the birds don’t know what my people just did their morning song not a song of mourning the trees don’t know that fear and hatred prevail their leaves on a different mission to transform and let go the bees don’t know a life without altruism their sisters out seeking nectar to nourish their mini nation the sun and moon don’t know they will rise and they will set but today is not the same even if earth remains unchanged I will sing a song of mourning I will transform and let go I will seek nourishment for my nation I am both changed and unchanged because I know what they don’t know

It is said that those who do not know history are doomed to repeat it. Yet it is curious how quickly we forget. Even those of us who have lived it. Even me.   In the spring of 1996, I visited Israel for the first time. Although it was many years ago and I was young, I remember a lot of details about that first trip. I remember a long Jeep ride across the border into Egypt, to the Sinai peninsula where we rode camels through the Colored Canyon. I remember the seemingly empty fields in Northern Israel blocked by barbed wire and a sign: “Danger! Mines.” I remember visiting an otherwise ordinary city square in Tel Aviv that was covered in bouquets of flowers, store-bought and hand-assembled, accumulating in great mounds on the ground. It was spring of 1996. Yitzhak Rabin had been assassinated only six months earlier. We were at the newly renamed Rabin Square. In the year between his death and his unveiling, Rabin Square served as a makeshift memorial site. At first I didn’t understand why everyone came to look at a bunch bouquets. And then I understood: we weren’t there to look, we were there to pay our respects. To honor one of the great peace-makers of our time. Only a year after the assassination of Yitzhak Rabin, Benjamin Netanyahu became Prime Minister of Israel for the first time. The Oslo Accords fizzled out. Then came the Second Intifada. For many, if not most of us, it seemed like our hopes for peace died along with Rabin.   What if Rabin hadn’t been killed? What if the Oslo Accords had been successful? What if our leaders continued to pursue compromise and coexistence? What if... I ask these questions because this was the climate of the world when I became aware of the Israel-Palestine conflict. Coming of age during a time when we not only believed in peace but we actively pursued it had a deep impact on me. It shaped my worldview. I remember the feeling of hope and optimism, palpable even to a child. I felt it so strongly. Yet even I find myself forgetting. Forgetting what it feels like to believe in peace, forgetting the feeling of hope.   We get the name Israel from Jacob. After Jacob fights an angel and prevails, the angel blesses him with a new name, Yisrael , the one who struggles with God. We as a people become am Yisrael , the nation of strugglers. We struggle in so many facets of our lives. We struggle with faith, we struggle with practice, we struggle with ethics. And yes, we struggle with ourselves, and we struggle with am Yisrael , the people and the nation. Perhaps the only time we aren’t struggling is when we walk away, when we turn our backs, when we abandon the cause. We only cease to struggle when we’ve given up. Jacob wrestled the angel for a blessing. He was about to face his brother Esau, whom he was convinced was going to kill him. It was life or death for Jacob. He needed that blessing or he could die. The struggle was existential. In some way we are facing a similar struggle now. An existential struggle. A life-or-death struggle. A struggle for peace. We struggle to remember a time when we were optimistic for the future. We struggle to imagine a better tomorrow for the next generation. There are also struggles here, in our own communities, sometimes within our own families. We struggle to understand each other. We struggle to find common ground. Our struggle cannot be like Jacob’s struggle, a physical fight. Let us read Jacob’s struggle as a metaphor: he was wrestling with something more powerful than himself, and though the odds were stacked against him, he did not give up. Our struggles aren’t with each other. They are so much bigger than that. Like Jacob, we are struggling with something bigger than ourselves. We are struggling to find a pathway forward. We are struggling to maintain hope. We are struggling to make peace a reality.   It is summer of 2024. My aunt and uncle are in Democracy Square, just 2 kilometers from Rabin Square. They are surrounded by thousands of Israelis and Palestinians all marching together. “ Iskah achshav ,” they chant. Deal, now. Everyone with a different reason for supporting the deal. Some desperate to bring the hostages home. Some desperate to protect their loved ones in Gaza. Some feeling torn in two. Everyone grieving, united in their despair. Israelis and Palestinians, Jews, Christians, Muslims, and Druze, all marching as one. Iskah achshav , deal, now. For all of us. Before Hersh Goldberg-Polin’s parents knew they would never again see their son alive, they spoke at the DNC urging Americans to support a peace deal. They said, “In a competition of pain, there are no winners.” Seeking peace even in heartbreak, knowing revenge will not bring their son back. Our friends and family in Israel have had to let go of the competition of pain. They are not unrealistic idealists. This is their lives, and they have experienced too much loss as it is. Groups of Palestinians and Israelis working together emphasize the need for common ground. One such group is Women Wage Peace: Palestinian and Israeli mothers who came together and said, “We want our children to live.” Everyone could agree with that statement. “We want our children to live.” By finding common ground, they found empathy. They saw themselves in the other; they saw each other as human. These peace groups are not monolithic – they may still disagree on certain topics. But with mutual understanding and empathy, they come together to create a path of peace. They know that peace cannot choose sides. There cannot be peace for one without peace for another. Peace must be a middle path which unites us all. But this isn’t just about peace in the Middle East. It’s about peace in our own communities, in our own homes, in our own hearts. There are no winners in a competition of pain, and yet we continue to compete. Who is more righteous? Who is more moral? Who is on our side? Who is against us?   Rabbi Sharon Brous has noticed the polarization in her own community. People tell her they feel unsafe when others have drastically opposing views. With great sensitivity, Rabbi Brous asks them this question: Are you actually unsafe, or are you incredibly, unbearably uncomfortable? There are situations where people are in real danger. And there are many more situations where we are incredibly, unbearably uncomfortable. Rabbi Brous encourages those of us experiencing this unbearable discomfort to do our best to shift our mindset from furious to curious. What if we could sit with our discomfort, and perhaps even question it? Is there a way we can find a point of connection? Can we find a common ground? Can we look past our personal pain and hope for healing, rather than retribution? Can we imagine a future of coexistence and peace? Can we be like Women Wage Peace, united in love? Last week I talked about all humans being deserving of love simply because we’re human. I talked about a Source of Goodness within us all that is a holy, healing light. We all have that light, whether we feel it or not. We all have God within us, a sacred soul that cannot be corrupted. If we find ourselves engaged in the wrong struggle, can we remember the divine spark within us, our own Source of Goodness? Can we remember that this same light is in every person, that every human is holy and deserving of love? We need to find a way to sit in the discomfort. To not abandon our struggle for peace even if feels unbearable. We need to focus on what we are for , rather than centering what we are against ; we need to focus on what unites us, rather than centering what divides us. We must reframe what it means to win. If we think we need to beat the other to win, then we will always lose. If not this time, then the next. There are no winners in a competition of pain. But if reframe our goal, then we win when we find common ground, we win when we empathize. This is not just theoretical. In many ways I am writing about myself, about my own struggle. I have felt overwhelmed by despair. I have felt my heart harden, tired of being broken. I have felt discomfort so unbearable that I felt unsafe. I knew I was not in danger, yet my heart felt afraid. Rabbi Brous could have been talking to me. And in many ways, she was. My struggle had become internal. Like Jacob wrestled with the angel, I wrestled with myself. I struggled to keep an open heart. I struggled with the unbearable discomfort of empathy. I struggled to abandon the competition of pain. In my own struggle, I wrote a poem as a reminder to myself, as motivation. The refrain says, the heart is never so open as when it is broken.   Friends, we are all broken hearted. Our hearts are wide open. Let’s do our best to keep our hearts open. Let’s not harden them against each other. Let’s turn our open broken hearts into vessels of empathy. Let us remember that love is the Source of Goodness; that every human is deserving of love; that we all have the power to turn love into peace.   In this season of return, let us return to a time when peace felt possible. Let us return to the version of ourselves that believed in a better world. We have been there before, let us not forget that feeling. Let us go back to believing. As we strive to live up to our name as am Yisrael , the ones who struggle, may we remember our struggles are not with each other; we are struggling to make the world a better place. Let us not abandon the struggle, may we never give up the fight for peace.

