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 well a spring that is freely flowing if we're empty we need only check our taps the heart is never so open as when it is broken let it break, let it break ------------------------------------------------------------ This poem has been published in ONE ART: a journal of poetry here

The One Who Makes Peace blessing bread bought from the supermarket our blessing says, thank you God for bringing forth bread from the earth but this bread didn’t come from the earth it came from a store from a factory from flour ground from wheat from the earth this bread did not sprout forth it was created from human hands we don’t thank God for the wheat which actually came from the earth God did not create bread but God knew we could my kids ask, why do we pray for God to make peace? I tell them, God makes peace like God makes bread which is to say we have all the necessary ingredients peace will not sprout forth it will be created from human hands thank you God, for giving us the wisdom to turn wheat into bread thank you God, for giving us the wisdom to turn love into peace

During the High Holy Days, we ask the question: who will live and who will die?   Life and death are often considered to be opposites. We may think of opposites as the furthest possible points, but if two people stand opposite each other, they are face-to-face, looking into each other’s eyes.   We cannot think about life without considering our deaths, or vice versa.   On Yom Kippur we enact our own deaths. We wear white, mimicking burial shrouds. We abstain from food and water, what we need to live. We say vidui , the confessional prayer, otherwise only said right before we die. We consider the question: if I were to die today, how would I feel about the life I lived?   In our society we try to shield ourselves from death, and yet it is all around us. The summer I worked as a hospital chaplain, I was surrounded by death.   Yet only six months prior, I myself stood opposite death, staring it in the face.   That January I slipped on black ice. In an instant I was on the ground, unable to stand up.   I called out for help, yelling over and over, but no one came. With all my strength, I rolled over and hoisted myself up. My left arm hung limply, swinging freely like hanging laundry swaying in a breeze. I clutched my elbow to try to keep it in place.   I was at a mikvah, where my spouse and the rabbi they worked with were officiating a conversion. With no hands to open the door, I kicked it with my foot, a rude knocking. The rabbi opened the door. I realized it must be bad when his face dropped after seeing me.   “You’re white as a sheet,” he said.   Ze’evi drove me to the hospital. Every bump in the road felt like a knife stabbing me in my arm.   After X-rays the doctor determined that my humerus had broken in two.   “You’re lucky it was your arm,” he said. The force it takes to break the humerus would have easily cracked my skull.   I walked away with a sense that my life could have ended that day. Every recent conversation could have been my last. Was I grumpy that morning? Did I say “I love you” the last time I talked to my parents? Had I been living my life the way I wanted?   I thought of all the things I hadn’t done: the countries I never visited, the professional aspirations left unfulfilled.   As hospital chaplains, we learn to talk with patients about regrets. Have they lived the life they wanted, or is there something that feels unfulfilled?   I was astonished by their responses: most would smile and say, “No. I’ve had a wonderful life.”   A smaller number, especially younger patients, did have some regrets. But no one mentioned travels or accomplishments. They wanted more time with their family, wished they had said “I love you” more often.   In considering death, we realize what’s important in life.   I still want to travel, still want to accomplish something. But I know now that is the icing on the cake.   As hospital chaplains, we learn to help loved ones grieve after death. I will never forget the first death I experienced.   He was maybe in his late sixties. He had been ill, but his death was unexpected.   I was waiting in the hallway when his wife arrived. She was crying before she entered the room. She saw him and broke down in sobs, holding his hand and rubbing it against her cheek.   After giving her some time alone, I went in and told her who I was. She paused to look at me, blank faced, before turning back and continuing to weep. Her adult sons came in and asked for water and blankets, which I fetched, grateful for a task. When I returned, the sons had their heads on their father’s chest, openly weeping.   