torah. All human beings are descend from the same origin. All of us carry the divine image. All of us are brothers and sisters.

These five snapshots merge into a portrait of the human condition. We human beings are God’s partners in Creation. It is our responsibility to keep the waters of evil and chaos at bay. There is a moral purpose to the universe, and we play a critical part…

…and we are morally imperfect. We have the capacity to know the difference between good and evil. We have the capacity to overcome sin, but we are no longer living in Eden. “Am I my brother’s keeper?” Cain asks. It is the dominant moral question of the entire book of Genesis, perhaps even the Torah. The ultimate answer is “yes. I am my brother’s keeper.” But violence and bloodshed are a constant presence.

And despite this all human beings are brothers and sisters. And we are stuck in this world, outside of Eden, that is filled with love and hate, peace and violance, order and chaos, grief and joy. And we need each other. And God does not want us to be resigned. All of this from our Torah’s opening parashah.

We have been witness to all of these humanity this week. I simply do not have words to talk about Hamas’ murderous rampage one week ago, last Shabbat, the morning of Simchat Torah, other than to call it pure evil, the worst of what humanity is capable of. There have been those that have tried to say that “they are not humans. They are animals.” I disagree. They are humans, and we know all too well that humans are capable of such evil.

This is the forces of creation ripped apart by chaos. Human beings utterly shirking their obligation to be partners with God in creating order and goodness. The blood of our brothers and sisters still cries out from the ground. It demands our grief, and our response.

We have also seen inspiring acts of human connection. Jews everywhere around the world experienced last week’s horrors deeply. Israelis immediately set aside their differences to come together in shared grief. They did everything imaginable to help victims, to protect and defend their fellow citizens. Jews around the world gathered in mourning and solidarity, demanding the freeing of our captive brothers and sisters. We have sent our financial support, and marshalled our political and social resources.

We have received outpourings of support from friends and allies around the world – those who rightly see the other as their brothers and sisters in shared humanity.

Astonishingly, there has been silence from too many, not to mention those who celebrate and cheer the torture, murder, and kidnapping of innocents.

Parashat Bereishit shows us exactly who we are, and it begs us to be who we are meant to become.

I have been thinking all week about how we are going to respond ritually to the demands of this moment.

This week has been filled with laments of grief, outpourings of rage, demands for vengeance, expressions of hope. Prayer helps us put what we are feeling into words. Prayer can sometimes be a statement of faith. Sometimes it is not a statement of faith but it is as a way of expressing ourselves when we cannot formulate the sounds on our own. It gives us the words when we do not have the words.

So, we are going to add prayers to our services. This morning, and probably for quite some time. This is what I could come up with for this morning. Our feelings and emotions may change in the weeks ahead and our prayers may change also.

supplemental-prayers-for-sinai-for-shemini-atzeret-war-Download

Rebyehoshua

Sermons and Other Writings by Rabbi Josh Berkenwald

Passover 5784 – Two Open Doors

The Silver Platter and the Ḥaredi Draft – Shemini 5784

The Rise of Civil Society – Vayakhel 5784

Israel Needs Us – For the Future of Judaism Itself – Ki Tissa 5784

Don’t Make it Worse – Letter to San Jose Mayor and City Councilmembers

Thanks, It’s Not Enough – Vayetze 5784

The Problem with the Story of Sodom and Gomorrah – Vayera 5784

Pidyon Shvuyim – Bring Them Home – Lekh Lekha 5784

Might and Peace – Noach 5784

Who we are, and whom we are meant to become – Bereishit 5784