On Rosh Hashanah I explored the concept of God, and described God as the Source of Goodness. I remarked that Goodness is all around us, but it is also within us, that divine spark in every person. Tonight I want to expand on that divine spark within us – something we may refer to as our soul.   It’s not easy to define what we mean when we use the term soul. In fact, it becomes even harder in Hebrew. English has two words to refer to this concept, spirit and soul. Hebrew has three words: nefesh , ruach , and neshama .   Nefesh  means life-force. It is an ancient word for jugular, and during ancient times it was believed that our life was held in our throats. It refers to the physical aspects of life.   Ruach  means spirit or wind, elements that are felt but not seen. Like wind, it can easily change. It refers to the emotional aspects of a person.   Neshama  is our quintessential word for soul. Related to the word for breath, it is the combination of the physical and spiritual aspects of being.   In English, we often don’t differentiate between the “types” of soul. When we think of our own souls, we may think of who we are as people. We may think of our skills and talents – what would be classified as nefesh . We may think of our personalities, our likes and dislikes – what would be classified as ruach . We may also think of the aspect of life that cannot be properly observed or understood – what would be classified as neshama . It can be difficult to discern which someone is referring to with only the word soul.   In Hebrew, these three aspects of soul are not the same. Our nefesh  can become weak or tired, just like our bodies. Our ruach can become volatile and unpredictable, just like the wind. But our neshama is pure; our neshama  is the divine spark within us all, the source of goodness.     The neshama  is the only aspect of our soul that never changes. When a baby is born, their nefesh  and their ruach  are still in development, but their neshama  is fully developed. Sometimes when you see a baby, you can feel the warmth and goodness in your own being. Their neshama shines so brightly that you can feel its glow. I know the grandparents in the room know what I’m talking about.   In my experience, especially during times of self-improvement, we think only about our nefesh  or our ruach : our actions, thoughts, and emotions. The aspects of us that are unique. We often ignore our neshama , the aspect that we all share. We may even take it for granted.     We confess our sins to purify our souls. But just as the English word for soul cannot encompass the distinction between nefesh , ruach , and neshama , so too the English word for sin cannot portray the meaning behind our confessions.   For the sin we have committed against you.... is not accurate. We have two Hebrew words for sin, cheit and aveirah. During our community confessional we use the term cheit... al cheit she’chatanu l’fanecha.   Sin connotes evil. It is not just wrong, it is morally wrong. A sin makes a person a sinner.   Cheit and aveirah are mistakes, not moral failings. They refer only to our actions, not to us as individuals. They literally mean to miss the mark and to walk the wrong path. We can miss the mark or walk the wrong path intentionally or unintentionally. Either way, we can always course-correct, try better, and return to our target. We say ashamnu , we are guilty, not bushanu , we are shameful. We say we have done bad things, we do not say we are bad people.   Brene Brown explains that guilt is “I’ve done something bad” while shame is “I am bad.” One is connected to our actions, while the other is connected to our identity.     We only atone for our mistakes, not for who we are.   I used to refer to teshuva as a deep clean on a house. That we may do surface cleans to keep our spaces manageable, but periodically we need a deep clean. But recently I’ve come to realize that my metaphor is incomplete.   To liken teshuva to a deep clean is only taking into account our nefesh  and our ruach , but ignoring our neshama . Our nefesh and ruach , like our houses, are not perfect. They are all unique and distinct, with their own assets and issues. We can improve them, but there will always be imperfections or idiosyncrasies. There will be wear and tear, grooves developed through years of use. Our deep clean will not return our house to its original state, nor would we want to: we have grown to love the grooves. We appreciate our distinctions which make us unique.     Our neshama , however, has no wear and tear. It is as pure today as it was the day we were born. But even without wear and tear, it still needs our attention.   If our nefesh  and ruach  are a house, we can think of our neshama  as a sun. The sun’s radiance never changes, but our perception of it does. Its light can be obscured by clouds that form.   If we feel like our light has dimmed, our tradition teaches us our neshama  never dims. While our divine spark shines brightly, its light can become obscured by clouds. We only need to clear them to feel its glow again.     Clearing our clouds can help us feel the warmth of our internal sun, that healing glow I spoke about on Rosh Hashanah. Clearing our clouds can help others feel it too. I mentioned earlier the joy of a baby. With a neshama that has yet to develop obscuring clouds, a baby’s light is so strong that it can help clear the clouds of others. We may hold a baby, and suddenly our soul is not so stormy. There is a warmth, a hope, a love.   The deep clean is still important. But a clean house shrouded in darkness is not the warm, cozy home we deserve. We are not doing the work if we aren’t clearing our clouds.   It is not easy work. Our clouds develop through trauma, pain, and hardship. Heartbreak, disappointment, anger, grief, and loss. Experiences we all have. Our clouds grow and we harden our hearts, shut off our hope, and hide away our love.   There is a reason why we have the Yizkor prayer during Yom Kippur. Letting out our grief helps clear our clouds.   We may feel reluctant to clear the clouds. We shouldn’t be responsible for others’ wrongdoings, or for the random circumstances of life. But even if we didn’t create the clouds, we are the ones living with less light.   We deserve to feel our own light, to let others feel our light as well. Our clouds do not protect us, they only diminish our joy.     How can we know we have clouds to clear, or how to clear them? We may not be aware of our clouds or our light. We may have become used to the clouds. We may have forgotten the feel of the light.   The easiest way to identify a cloud is when it gets activated. If we remember a painful memory, we may feel a tightness in our chest or a desire to withdraw. When this happens, our neshama  is communicating with our nefesh  and our ruach . We feel it in our body, in our emotions. Our neshama  is trying to purify itself. Our neshama is pushing the clouds to the outer parts of our soul, and they don’t like it one bit. Our nefesh  and ruach  will try and force it back down, and we must resist that urge. It’s painful, but we must be mindful of our clouds and confront them in order to release the darkness.   We may not have a space laser, but we can control the weather in our souls.   Martin Luther King Jr said, “Darkness cannot drive out darkness, only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate, only love can do that.” When we confront the clouds, we must do so with light. We must expel them with love.   Let us not attempt to become better by beating it out of ourselves. We must treat ourselves with love. We must remember the light in all of us, whether we can feel it or not. There will be times you don’t feel it in yourself, and times you don’t feel it in others. We must know that even if the light is obscured, deep down the Source of Goodness is there, pure, divine love, shining brightly as ever. We must believe that return is possible. We must do all we can to shine again.

Let’s go back in time to over 2,000 years ago. It’s 400 BCE. You’re about to embark on pilgrimage. You make the pilgrimage three times a year, but this pilgrimage is different. You are different. As you walk to the Temple, others join your path. There is an excitement in the air. Some youths are journeying for the first time. Some have not had the resources to come in a while. Yet your feet drag, dreading what awaits you at the Temple. When you arrive, you see the people circling already. They walk around the Temple, more of a human wheel than a crowd. They walk in sync, moving together as if one unit. Those you were journeying with seamlessly join the circle, dipping in and disappearing in the flow. But you hesitate. It will not be so easy for you. You are not the same person as you were when you came before. Your feet heavy as stones, you force your way into the circle. But rather than joining the others, you face the opposite direction. You see in front of you the sea of people part to avoid crashing into you. Already, you have disrupted the flow. Yet you know your mission is not complete. With leaden feet, you begin to walk in the opposite direction. It is hardly a moment before someone about to pass pauses. The stranger looks you in your eyes and asks, “What happened to you?” You know it is their obligation to ask, you know it is what the rabbis require of them, yet the question still pierces your heart. You have not been able to talk about it since it happened. The opportunity to speak brings the tears and you sob. You have just experienced an incredible loss. You have never felt so lonely in your life. And yet all you’ve wanted is to be alone. You’ve been afraid of being seen in your heartbreak and grief. You’ve been afraid of being vulnerable. Yet here you are, fulfilling your duty to be vulnerable. And here is this stranger fulfilling their duty to witness you in your vulnerability.   This is a real ritual that the Jewish people practiced in Temple times, which Rabbi Sharon Brous writes about in her book The Amen Effect . An ancient ritual to combat the loneliness of loss. Sometimes I hear people speak about an epidemic of loneliness as if it is a new phenomenon. I do believe we are experiencing an epidemic of loneliness, but I also believe it is an age-old struggle. It is a human struggle.   While not the only cause, a main contributor to loneliness is loss and grief. Loss can be thought of expansively: The loss of a loved one, losing a job, an unexpected sickness or injury, the destruction of your home in a natural disaster. Two millennia ago we had rituals to respond to loss, for people to be witnessed in their grief. We don’t assume we know how or why they’re grieving. We don’t ask, “Who died?” We ask an expansive, open-ended question: What happened to you? And we give space to receive the answer. These individuals don’t know each other. They are strangers sharing an incredibly intimate moment. Our sages understood that sometimes we can’t rely on those we are close to. Maybe it’s too hard to ask for help from family and friends, or maybe we have no one. Yet something can happen when we talk to each other; even if we aren’t close, something happens when we let each other into our hearts. Something happens when we bear witness to each other’s humanness.   Some people use the words “seen” or “heard” to mean understood. Knowing that this feeling of being understood goes beyond sight or sound, I offer the term witness. Witnessing is a deliberate, intentional action. The person in our story who pauses is bearing witness, and the person who breaks down in tears has experienced the power of being witnessed. We each have a human need to be witnessed; there are times when we must identify ourselves to be witnessed, and there are times when we will be called to be witnesses for others.   But grief does not always look like the person in our story, downcast and downtrodden. Rabbi Sharon Brous asks, What if the person is not just walking toward you, but coming at you – from the opposite direction, bumping up against you? For some, loss does not translate as sorrow. For some, sorrow is too heavy a burden to bear; instead, it converts into anger. What if the person you encounter is angry?   During my time as a hospital chaplain, I saw a lot of loss. I saw a lot of sorrow. I also saw anger. There was a woman whose husband had cirrhosis. He was an alcoholic decades ago, but had been sober for several years. Despite turning his life around, his past caught up with him. He was dying. The first time I visited, she insisted she did not need to talk. She said what she needed was a liver transplant. Hearing that she was not okay, I stayed with her. I listened as she complained about doctors, nurses, and most of all, insurance. I heard how she’d been in the hospital 250 days out of the last year. I heard how tired she was. The second time I visited, she said she was okay now. Knowing that she was not okay, I stayed with her. I listened as she questioned how a benevolent God could let this happen. How could God abandon her and her family? If God believes in forgiveness, why was God punishing her husband after he righted his wrongs? As I sat with her, I felt helpless. I wanted to wave a magic wand and make all her problems go away. I didn’t even have answers to her questions, let alone solutions. Witnessing her pain was uncomfortable and heavy, and I felt insecure under the weight of it. I brought the situation to my supervisor, who lamented that we are not miracle workers. “As much as we want to,” he said, “we cannot fix people or their problems. All we can do is make sure they don’t go through it alone.” The third time I visited her, the anger was gone. She was now ready to take on the extremely heavy burden of sorrow. She did not yell. She cried. She cried and cried. And as she cried, she felt relief. She felt her load lessen. Her problems were not solved, but she felt more prepared to face them. This is the power of witnessing. We don’t have to have the answers. We don’t have to make the situation better. Sometimes all someone needs is to be witnessed in their hardship.   We call God chen v’chesed , grace and kindness, and aspire to those attributes ourselves. But these English words can’t fully encapsulate the meaning behind chen v’chesed . Rabbi Shai Held describes chen not as grace, but as love that one has done nothing to earn. Rabbi Tamara Eskenazi defines chesed as kindness that goes beyond what one would expect. Both of these definitions describe a love that is completely unconditional. Examples of chen v’chesed normally involve strangers, as one would expect love and kindness from a friend or family member. Chen v’chesed are not reciprocal, they are not expected, they are not earned by any previous deed or relationship. When bearing witness, we not only help heal those we witness. By giving love that has not been earned, we affirm that no one needs to earn love in order to deserve it. If we ever feel undeserving, that we’ve done nothing to earn love or kindness, we can remember the chen v’chesed we’ve given others. We know then that it is impossible to be undeserving of love.   We can give and receive chen v’chesed through witnessing. But we must show up. We live in increased isolation, but it is not a byproduct of our times. We have always had the impulse to hide when we’re hurt. We retreat away from others and into ourselves. We become a shell of what we once were. Since ancient times, we have been coaxed out of our cocoons of comfort to confront our pain in community with others. Just as we did then, we must show up for each other. We must come together, even if our feet are heavy, even if our burden feels too great to carry. Our burdens are only too heavy if we carry them alone. Let’s take a weight off our shoulders by coming together. We can help heal others and ourselves by affirming that we are all deserving of love simply by being human. Whether we are called to witness or be witnessed, we must show up and accept the responsibility. We must disrupt the flow when we are in pain, and we must pause when we notice the flow disrupted. Our ancient rabbis wrote this ritual because it is not intuitive. Because our hearts may be telling us to suppress the sadness. But in our souls, we know that we cannot hold onto the pain. And we all need help letting it out. May we embrace this challenge to bear witness and be witnessed in this year and years to come. May our love for each other increase the love in our own lives. Love has a rippling effect: love inspires love. Whether we’ve earned it or not, we all deserve love. In 5785 and beyond, let us accept the responsibility to be there for each other. Let us accept the responsibility to reach out when we’re in need. Let us accept the responsibility to love without condition, without reciprocation, without prompting. In our holy task of repairing the world, let us start with ourselves, let us start with love.