I didn’t know what to do. I was supposed to help them express their grief. I tried not to look at the deceased, his lifeless eyes still open, his skin a cold gray, but I could not look away.   I asked if they wanted a prayer. They said no; their priest was on the way, and he would pray. I asked if they wanted me to stay. They said yes, until their priest arrived. I stood in silence and watched them weep, a witness to their pain.   Their priest came, and I left.   Later that evening, I saw the sons again. The youngest caught my eye and said, “Thank you, for what you did for us. Thank you.” He put his hand on his heart, and walked away.   I was so focused on how I could use my knowledge to help them. I forgot what life and death are about: love. We all receive love differently. They didn’t want words or prayers. They just wanted to be witnessed in their grief.       Jamie Anderson wrote, “Grief is really just love. It’s all the love you want to give, but cannot. All that unspent love gathers up in the corners of your eyes, the lump in your throat, and in that hollow part of your chest. Grief is just love with no place to go.”   I witnessed several deaths that summer, each one different. Some had laughter with fond memories. Some had a sense of relief. Others were angry. Death does not always look the same, and a lot of that has to do with the life lived. The more love people had left to give, the harder it was to let go. When their love had nowhere to go, it became too much to hold: it came pouring out, painful and reluctant.   The final death of that summer was not in the hospital. It was the death of my friend. I got a phone call on Tisha B’Av, our holiday of mourning: Lea is dead. I couldn’t believe it. Just shy of her 30 th birthday, she died of complications from Covid.   Ze’evi and I drove to Boston for the funeral. The chapel was filled with tears. Like the wife in the hospital, we were crying before we passed through the door. We cried for hours: in the funeral service, when greeting other friends, while driving behind the hearse to the cemetery. We cried the hardest when we shoveled dirt into her grave. We had so much love left to give her, it felt never-ending.   She was a rabbinical student who never got to be a rabbi. There was so much she never got to do. Though I lament all she could have accomplished, I miss her for who she was. Sometimes death feels like a culmination, reaching a destination after a long journey. Sometimes death feels like a horrible betrayal, having to let go with no resolution.   Mary Oliver wrote, “Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon? Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”     I have always been told I’m a bleeding heart. My heart grieves for all the people in the world who are suffering. For the people sent to concentration camps for the crime of being refugees. For the hostages suffering in captivity, not knowing if they’ll survive long enough to make it home. For the starving children in Gaza, who have no home to return to.   As I grieve these atrocities, I remember that grief is love with nowhere to go. The grief-love builds up until my heart can’t contain it. We must find somewhere to send our love, or our hearts will always be full of grief.     When I release my grief by directing my love, one place to send it is in acts of social justice. When my spouse and I were arrested protesting for Palestinian rights, Ze’evi took my hand and said, “Lea would be proud of us. We do this in her honor. Her memory lives on through our actions.” In this way, love never dies.     Who will live, and who will die? Will it be us or a loved one? These questions are not theoretical. As we consider life and death, grief and love, I want us to ask ourselves some additional questions: in what way is love getting stuck in our hearts, and where can we direct it so it has somewhere to go? How can we use love to not only weep and grieve, but to act and create justice?   The only given is that we all will die. Hopefully after a long life, but there is no guarantee. We might slip on ice; we might fall ill. We cannot wait and put our lives on hold. We must give love whenever and wherever we can, whether through acts of social justice or by saying “I love you” at every opportunity. However we want to live our lives, we must do so now. This is our only shot. What is it we plan to do with our one wild and precious life?