There’s a Chasidic story about a person who approaches their rabbi with a conundrum. “Rabbi,” they say, “I don’t believe in God.” The rabbi considers this statement and says, “Tell me what you don’t believe.” The person says, “I don’t believe that God is a man in the sky. I don’t believe that God is angry and vengeful, and sends natural disasters to punish us. I don’t believe that God can intervene in human life and perform miracles, and yet chooses to watch us suffer instead.” The rabbi listened to the person explain what they don’t believe in. And then the rabbi said, “You know... I don’t believe in that God either.”   No one has a monopoly on God. In Judaism while we’re instructed to believe, what we believe is largely up to us. There is a long history of Jews who rejected traditional beliefs in God, but believed nonetheless. Einstein, who was often labeled as an atheist, was quoted as saying, “To sense that behind anything that can be experienced there is something that our mind cannot grasp and whose beauty and sublimity reaches us only indirectly and as a feeble reflection, this is religiousness. In this sense I am religious.” To Einstein, belief in God is a feeling of awe and wonder. It is less about what you know and more about what you don’t know. To let go of the workings of the mind and tune into the workings of the heart. To surrender to beauty. Some people mistakenly say Judaism is not about belief, but about action. We do focus on action, but we have belief too: shema Yisrael Adonai Eloheinu Adonai echad. Adonai is our God, Adonai is one. That first line of the Shema tells us to believe. And what comes next tells us HOW to believe: v’ahavta – and you shall love. We show we believe through love. We all have different ways of showing our love, yet love is love regardless of the form it takes. So too will we have different ways of believing. God can be one and still be different to each of us, as each of us is different. The God most of us don’t believe in is a supernatural God. The angry, vengeful God who destroys  as punishment. As it turns out, it is very Jewish to not believe in this God. Rabbis and scholars have promoted disbelief in this God for over 1,000 years. In the 10th century, Saadia Gaon wrote that “miracles” were natural occurrences: not divine intervention, but more like divine coincidence. In the 12th century, Maimonides wrote that miracles were meant as metaphors and not to be taken literally. They could not believe in a God that intervened, when they lived in a world where God did not intervene. These were not non-believers. They were not fringe thinkers. They believed, just in a different way. We have in our history over a millennia of disbelief in a supernatural God. I’ll admit, I’m a little obsessed with Jewish theology. I’ve devoted many projects and papers to the theme. As much as I would love to share an in-depth overview of various Jewish theologies, what I really want to share with you is my personal theology. Whether we realize it or not, we all have personal theologies. We may not have developed them thoroughly, but any belief or disbelief we have is our personal theology. My personal theology is a patchwork of others’ theologies which have resonated with me, stitched together with my own unique experiences. It is a home-made, sentimental thing, not meant for mass-production. Even if our patches are identical, our stitching is unique to us, like a thumbprint or a signature. I know my quilt will not be your quilt. But maybe I can share what it means to me. My theology is both a belief in God and a way to connect to the God I believe in. My God is a rejection of binaries. My God is not either/or, but both and everything in-between. Elohim is plural, but God is one. The multiplicity with the singularity represents connection. The fabric of the universe. Everything is connected. Though we are many, through our connection we become one. God is connection. God’s proper name which we do not say out loud is related to the Hebrew word to be . In the Torah we only see the verb to be in future or past tense; it never appears in the present tense. Perhaps God’s name is the original present tense of the verb to be . God is being. In the beginning, God was being. But as our story begins, God creates. God becomes creator. God is connection. God is being. God is creator. God is becoming. God is possibility. God is evolution. God is a gravitational pull toward goodness. In truth, the word God has lost its meaning. It was meant as a placeholder for the ineffable, a way to describe the indescribable. In its potential to mean so much, to many of us it has come to mean nothing. I have described to you what God is to me, and now I want to share with you my practice of connecting with that God. But understanding all the baggage that the name God carries, I will use the name Source of Goodness. This is just one practice, but it is my practice. I don’t use it all the time, but it is my go-to for whenever I need a spiritual connection. Sometimes I use it once a month, and sometimes I use it multiple times a day. It is not something I feel obligated in, but something that helps me connect to a power greater than myself, and to feel recharged with goodness. If you are comfortable, I invite you to close your eyes. Find a comfortable position. Try and release any tension you may be holding in your shoulders, in your jaw, between your eyes. Take a deep breath in, and a deep breath out. Envision yourself in a dark room. The darkness is so stark that you cannot see the walls, the ceiling, the floor. It is as if you are in a void. If you feel comfortable, bring your hands to your chest. Now envision a warm, soft light has materialized in your heart. This light is the Source of Goodness that lives inside you. It is so bright it shines outside of your body, illuminating the space around you. As you bring your hands back down to your lap, the light flows out of you and into your hands. You can hold it now, resting in your palms. Feel the warmth of its glow. You take this warm, comforting light, and you stretch it out as wide as your arms can reach, and you wrap yourself in the light like a tallit. You pull it over your head and around your body until you are surrounded in the light. You can no longer see the darkness. Everything is light. You know the darkness is still there, but it cannot reach you. You are protected by the light. It is warm, comforting, and nourishing. Feel yourself blossom within this light, opening up your heart, unburdened by any heaviness you were carrying before. This light comes from the Source of Goodness. You conjured it from within, but it exists all around you. The one source flows through many channels. You can always access it in your heart, or you can experience it in the goodness of others, or in the beauty of nature. You can surround yourself with it if you need protection or comfort. It is not a shield which closes you off from the world, but an energy source which gives you the strength to face the darkness. It reminds you who you are. You are not lost in the darkness; you are a source of light. You have within you the Source of Goodness.   This is my personal patchwork quilt. It is handmade and tailored to me. Your quilt will be different. We each will have our own beliefs and ways to connect.   I’ll conclude how I began: with a story. There was a young kid who went missing every time the community gathered to pray. Ordinarily no one would think anything of it, but this was the rabbi’s kid, and the community began to gossip. Did the kid not know how to pray? Where did the kid run away to? Fed up with the rumors, the rabbi confronted their child. “Where do you go during prayers?” the rabbi asked. “I go to the forest,” the child responded. “Prayers are not time for playing,” the rabbi chastised. “But I’m not playing!” the child insisted. “I go to the forest to pray.” The rabbi laughed. “But why would you need to go to the forest to pray?” the rabbi asked. “What difference does it make if you’re in the forest or in the synagogue? God is the same everywhere.” The child simply responded, “God may be the same everywhere, but I am not. In order for me to pray, I need the forest.” We all have different ways of being spiritual. Different ways to believe in that which our minds cannot fully comprehend. Different ways to connect with the ineffable. Your personal belief will affect how you connect to that belief. Some need the forest, others need science; some need meditation, others need music or art. We are not meant to be identical with identical beliefs. My God will be different from your God; even if God is the same, we are not the same. You don’t believe in an angry, vengeful God? I don’t believe in that God either. Judaism tells us to believe, but doesn’t tell us what to believe. What we believe is up to us. We are only told how to believe: we believe through love. Whatever we believe, whatever our personal patchwork quilt looks like, it must inspire us to love. Love is at the heart of it all. Love is all we need to believe. Let us wrap ourselves in that love. Let us let love guide us to becoming a light in the darkness. Let us use love as a tool to heal ourselves and our broken world. Let this next year be our year to love.

our memories the memories we have of others are faulty things inconsistent, disjointed, warped by emotion which ones carry on? which are stored safe  and which are discarded? when we open the chamber of our memories are we greeted with gratitude or pain? our memories the memories others have of us are faulty things inconsistent, disjointed, warped by emotion which ones carry on? which are stored safe and which are discarded? when they open the chamber of our memories are they greeted with gratitude or pain? to create good memories we must cherish what is sacred and let go of what haunts us to create good memories we must be builders of goodness and repairers of pain I pray to be remembered for good knowing that I alone  can make it happen

empathy is not an exhaustible resource although it is at times exhausting we are our only limiting factor the heart is never so open as when it is broken let it break, let it break hate is never a prerequisite for love the only requirement for love is love and perhaps a broken heart the heart is never so open as when it is broken let it break, let it break love for one does not negate love for another we must believe that love is a multiplier we can give and give and never run out the heart is never so open as when it is broken let it break, let it break empathy is an infinite wellspring freely flowing if we find ourselves depleted we need only check our taps the heart is never so open as when it is broken let it break, let it break

It is not enough to protect trans kids if we are not empowering and honoring trans adults. Much of the transgender rights movement has been focused on children. And for good reason: trans children are under attack in our country. Schools have weaponized trans identity against children to prevent them from participating in sports or having access to public restrooms. States have criminalized trans healthcare for children, some going so far to accuse supportive parents of child abuse. Families with trans children disproportionally face displacement, as many have had to leave their homes in search of a more supportive community. As children, these young trans people represent the most innocent and most vulnerable members of our community. As minors, they already have limited rights in this country, and so it makes perfect sense for us as activists and lovers of freedom to come to their aid. But our activism is not complete if we end our efforts with trans children. Trans people everywhere need our help. What is the use of protecting trans children if we don’t also create a society for them to grow up into healthy, safe, thriving trans adults? Is our protection of them only because they are helpless children, or is it because they are human beings worthy of fulfillment? Why would our support of them stop at the age of 18? Trans adults are significantly more likely to be unemployed, unhoused, uninsured, and unpartnered. Many trans adults are struggling to survive, and many of those surviving are struggling to thrive. Many feel left to the wolves since they have passed the age of innocence and are now forced to fend for themselves. Many are forced to engage in dangerous or demeaning work as a result of difficulty finding fulfilling employment. 1 out of 3 trans adults has been turned away from a job due to their transgender identity. 3 out of 4 trans adults have experienced discrimination or harassment in their workplace due to their trans identity. I have been in Jewish spaces which have proclaimed the importance of “protecting trans kids.” As a trans adult hearing those words, my heart did not jump with joy. Instead, it fell into a pit in my stomach. I was never a “trans kid.” I came out as an adult at 23 years old. I’ve lived these past 12 years as my full self, and I am proud of my journey. But these same institutions that are now “protecting trans children” have never protected me. Many, if not most communities which see the humanity in young trans people continue to overlook the real needs of trans adults. Trans adults are told we not only have to be excellent at what we do in order to succeed, we have to be the best. We have to be so far beyond anyone else that we give our others (including employers) no possible reason to reject us. If we have just one perceived flaw, it will be used as justification for our discrimination. I’ve spoken with several trans adults who have hit this barrier of required perfection in employment. One said to me mournfully, “I should have waited to transition. I know I would’ve gotten this job as a cis person. Maybe if I had only waited to come out until after I got hired.” We should not have to put our lives on hold to be able to thrive in our society. We should not have to hide who we are in order to be accepted by others. In one of my own searches for employment, a community I was interviewing with seemed enamored by me. “You’re a wonderful sermonizer,” they said, “you have a kind, pastoral presence, and your experience is impressive. But... our community is not ready for a trans rabbi. I tried to convince them that they were being prejudiced. They didn’t care. Don’t take it personally... it has nothing to do with you or your qualifications.” I was so shocked I couldn’t find the words to respond. Transphobia is so normalized in our society that they felt comfortable sharing with me their bias. They did not realize they were admitting to illegal employment discrimination. How could I not take that personally? “It has nothing to do with you, only who you are.” I know the discrimination we as trans people face says more about those prejudiced against us than it does about us. And yet we are the ones who bear the burden of the prejudice and discrimination. Others’ shortcomings become our struggles. I’ve thought a lot about this discrimination, and how well-meaning progressive people can so blatantly betray their progressive values. Why would a place which “protects trans children” discriminate against trans adults? I think the answer is fear. Fear rules so many of our decisions. Fear is the guiding factor in protecting trans children – fear that harm may come to them. Fear is also the guiding factor in the anti-trans legislation – fear that one’s children may live their life in a way that is incongruent with one’s religious values. I believe fear is also the prevailing emotion when progressive-minded people discriminate against trans individuals. I have heard several times throughout my adult trans life, “We’re afraid we might do or say something to offend you.” This has always been a surprising statement to me. Shouldn’t I be the one who is afraid? Why are they afraid? The truth is, there is always the possibility that someone may say or do something offensive. At any point in time, one of us may say something wrong and inadvertently hurt another person’s feelings. This happens regardless of identity, but the likelihood is increased when someone comes from a different background or experience than we do. So while the fear of offending is ever present, it becomes heightened when interacting with those who may be marginalized by society. But we cannot let that fear of offending others be what keeps us siloed and separated. Yes, possibility of offense is a risk that comes with introducing diversity to our communities. And, at the same time, I guarantee you that the one in the position to be offended has been offended before, and is fully aware of the risk of being offended again. If we are willing to take the chance of possibly being offended, we should be allowed to take that risk for ourselves. Let me share another example. I was at a small community in a farming town. I was teaching a lunch and learn on gender beyond the binary in Judaism as a way of coming out to the community. An older member approached me. “Why are you teaching this?” she wanted to know. “It’s important to me personally,” I said, “because I’m transgender.” She thought for a moment, clearly troubled by this information. “I’m not sure I agree with that,” she said. Not the ideal response, but at least she’s honest. “You don’t have to agree,” I said. “But will you still come to the lunch and learn? We’d love to have you.” She came to the lunch and learn where we read texts from the ancient rabbis about different genders in Judaism beyond male and female. For a while she was silent, taking it all in. After a while, some of the other learners in the class began a debate. One learner said, “I don’t know that I agree with all these different genders. I’m a feminist, and this doesn’t seem very feminist to me.” My initial dissenter finally spoke up. “Why would the rabbis write this if it weren’t true?” she questioned. “They knew what they were doing. Who are we to argue with them?” The woman who told me she didn’t believe in transgender identity was now the one defending it to others. All this happened in the span of one hour. I’m not saying I expect this type of 180 turn around every time someone makes an offensive comment. But rather to illustrate that human beings are complex individuals who are able to change their ways of thinking if only given the chance. If the community had tried to “protect” me from people like her by never hiring me to begin with, not only would I have never had the pleasure of meeting her (we ended up having a very special relationship), but she would have never had the opportunity to grow and evolve in her thinking. It isn’t pleasant to be offended. And I’m not even saying it’s okay. What I am saying is that it is natural, and to a certain degree, unavoidable. Offensive comments will be made. Individuals will be offended by those offensive comments. But how can we use them as a starting point to move forward? How can we use them as an impetus to learn and grow? It’s always hard to make that first step toward change. Any action which shakes up the status quo has the possibility of disrupting the community culture as a whole. Anyone in a position of being a “first” knows intimately what it’s like to be a trailblazer and a pioneer on a path that was not paved for them. We know the risks and we have accepted the responsibility. We know that includes the inevitability of offensive comments and remarks. And throughout years of experience with offensive comments and remarks, most of us have perfected our respectful responses which invite conversation and connection without condoning the offensive statement itself. We should not be afraid of offending people. Not because we shouldn’t be mindful of avoiding offense – we should, as much as possible. But because in reality it is impossible to completely avoid offense. We shouldn’t be afraid of something we ultimately have no control over. We should be afraid of discrimination. We should be afraid of our communities becoming siloed because we’d prefer to be with others exactly like us rather than run the risk of offending someone who is different. We should be afraid of this new wave of progressive segregation which masks itself as safety and protection for the ones we may inadvertently offend. Those of us on the margins are not safer as a result of being excluded from your “unsafe” communities. We understand it will shake things up to include us. We understand those in our new community may not always say the right thing. But we need places to go, communities to belong to. If you let us in, you may be surprised at how much we have to teach you. You may be surprised at how much Torah we have in our hearts. And who knows. It may not be perfect for us as the firsts, but perhaps sometime down the line, we’ll forget that the fear was ever there... we’ll forget that we ever even had the capacity to exclude others out of fear.c

From a young age I understood what it was like to love those who are different from you. I can’t even remember it being a lesson I learned; it was something I always knew. My family is not the typical interfaith family since both my parents were raised Jewish. But most of my cousins were not raised Jewish and never identified with that label. I have vivid memories as a child going to my grandfather’s house for Christmas Eve, and my aunt and uncle’s house for Christmas. I remember hearing, “We don’t celebrate Christmas because we aren’t Christian. But our extended family does because they are. And we celebrate with them because we are family.” Growing up in the ‘90s, “diversity” was all the rage. There was representation of different races, religions, and abilities in the TV shows I watched. And I thought absolutely nothing of it. It was not “pandering to a woke audience,” it was simply the world as kids such as myself saw it. I thought about differences and similarities a lot as a child. I thought about how most of my cousins were blonde, but my hair was black like my cousin who is Korean. I thought about how we sang Christmas songs at school, but the girl who celebrated Kwanza lit a candelabra like my family did. I thought about the time I said my best friend and I were “twins” and my teachers laughed because her skin was brown, but we had the exact same haircut and giggled in tandem. I thought about how most of my friends’ parents pronounced my name like the Little Mermaid, except for my friend whose parents were from Mexico: “We have that name in our culture too.” It wasn’t that I didn’t see color. I saw it all the time. I saw it on TV, with my family, with my friends. And it wasn’t that I didn’t think about it either. I thought about it when my aunt made kimchi, I thought about it when my friends spoke to their parents in languages I didn’t understand, I thought about it when celebrating Christmas with my cousins. But I thought about it the way I thought about all similarities and differences: they all blend together to make the fullness of who we are. I distinctly remember the first time I seriously thought about race. I had just started middle school which took students from several different elementary schools. In elementary school, I did not have a “friend group” that I belonged to. I had three best friends over the course of the six years: the first was Armenian, the second was Mexican, and the third was white. When I started middle school, I did not have any classes with my former friends. I met entirely new people. For the first time in my life I did not have a best friend; I was a member of a friend group, one of seven, and we did everything together. I remember one day I told my mom I was going to hang out with my friends, and she asked who I was seeing. When I told her, she thought for a second and then responded, “Do you have any white friends?” I knew all my friends were Asian. But I had honestly never thought of myself as different from them based on my race. We were all in honors classes. We were all rule-followers. We all loved anime. On top of that, even though they were all Asian, most of their families came from different countries. They were Chinese, Vietnamese, Korean, Filipino, and Indian. And even though there were two Chinese kids, their families spoke different languages. I didn’t see myself as different, I saw us all as different. I remember feeling defensive in response to my mom’s question. I had never considered that maybe I was an odd one out. It was uncomfortable to feel different and alone in my difference. Looking back on this now, I know it was an immense privilege to never feel singled out due to my race until I was twelve/thirteen years old. I do not share this story to say anything negative about my mother. She loved those friends of mine and that I finally had a friend group. My mother will come up a couple times in my reflections. Firstly, because she is the person I have spoken the most with in my life. I tell my mom almost everything. We have probably had more conversations than I have had with anyone else. Many of my memories include her, which says more of our relationship than of her as a person. Secondly, my mom comes up because I have lived a life she could never have imagined. That is as true with regard to my queerness and transness as it is with my diverse friend group. She lived in a world full of social rules and separations where stepping out of line was dangerous. She was not at all antagonistic toward my world. She simply was surprised by it. This singling out did not happen for me again until I was seventeen. I was dating a Mormon, and occasionally I would join him and his family for church. I distinctly remember the first time I went. There was a room full of people, somewhere between fifty and a hundred. As I looked around, it struck me that I had never been around so many blonde people in my entire life. There were some brunettes as well, but only ones with chestnut-colored hair. Though we were all white, I felt myself stick out like a sore thumb. There was only one other person in the whole church with dark hair like mine. I pointed him out to my boyfriend, who said cheerfully, “Oh yes, he’s Jewish too!” I couldn’t understand why a Jew was attending a Mormon church. Maybe he was like me, a Jew in an interfaith relationship, even though that was frowned upon in the Mormon religion. He ended up approaching me after services, as many others did, to welcome me to their community. I asked him about his Judaism. He was immediately flustered. “Oh, I’m not Jewish,” he stammered. “My parents were Jewish. But they became Mormon long before I was born. I don’t know anything about Judaism.” My blood ran cold. Here was a Mormon through and through being identified as “Jewish” by other Mormons. He did not identify as Jewish, but his black hair identified him as such to others. I tasted metal in my mouth. Were these the white friends I was expected to have, people who would label me as Other even against my wishes? The next singling out experience was when I was in grad school studying creative writing. I had just moved back home and started the program. I no longer lived near any of my college friends, and all of my high school friends had left the area. I knew I needed to find my people in my grad program. It took me a couple weeks before I made a friend. Some people were much older than me and not looking for friends. Some I had nothing in common with and conversation was strained. Finally, I met someone and we clicked. She was one of the only other people in our whole program who was not Christian. She was passionate about politics and social justice. And she was a poet like me. I went home and told my mom, “I made a friend!” “Oh yeah?” my mom said. “What’s her name?” “Laila,” I responded. “Laila? Where’s she from?” “Palestine,” I said. My mom has come a long way in her beliefs and understanding of differences. I know she would not respond this way today. But again, she grew up unable to envision the world I lived in. Confused by my response, she asked, “What could you possibly have in common with someone from Palestine?” Again defensive, I listed off everything we had in common. I had not considered us the “Odd Couple.” I knew she was different from me. But we saw the similarities in each other. At this time I was still identifying as a woman. Before long, she and I were calling each other “sister.” At the end of our two-year program, our program director made a remark how our friendship was proof that poetry can unite people. “A Palestinian and a Jew become friends through poetry.” If only we could create world peace through poetry. As Laila was preparing to move back to Palestine, I went to her apartment to visit. She made me a traditional Palestinian flat bread covered in zaatar and tea made from fresh spearmint, flavors that also reminded me of home. I asked her how she felt about our professor’s remarks. She crinkled her nose. “On the one hand, I get it,” she said, clicking her tongue like the old women in my synagogue. “I had never been friends with a Jewish person before. I could not have imagined myself what it would be like. When I first saw your star on your neck, I felt afraid. That is the symbol the soldiers wear when they harass my people. I did not know how to feel. But I did not want to be your friend simply because I wanted a Jewish friend. I wanted to be your friend because I saw who you are. I saw your heart.” She grasped my hands. “Can I show you something?” “Of course,” I said, not sure what to expect. “First of all,” she said slyly, “What color do you think my hair is?” I instinctively looked to her headscarf, her “veil” as she called it, wrapped tightly around her head an inch below her hairline, securing any possible stragglers. “I don’t know,” I said. “Dark. Like mine.” “Everyone thinks that,” she responded. Her hands went to her forehead and she began pulling out pins. “I wanted you to come here because I wanted to show you my hair. In my culture, we only show our hair at our own homes, among our closest friends and family. I want you to see my hair because you are among my closest friends and family.” She pulled back the veil and revealed straight brown hair the color of pine bark. Cool brown with auburn highlights. “Now you fully see me,” she said. When I came out as trans a few years later, she was back in Palestine, teaching at the university in Ramallah. I told her I was afraid to come out to her because it meant so much to me to be her sister. I did not want to lose that relationship. Without hesitation she responded, “My brother. There is no change. I love you.” It came up again a few weeks later. “Brother,” she wrote to me on WhatsApp, “I have already shown you my hair. If, inshallah, we are together in person again, I want to know if I should show you my hair or not. We do not do this with men in my culture. I wanted to ask you if that would be offensive to you. I want to respect you.” I wasn’t sure how to respond. “I want you to be comfortable,” I said. “If you don’t show your hair to men, you don’t have to show it to me. But it would not offend me if you did.” “Well,” she said, “I can show my hair to close male family members. You are my brother. That is how I think of you. If we can be together again, I would be comfortable taking off my veil around you.” What could I possibly have in common with a Palestinian? Love. Respect. Compassion. A couple years later my life shifted again. I moved to Minneapolis where I knew almost no one. I soon made a close friend. He was looking for a synagogue to join and I invited him to mine. As soon as we met, we talked for hours as if we were already close. I felt a soul connection with him that I had felt with few others. Again, I called my mom. “I made a new friend,” I told her. “We only met a few weeks ago and he’s already asked me to help him move. That’s an activity that takes a couple hours which means he really must like me!” Let me tell you, my mom thought I was such a freier. “You only just became friends and you’re already helping him move? You sure he didn’t just want to avoid having to pay someone to do that?” It was my turn to click my tongue. “It’s not like that,” I said. “He enjoys my company. I enjoy his company. It’s going to be fun.” And we did have fun. We got to know each other better and after that, we were attached at the hip. We did everything together. Every Shabbat we went to services together, and when I would drop him off at his apartment, we would sit and chat till the early hours in the morning, neither one of us wishing to say goodbye. A couple months later we celebrated Passover together. I was telling my mom how beautiful the seder was. She saw some pictures on facebook. “Is that Gabriel on the right?” she asked me. “Yep, that’s him,” I responded. “You didn’t tell me he was Black,” she said. “I wasn’t hiding it,” I responded. “It just never came up.” My mom now loves Gabriel. He was the best man at my wedding, and my mom gave him a big kiss on his face. “Thank you for always taking care of my Ariel,” she said to him. Her questions never came from a place of discrimination or bigotry; they came from a place of curiosity and confusion. I have lived my life in a way that was not possible for her. The initial confusion upon seeing our friendship did not only come from white people. On one occasion Gabriel and I were walking together in a May Day parade. Black Lives Matter had their own group of marchers, but we were marching alone. As we were walking, a group of Black people saw us and approached us. Or rather, they approached him. “Why are you marching with him?” they asked, pointing to me without looking me in the eye. “You should be with your own people,” they scolded. “I am with my people,” he shot back. “He is not your people. You are not white. Why do you hate that you’re Black?” “I know I’m not white. I don’t hate being Black. You know nothing about us. I have more in common with him than I have with any of you. He is my brother. Leave me alone.” He turned away from them and we continued walking. I could feel him shaking beside me. After we put some distance between us, he released some of his frustrations. “They only see our skin color,” he said. “We’re both trans. We’re both Jewish. You are my best friend. They are probably Christian and cisgender. But they think I’m the same as them and different from you. They only see our differences. Is this really the future we want? More segregation? More division? And why does my life affect them? How do my decisions of who I hang out with have anything to do with them?” I obviously could not answer any of his questions. But I felt his pain. His frustration that race could be a significant part of his life and identity without being the only important identifier. Like me, being trans and Jewish are some of the most important aspects of his identity. While he sought out Jewish spaces for community, it was not always easy for him there either. Even in our diverse and progressive community, racism would rear its ugly head. In addition to constantly being asked either when he converted or if he was Ethiopian, he was regularly faced with other racist questions and assumptions. People would assume his politics based on his race. Others would assume he was related to every other Black Jew. At one point someone asked him about his “child”: a Black kid in the community with no relation to him. He and I were able to laugh about these racist interactions because we had built trust and understanding, and because he desperately needed to laugh about these things to not let them pierce his heart. I remember my white girlfriend at the time was really awkward about race. She desperately wanted to be his friend, because he was my best friend. But I had a nagging worry in my heart. So I explicitly told her not to talk to him about race out of fear that she might say the wrong thing. “But you talk to him about race,” she said. “It’s different,” I told her. “We’re already friends.” She did not take my advice. Having heard the story about assumed parenthood, she wanted to be in on the joke. The first time meeting him, she snagged her opportunity when she saw a small Black child. She pointed to the kid and said to him, “Is that your son?” My mouth dropped. His eyes narrowed. “Why would you say that?” he asked her. “It’s a joke,” she said sheepishly. “Because that one time...” “I remember,” he interrupted. “I was there. And it isn’t funny.” In no way do I wish to convey that other white people are racist and I am not. We all have implicit biases against people who are different from us. What makes our implicit biases so dangerous is the fact that they are implicit. The vast majority of the time, we experience them without ever being aware they are there. Sometimes they aren’t even what we would consider a bias, but simply ignorance. But even simple ignorance can cut to the core. I am sure there are uncountable examples of my own transgressions of implicit bias and ignorance. Because they are unknown to us, I am only aware of the ones that had reactions or consequences, just the tip of my own iceberg of ignorance and implicit bias. A couple examples stand out in my mind. The first time I offended someone beyond repair I was in third grade. My friend wore a necklace with a golden locket. I asked her what was in the locket, and she opened it up to show me a picture of a white woman. It looked like an ordinary person, so I asked her who it was. “It’s Mother Mary,” she responded. I had heard of Jesus, but never of Mother Mary. “Who’s that?” I asked. Innocent and ignorant. “Mother Mary is the mother of God!” “God has a mother?” At this point she ran away in tears. “What did I say?” I asked our other friends. “How do you not know who Mother Mary is?” they questioned me. “The mother of Jesus?” “Oh,” I said. “I know about Jesus. You didn’t say Jesus, you said God.” I knew Christians believed in Jesus, but I did not yet understand that they also referred to Jesus as God. And I had not yet learned about Mary. My friend would not speak to me the rest of the day. I tried again the following day. Our other friends prevented me from approaching her. “Can’t I even say sorry?” I asked. “I didn’t know. I didn’t mean to.” “It doesn’t matter,” they responded. “She doesn’t want to be your friend anymore.” That was my first lesson that intent does not always affect impact. Even without malice or awareness, we have immense power to hurt people. My most recent lesson is only from a couple years ago. I was studying pastoral education in a multi-faith group at a hospital. While the program as a whole skewed Christian, our cohort was majority Jewish. The only Evangelical Christian was also the only person of color. He approached our cohort a couple of times about feeling like the group did not respect his religion. We responded with confusion and desire for clarity. What had we said, what had we done? He struggled to come up with examples. “Well, one time you said Jesus was just a man to you...” And our defense: “That is the way he is seen in our religion. We were clarifying to others, since they thought we saw him as a prophet but not a messiah.” “Well, you had said he was a heretic...” he tried again. “At the time he was considered heretical, which is why he was sentenced to death.” He shook his head. “You know what, forget it.” We dropped it and moved on. But it kept coming up again. He felt that we were not respecting his faith. The other Christian member of our cohort, a Catholic, was just as confused as us Jews. She had not seen any disrespect from us and could not imagine what our colleague was referring to. Finally, it came out: our colleague expressed that he felt we did not respect his faith specifically because of his race. He felt that we accepted white people’s Christianity, but doubted his. He felt some unspoken feeling that we thought he should not be Christian based on his race and nationality, that it was a foreign religion that did not belong to him, that he was a product of colonialism rather than a believer with faith. “The Bible says that with faith in Christ we are all one body, one flesh, one spirit. Regardless of our external differences, we are one. Faith in Jesus as the messiah is not about nationality or race. It has always transcended that. You think I should be Hindu or Muslim because I’m Indian. But Jesus would say we are one, we are united. I am not a victim. My faith gives me strength.” Whatever our legitimate criticisms of colonialism and Christian proselytizing, he was right. He did not deserve to be a scapegoat for our feelings. We couldn’t understand how he felt disrespected when our other Christian colleagues did not. We felt it might be because he was Evangelical – none of us even considered it was because he was brown. We had not heard the ways he had been questioned in his faith his whole life because of his race. We had not seen the ways his fellow Christians treated him as Other. We had not experienced his feelings when he was told his religion did not belong to him. It was not actually about what we had or hadn’t said – it was glazed eyes, lack of interest, absence of validation, unspoken dismissal. He knew it was true because he felt it. Because he lived it. But for us? Our first response was to demand proof. These vignettes stand out in my mind not as examples of bad people with bad beliefs, but as illustrations of ignorance, implicit bias, and assumptions. We must combat the assumption that what we don’t know is not important. The assumption that our race affects each of us to the degree that we could not have anything in common with someone of a different race. The assumption that if we don’t experience something it cannot be real. In addition to these stories I’ve shared, I remember another recent encounter where I felt incapacitated by my ignorance. I was at the hospital working as a chaplain. I was the only on-call chaplain of the day, the designated responder to emergencies. I had my first code blue: a death. I approached the hospital room and saw the doctor speaking to a nurse outside. The patient had a DNR, so there was no attempt to resuscitate him. He had been sick in the hospital for a while, but his death was completely unexpected. He had been getting better. They had expected to discharge him the following day. They didn’t know what happened, and wouldn’t know until an autopsy. He was alone in the room when he died. I told the doctor I was the chaplain. She told me his wife was on her way. “They’re Egyptian... I believe Christian or Catholic. I’m not sure. But I’m sure she would still appreciate you being there with her even though you’re Jewish. Just give her a few minutes with him alone, would you? Thank you for what you do.” The doctor waited for his wife to arrive and let her into the hospital room. His wife, already in tears, began wailing as soon as she entered the room. The doctor closed the door behind her which did nothing to drown out her screams. Heart-wrenching, guttural, whole-body weeping. The doctor gave me a nod of acknowledgement and left. I waited a few minutes, minutes which felt like hours. I gave a small knock on the door to acknowledge my presence and I entered. The wife was laid out on her husband’s chest. She had wrapped one of his arms around her and was nuzzling his cold gray hand. She petted his hair. “No more pain. No more pain.” She sobbed between her words, gasping for breath. But she couldn’t stop her mantra. “No more pain. No more pain.” Sometimes her words were soft, barely audible, and sometimes she shouted them with full voice. “No more pain. No more pain.” In all of my education for times like these, I had received a very Western worldview. I was taught that people often struggled to express their sadness in times of grief. I was trained to ask about the deceased to trigger memories and help the bereaved feel and emote. This woman did not need help feeling and emoting. And I did not know how to respond to the openness of her grief. I tried to ask her questions about what she needed. Did she want a prayer? Did she want to talk about him? With each question she looked at me straight in the eye, her expression lost and far away. She seemed to contemplate my question before abandoning the distraction and returning to her love. “No more pain.” Her son came rushing in. He went to the other side of his father’s hospital bed. Like his mother, he grasped his father’s hand. He brought it up to his own face and nuzzled it in a loving gesture. He then went to his father’s feet, uncovered them, and rubbed them. He went back to the side of the bed to caress his father’s face. His mother added a new sentence to her mantra. “My love. No more pain. My love. No more pain.” Suddenly, the son saw me. His eyes conveyed confusion and suspicion. I was not sure if the color of my skin or my kippah made him wary, or if it was simply that I was a stranger present during an incredibly intimate moment. I told him I was a chaplain and I was there to help in any way I could. His expression relaxed slightly, but only slightly. “Can you get us some water?” he asked. “And some blankets.” “Absolutely,” I responded. I ran out to get the items, pleased to have a task. When I returned, there was another son there and some cousins. They spoke to each other in Arabic, and to me in English. I was told there were more on the way. I asked if they would want me to say a prayer. “No, our priest is on his way. He will be here any minute.” Not knowing what else to do, I stood in the corner, a silent witness, waiting for an opportunity to help. I stood for a very long, watching the mother weep, watching the children stroke their father’s face, watching a cousin or two talking on the phone to notify others. I tried to shift my weight inconspicuously as my legs tired from standing still. After a while, the son turned to me. “We no longer need you,” he said. “You can go. Thank you.” I nodded and left. I had been with them for over an hour, but felt like I had done nothing. As I was walking down the hallway, I saw a Coptic Orthodox priest pass by me. Finally, someone who can help those poor people, I thought to myself. I beat myself up for the next couple of hours. What an ignorant fool! You don’t even know how to help these people. You know nothing of their religion, their culture, their customs. You are useless, a lousy stand-in for the pastor they truly needed. Probably five or six hours later, I was doing my rounds, letting the nursing stations know I was the overnight chaplain on call. I saw the son walking down the hallway toward me. I made eye contact and gave him a sympathetic smile. He stopped to speak to me. “Thank you for being there with us today. It meant a lot that you stayed with us. Thank you – God bless you.” I nodded in a small humble bow. “You’re welcome,” I said. “God bless you and your family. May God comfort you.” He nodded back to me. “Thank you. Thank you.” And we parted ways. As I walked away, my mind buzzed with thoughts and feelings and I had trouble pinpointing any singular one. Finally, my mind landed on this: in truth, we were both ignorant of each other. They did not know about my religion or culture, and I did not know about theirs. But ultimately, it didn’t matter. They didn’t need me to be a Coptic Orthodox priest; they had one of those. They didn’t need me to know their culture and customs; they had each other. They needed me to respect them. They needed me to be present. They needed me to physically and spiritually be with them. I was the only one who could serve that purpose, and they were grateful that I did. When Reverend King, Jr. spoke his famous words, “I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character,” he was not speaking about color-blindness. He did not say he dreamt his children would not be seen as Black. He did not say he wished race were irrelevant or insignificant. He said it should not be a matter of judgment. Where we come from, how we were raised, how we move through our social circles, how we see ourselves, how the world sees us, all of this affects us on a deep and personal level. It influences who we are. In no way is it superficial or inconsequential. But it is not the whole sum of who we are. As a young adult I thought about human rights, equality, respect for differences, etc. from a political perspective. And it is deeply political: being in Minneapolis during the murders of Philando Castile and Jamar Clark showed me how political this conversation can be. In a country which is built on institutional racism, these topics become a political issue. As I’ve grown more into my Judaism and become ordained as a rabbi, my perspective has shifted on this. Without discounting the importance of voting with our conscience to help dismantle institutional racism and work toward true equal civil rights, I no longer see this as a purely political issue. While politics affect the real lives of people, this cannot be seen as a partisan concern. This is a moral and ethical concern. At the core of my spirituality is the belief that all humans are representations of God. How can we each be representations of God if we are all so different? Some people respond that despite our external differences, at our core we are all the same. That there is a small part in all of us that is identical, and that small part is God. Oftentimes the people with this belief go searching for others who seem to be similar to them. They recognize the similarity and name that sameness “God.” As evidenced by my many memories of connecting with people others saw as different but whom I saw as similar, I can appreciate the love that’s found in sameness. Nonetheless, I have ended up with a different conclusion. I have seen for too long human beings reject each other’s humanity based on their inability to see similarity in each other. I fear that encouraging others to find that sameness may suggest they look past their differences. Our differences do not define us, but they are not insignificant. We each have souls, we each have the spark of God within us, but that does not mean our essences are identical. Moreover, due to the countless inequalities our societies have been built on, when most people imagine a godliness inside each of us, the God they imagine is a white cisgender able-bodied man. I reject that notion. It is not only reductive of humanity; it is reductive of God. When I read that we are each representations of God, I go in a different direction. Just as we as humans are diverse, multi-faceted, and complex, God is diverse, multi-faceted, and complex. It means the sacred does not just live within the similarities, but equally within the differences. It means I can learn about God by learning about people who are different from me. It means that every person I meet is sacred in their own unique way, which may not mirror my own sacredness, but is holy all the same. It means that we can never fully understand each other just as we can never fully understand God, but that seeking understanding is a lifelong process that enriches us and our lives. February is Black History Month, and it is Jewish Disability Awareness, Acceptance, and Inclusion Month. In the past I may have jumped on the bandwagon to use these times of awareness to preach a message of sameness, to exclaim that at our essence we are no different from each other. In part this is an apology for parroting that rhetoric. With every apology must come a dedication or rededication to change. I commit myself to seeking similarities in those who may be deemed different from me while simultaneously celebrating and learning from their differences. I commit myself to recognizing and acknowledging the limits of my own understanding. I commit myself to leaning into my inability to fully understand as proof of God’s unknowable complexity, and ultimately as a gift of the wondrous diversity of creation. I commit myself to love, to respect, to compassion. B’ezrat Hashem, with God’s help, may it be so. Or, as my good friend Laila would say, Inshallah.

In preparing to apply for rabbinical school, I was meeting regularly with my rabbi. In one of our meetings he prepped me through a mock interview. Afterwards he said to me, “Ariel, most rabbis struggle with humility in that they don’t have enough of it. We’re a profession that attracts confident, prideful people. I’m going to give you the opposite advice I give most people in our position: you have too much humility. You’re too modest. You need a little more pride and confidence in yourself.” His words plagued me. I considered them from many angles. Was I really too modest, or was I just more modest than most in my field? I became committed to learning about the middah of anavah, the character trait of humility. I started my study of Mussar, Jewish ethical practice, and explored a variety of middot, character traits. But the middah I kept returning to was anavah, humility or modesty. Throughout my now several years of study, there were times when I was accused of being too modest, of not taking up enough space. Additionally, there were also times when I was accused of not being modest enough, of taking up too much space. I have struggled to determine where exactly I fit in the middah of modesty, and whether my personal trait of modesty is a benefit or detriment. In his influential Mussar text Path of the Just, Rabbi Moshe Chaim Luzzatto explores different middot and how to acquire them. One middah he explores is anavah, this trait of humility or modesty. In explaining what anavah is, Luzzatto emphasizes the importance of understanding natural gifts as beyond one’s control, and thus not something to be prideful of: One who possesses a straight intellect, even if they have merited to become a great sage and truly distinguished, when they look and contemplate, will see that there is no room for haughtiness and pride. For behold, one who possesses high intelligence, who knows more than others, merely does what it is their nature to do. They are like a bird which flies upwards because of its nature, or an ox which pulls with its might because of its nature. So too for one who is wise. This is because their nature brings them to this. But for another person who is currently not as wise as them, if they had possessed natural intelligence like them, they would also have become just as wise. Hence, there is no room to elevate and pride oneself in this.[1] Luzzatto addresses how each of us have distinct natural talents and abilities which are not necessarily the result of hard work or dedication. Pride in our natural talents and abilities is unhelpful, since they are not due to our own efforts or accomplishments. We must recognize that the naturally intelligent, talented, or skilled person often does not need to work as hard or diligently as those born without the same abilities, and therefore does not deserve extra praise due to what God has blessed them with. However, just because someone with natural ability should not feel pride in what they were born with, it also does not mean they should hide or downplay their talents: “One who denies one’s strengths is not humble, but a fool. Rather, a humble person is one who understands that all their strengths and accomplishments are a gift from heaven. The more a person recognizes this, the more humble they are” (Rabbi Leib Chasman).[2] From the juxtaposition of these two understandings of humility, we can glean that anavah is heavily dependent on circumstance, and may change from situation to situation. What may be modest in one situation could be considered meek in another. What may be modest in one situation may be arrogant in another. There is no one way to act to be modest, not only because each of us are so different from each other, but also because each situation we’re in is unique and distinct. In Luzzatto’s exploration of anavah, he concludes with a quote from Proverbs: "let the wise man hear and increase understanding" (Mishlei 1:5).[3] I learned humility from my father. He is the smartest person I know. Coming from a family of lawyers, he put himself through law school, passed the bar, and started practicing law, but quickly realized his heart wasn’t in it. He went back to school and became a teacher. He taught all levels of math in public high school. He loves math, and he loves teaching. Growing up, I had a natural gift for math. I didn’t struggle until freshman year geometry class, at which point I sat down with my dad for my first-ever tutoring session. We had my homework in front of me, and he asked me to begin to solve the problem. “I don’t know how to solve the problem,” I shot back. “That’s why I’m here asking for your help.” “I understand,” he responded patiently, “but I need to see how you would naturally approach the problem before offering a solution. There are several possible ways to solve this problem. Different people have different ways of thinking about things. One way will make sense to one person, but not to another. I could show you any of the possible ways, but I don’t know which one will work for you and the way you think. So first I need to see how your brain works, so I can show you the best solution for the way you think.” As an adult, I look back at this interaction between my father and me, and I think about what an amazing lesson it was in modesty. He could have shown all the possibilities, as he knew them all. He could have started with the one he preferred, thinking it superior. Instead he took a step back and asked me to begin, to first learn how my brain worked before offering any help. He took no pride in his own knowledge, but also did not deny his strengths or knowledge. He started with listening to increase his understanding. Without knowing Mussar, here my father was displaying all the qualities of anavah that I have discovered on my learning quest. At the time, however, I was fourteen years old and full of angst. I could not appreciate this lesson in modesty. I was frustrated that something I had always excelled in was no longer easy for me. This was possibly the first time I had been encountered with a problem that I had no idea how to solve, and the uncertainty scared me. I said something like, “Well if you’re not going to help me, what’s the point?” and I took my textbook and left. More than the discomfort of not knowing was the discomfort of bruised pride. I could not face the possibility of doing something incorrectly in front of my father, the smartest person I knew. What if I embarrassed myself? What if he no longer thought I was smart? I just wanted him to show me how to solve the problem, so I could memorize the steps and duplicate it myself. That experience not only represented a time when my father modeled healthy modesty, but also a time when I had unhealthy modesty. I had both an excess and a deficit of modesty. I was not modest enough to be willing to potentially embarrass myself (pride). I was too modest to think I deserved the patience and compassion of receiving help even if I was wrong (insecurity). I felt undeserving – undeserving of shame, and undeserving of care. In fact, I don’t think there are many situations where someone is purely in excess of modesty or deficit of modesty. I believe more often than not, unhealthy modesty has excesses and deficits simultaneously. I did, eventually, sit down with my dad again. We learned that I do not have a spatial brain, which was why geometry was so hard for me. We used a different approach that made more sense to me. On top of geometry, the lesson I learned was that everyone’s brains work in different ways. No way is better or worse than another, they’re just different. It is important to acknowledge and recognize those differences if we are to understand each other and adequately help one another. It isn’t about showing someone how you would solve the problem, but figuring out the best path for them. There isn’t just one path to duplicate, but many different paths each suitable to many different people. Listen first, and increase in understanding. I did not learn the first time, but I had a great and patient teacher. The middah of modesty came up again when I did CPE – pastoral care education and work as a chaplain in a hospital. My CPE supervisor said the same thing my rabbi said years earlier, that I was in excess of modesty. “Your colleagues want to hear you speak more in class,” he told me one day. “I have a feeling that you have more to share, and you’re holding back. You’re often the last to speak. I think everyone appreciates what you have to say, and our conversations may go in a different direction if you were the first to speak.” I didn’t know how to respond, so I told my supervisor that I would think about his words. It is still something I am working on and wondering, this question of where exactly I fall on the scale of modesty. On the one hand, I do tend to be a more quiet person, often letting others speak first and not feeling the need to respond to every statement. On the other hand, I am confident enough to be a teacher, a preacher, and a community leader; confident enough to call out injustice, speak truth to power; confident enough to be talking about myself today. After thinking about my supervisor’s words, I challenged him in our next meeting. “What is modesty?” I asked him. “I share when I feel like I have something to add. In order to add something, I must listen first, and then evaluate the value of my own thoughts. If I have something to add I will; if I don’t, I won’t.” And then came my challenge of him: “Could it be that my classmates value what I have to say precisely because I don’t always share what I’m thinking? I try to only share my best. An excess in modesty would be not sharing at all, and a deficit would be sharing everything.” I do think even healthy modesty can sometimes look like self-deprecation or insecurity. In contrast, some insecurities disguise themselves as healthy modesty. I think the difference comes back to confidence. I remember my experience with my dad when I stormed off. In that case, I felt fearful, ashamed, and undeserving. Those are clear indicators of unhealthy modesty. But with an absence of fear and shame, when recognizing that we do not have anything new to add, we create space for others to share their perspective. Not only that, we create an opportunity for ourselves to learn from others. And this is the biggest reason why I believe healthy modesty can be an asset: the opportunity it gives us to grow. By listening, I have learned so much from others, from all kinds of people. From people who maybe aren’t book smart, or super articulate, or great at memorizing and repeating information. From people who are artists, creatives, or emotional thinkers. From people who process information through their bodies instead of just their minds. From people who think in ways I could never imagine. Through my own exploration of the middah of anavah, I have come to believe that healthy modesty isn’t about restricting yourself due to self-doubt, shame, or fear. Healthy modesty is creating space for others out of the desire to hear them. As Proverbs says, in hearing others, we can increase our own understanding. It may appear to be a benefit to others, and it is; but we cannot discount the immense benefit it is to us as the ones who hear and learn. This is not to say I have figured it all out. I do not always excel in this balance of healthy modesty. Sometimes I think my thoughts are novel when they aren’t. Sometimes I feel anxious about silence and I break it too soon. Sometimes I respond to questions with answers when I could respond with more questions. Even talking about modesty in relation to myself feels immensely immodest. Modesty feels like this incredibly fragile thing, this impossible balancing act, amorphous and nebulous like a plume of smoke. Modesty is not something I have mastered, or something that is even possible to master. Rather, this is to say that through my struggle with the middah of anavah I have learned something I think is worth sharing. Healthy modesty is not restrictive. Even if I take up less space, it is not because I see myself as small. When I step back to listen, I am pausing my own activity in order to grow. Like a plant bathing in sun and soaking up rain, listening and absorbing the wisdom of others is what I need to grow. While this pause undoubtedly helps others, ultimately it is an act of self-love. Luzzatto says modesty is not just about action and behavior, but about thought and intention. In my practice of anavah, I remind myself that creating space for others is an opportunity for my own benefit. An opportunity to listen, to learn, to grow, to increase understanding. On the other hand, speaking up and sharing my own insights is a way to give back and engage in tikkun olam, repairing the world. In short, I believe the middah of anavah is about acknowledging that we all have talents and intelligences to share with the world, and we all gain wisdom through listening. We do not need to bring ourselves down in order to lift each other up. Each one of us has so much to teach, and we all have so much to learn. [1] Mesilat Yesharim 22:9 [2] From Every Day, Holy Day by Alan Morinis; pg. 245 [3] Mesilat Yesharim 22:54

I have not said much on the war in Israel and Palestine. In truth, it has been hard to find words. My heart has been broken, and I have been grieving. I have been grieving for those killed in the brutal attacks on October 7. I have been grieving for those kidnapped, living in unthinkable conditions, those whom we still do not know whether they are alive or dead. I have been grieving for those killed in bombings and air strikes. I have been grieving for those who have lost their homes, their homeland, their hope. I have been grieving for those who do not have enough food or water, who don’t know how much longer they have. I have a deep love for my people. But my love for my own does not preclude my love for others. After all, one of the most repeated phrases in the Torah is to love the stranger. While I consider myself a Zionist because I believe that Israel has the right to exist as a homeland for Jews, I often use the term Critical Zionist to qualify that my love and support of Israel does not come at the cost of death, destruction, and suffering of others. I am critical of Israel’s actions because I believe a Jewish state must uphold Jewish values, such as to love and not oppress the stranger. I further believe that nonviolence is the best path forward for the safety and security of all peoples living in the land, Jews and non-Jews alike. But in truth, I am not writing about my political beliefs; I am writing about my moral position. This recent conflict has torn our communities apart. Some people I love dearly have used dehumanizing language against Palestinians, calling them “animals” and “barely human.” Some have even gone so far as to suggest that Israel will never be safe until Palestine is eliminated. Other people I love have engaged in blood libel, suggesting that all Jews are bloodthirsty killers who want to take over the world. Some have even gone so far as to suggest that Hitler was right in wanting to exterminate us. So many people have hardened their hearts. Many with hardened hearts have tried to express their love for one group, only to end up expressing hatred for another group instead. Love cannot translate into hate. The feelings warp and change, becoming something else entirely. Hate cannot represent love. It only represents hate. As someone who is trying their hardest to keep their heart open, no space has felt safe. Trying to show support for Israel, I feel hurt by the anti-Palestinian and often islamophobic hatred. Trying to show support for Palestine, I feel hurt by the anti-Israel and often antisemitic hatred. I have felt like my love is unwanted, and therefore it has nowhere to go. So I have been silent. I have not allowed myself to join conversations or demonstrations. I have been afraid of what others may say or who I may end up in community with. Until now. What’s changed? First, I think I simply needed time to grieve. Israel is my second home. I lived there for a year, and I have family and friends there. It was like seeing your hometown attacked after moving away. It was heartbreaking. At the same time, one of my best friends lives in Palestine. After checking in with my family, she was the first person I reached out to. She is, for the most part, safe in Ramallah. But I know she has family and friends in Gaza, and my heart breaks for her and her people. Second, I needed a lot of time to process my thoughts and emotions. I wrote a lot of poetry. I had a lot of arguments in my end. I thought back to a community organizing training I received as a rabbinical student called “Momentum,” which uses polarization to group people together for a singular cause. The idea is that we can disagree about more things than we agree about, but if we all agree on one simple action, then we can be in bigger coalition and have more power to move forward. I have been thinking over these last couple months, who am I willing to be in coalition with? Well in the beginning, I wanted nothing to do with the individuals likening my people, my family and friends, to Nazis. I struggled a lot. I felt like I was free floating in a middle ground with no tether. Where was my community? Third, I have been following the leads of Israelis, especially the families of the hostages. When I saw that more and more Israelis are speaking out in support of a ceasefire, including those with loved ones in captivity, I knew I had to join with them. (The Israeli organization Standing Together - Omdim Beyachad - has been incredibly influential to me and my thinking around this.) As I was able to process my own grief, I recognized that my pride was interfering with my open heart. When I felt myself and my own were threatened, my heart closed in protection. I focused on my grief and did a lot of internal work to recognize when my heart was closing and how I might open it again. I realized that I was willing to be in coalition with anyone who could recognize the atrocities of the October 7 attacks. If they could acknowledge the pain, trauma, and devastation of my people, I felt safe enough to keep my heart open and join them in focusing on the pain, trauma, and devastation of the Palestinian people. Why am I writing this now? Because today I broke my silence. I was invited to speak at a ceasefire rally in my local district. The coalition first condemned the October 7 attacks, then stated that we do not support the killing of innocents in response. The goal of the ceasefire rally was to urge our representative to vote in favor of a ceasefire. I want to share with you the speech that I gave at the rally. It is possible that some of you may be angered by my words. It’s possible that others may be validated. If it happens that my position upsets you: I would be eternally grateful if you were in dialogue with me. Please don’t cut me out. Please don’t dismiss me. Let’s talk about it. We may have more in common than we think. Or we may receive excellent practice in being in dialogue with people we disagree with. These are not easy conversations to have, which makes them all the more crucial. Here is what I said: I stand before you not as a politician, not as a military strategist, but as a rabbi, a Jewish religious and moral leader. My concern certainly involves politics but it is a moral concern. As a rabbi, I turn to the Torah for guidance. Our Jewish sacred text begins with the story of creation. Humanity is created within a single person. This first human is described as both male and female, both singular and plural, multiple apparent opposites in one. Not only that, but this human is also created in the image of God. Later, the first human is split into two, into the individuals we may know as Adam and Eve. But the story did not begin with Adam and Eve as distinct individuals. They were once one, and we all originate from that one singular complex multi-gendered person whose image is a representation of God. Whoever we are, whatever we may be like, we are represented in that first human. Ancient Jewish sages asked, why did God make humanity in God’s image? Well, if God cannot be seen, then the only way to see God is in the faces of our fellow humans. Not just those like us, but everyone. We must therefore see every person as a representation of God. The ancient Jewish sages also asked, why did God start with only one person? One answer is so that no one can say, “My family is better than yours,” because in fact we all descend from the same ancestor. We have forgotten over the years, but we are all family. Another answer is so we can learn that within every human being is an entire world. From the first human we now have the billions of people currently living on earth. If an entire world can come from one person, then an entire world can also be lost when even one life is destroyed. As a Jew, this is what I believe: every human being is a representation of God. Every human life is an entire world. I say this to my friends and my foes alike: your life is sacred simply because that is what it means to be human. It is irrelevant whether or not a ceasefire is fair. The moral choice is not always the fair choice. The moral choice is not always the logical choice. But it is always the right choice. Within every human is the face of God. Within every human is an entire world. A universe has been lost already. We cannot lose any more. We must call for a ceasefire now. Dear friends, I have not forgotten the hostages. I continue to pray for their return. But I do not believe more civilian death will bring them back. I do not believe they can be avenged by hatred and violence. I may sound unrealistic, but so did our prophets in the prophetic writings. I admit I am not always a realist. I believe that as a rabbi dedicated to our tradition's prophetic mission of repairing the world, it is not my job to see the world as it is, but rather to remind people of the world as it could be. Ken yehi ratzon — May it be God’s will.

I'm having some thoughts on some of the responses to the hatred brewing in the US, namely the two following ideas: no one is born knowing how to hate, and you can't fight hatred with hatred. I'm not going to say these statements aren't true. On the contrary. However, I will say I think they are only part of the truth. Let me share a personal experience. I grew up in a house that believed in inclusivity, acceptance, and love. I was taught these values. I was not born knowing how to hate. But I was not born knowing how to love either. I was born ignorant. I was taught how to love. This is illustrated best in an interaction I had with my mother when I was young, maybe 6-7 years old. It is a memory that brings me shame, but it is the shame that has made it stick so clearly in my mind. I hope this story does not embarrass my mother, because I am grateful for the myriad lessons she has given me. I remember we were in the kitchen. We were making hamantaschen. She was teaching me the story of Purim. As she was telling me about Haman, she said he was "ruthless." I asked what that meant, and she asked me if I knew who Ruth was. I said I didn't. She said ruthless means without kindness, compassion, or mercy. She said the word comes from our matriarch Ruth, who was a convert. I said I didn't know what a convert was. She said a convert was someone who was not born into Judaism, but chose it later on in life. It is my response that gives me shame. I want you to know I did not say this out of hatred. I said it out of ignorance. I said, "So she wasn't a real Jew?" My mom stopped what she was doing. She looked me in the eye and said, sternly, "Don't you ever say anything like that again. Ruth chose Judaism, which makes her more of a Jew than someone born into it who rejects it. She was just as much of a Jew as you or me. Do you understand me?" I didn't understand why she was angry. I didn't understand why it felt like I was in trouble for asking a question. But I understood her. And I want you to understand, she did not say this out of hatred. My mom chastised me so sternly because she loves me, and it pained her to hear such vile words coming from someone she held so dear. My mom rose her voice because she loved me, and she wanted me to be the best person I could be, and that was a person who doesn't think they're better than someone else because of the family into which they were born. No one taught me that hatred. Because even though my words were hateful, it came from a place of ignorance. But I had to be taught to love in a way that did not come naturally to me. My mom didn't fight my hatred with hate, she fought it with love. But she also did not fight it with kindness. She did not coddle me. She did not hold my hand. She did not comfort me when I felt shamed by her admonition. She wanted to leave no doubt in my mind that what I said was wrong, and that it would not be tolerated. And she was successful in that endeavor. As I'm sure many parents know, you can be mad out of love. You can yell out of love. You can sometimes even be mean out of love. I certainly felt that day that my mom was being mean. I felt like I did not deserve that response. I felt like there were better ways I could have been taught. I still feel that there were better ways, without anger or shame. We are not perfect. But even if imperfect, I never forgot that lesson. I would be reminded of that same shame I felt when I saw others expressing the same kind of ignorance that ends up being so hateful. And I have been proactive to fight against that hatred, just like my mom fought against mine. People spewing hate are still people. I am commanded to love my neighbor and the stranger alike. But that doesn't mean that I can't yell and cry and argue. Loving someone isn't always rainbows and butterflies. Sometimes it's a stern look, a raised voice, and a harsh admonition. And it may feel mean, but that does not make it similar to the hatred it is speaking out against.