In rabbinical school we are told to preach from our scars, not from our wounds. To expose the tender and vulnerable parts of ourselves, but not risk reopening the hurt before it has healed. It is scary to show our scars, those memories of pain. Today I bear some of my scars for the first time, with the knowledge that they are no longer wounds for me.   The first time I thought about dying I was 12 years old. I was too young to understand depression, and yet I was experiencing it. I did not know how to talk about it, so I didn’t.   I started writing poetry as a way to cope with this sudden sadness. Everything I did not know how to say, I wrote. Even now, sometimes I don’t know what I’m feeling until I write.   Surviving depression is like surviving any disease: it is part determination, part modern science, but mostly luck. I know how lucky I am. I know not everyone is so lucky.   With years of therapy and medication, I recovered, and have been in remission for a decade. I still put in the work to maintain my health, but the wounds are far from fresh.   I sometimes wonder who I would be if I had never had depression. Would I still be a poet, if sadness never inspired me to write? Would I have such a zeal for life, if I never knew the possibility of losing it?   After a long illness, Rabbi Milton Steinberg wrote, “[Stepping outside for the first time, the] sunlight greeted me. ... It touched me with friendship, with warmth, with blessing ... how often I had been indifferent to the sunlight. Preoccupied with petty and sometimes mean concerns, I had disregarded it. And I [thought], How precious is the sunlight, but alas, how careless of it we are.”   I feel this way all the time. The warmth of the sun, the pitter-patter of the rain, the chirping of the birds, the softness of a cat, the harmony of voices singing, the sweetness of ice cream, the soft stare of a deer who permits me in her presence. When a friend of mine said, “No one would wish for depression,” I understood what she meant. Depression stole years of my life and almost killed me. Yet part of me argued: would I otherwise see such beauty in the mundane?   There is a gift that those of us who have brushed up against death carry. I know some of you treasure this gift as well. The gift of gratitude. It is not ours alone, and not all of us accept it. But it is a gift I hold dear that I want to share with you.   The years I was sick I struggled to truly live. I was too focused on putting one foot in front of the other. My life was without excitement, desire, or hope. I think everyone here has at some point felt those feelings.   Even if we aren’t clinically depressed, we may not be truly living. We might not be able to appreciate the light.   A brush with death may awaken us to the beauty and finitude of life, but sometimes by then it’s too late.   Yom Kippur is meant to wake us from this slumber. The ram’s horn warns: do not stumble through life wasting your days, alive but not truly living.   For a long time, I didn’t think I’d make it to this age. Each year feels like stolen time, and I feel so lucky. I don’t want to waste the time I’ve been given. As I asked last night, what are we going to do with our one wild and precious life?   Most of the time the luck feels like a blessing. But sometimes I’m struck with survivor’s guilt and feel unworthy of this blessing. I have friends who were not so lucky, who died by depression, or another illness. How can I pay back the privilege of this life I’ve been gifted?   As I think about those dying in Gaza, I’m reminded how random it all is. Who will live and who will die? It is not fate. It’s pure dumb luck.   We must not let our dumb luck consume us with guilt and stop living as a result. Let us see our lives as the blessings they are and truly live.   This summer I was arrested while demonstrating in support of food aid for Gaza. As I sat in a jail cell with other rabbis and cantors, I thought of the blessings in my life. How lucky was I to only lose a day of freedom when others have never been free. How lucky was I to only have a day without shelter when others have no home at all. Most of all, how lucky was I to be alive, to have the ability to do anything at all.   Last night we recited the shehecheyanu prayer. Blessed are You, Source of Life, who has given us life, who has sustained us, who has enabled us to reach this moment. What will we do with this moment?   Even with this gift of gratitude, it doesn’t always come easily for me. Sometimes I forget, I get stuck in the redundancy of life.   A few weeks ago Ze’evi and I took a day trip to Rehoboth. The sun was shining and the ocean waters warm. We waded into the sea, tentatively at first, and then released our toes from the sand and let the salty waters carry us. As we lay there, I found my mind wandering to work, to traffic, to petty worries. It wasn’t until I noticed my brows furrowed that I asked myself, what are you doing?! You are wasting this moment.   I took a deep breath. I noticed the way the sun’s rays still kissed my skin even through the ocean’s cover. I noticed the crickle crackle of energy of sea life whispering in my ears. I noticed how easily the ocean held me, lifting me up and cradling me like I was something precious.   In Hebrew, gratitude is not a single word, but a phrase: hakarat hatov, which literally means recognizing the good. We sometimes experience gratitude as a sudden wave sweeping over us, like Rabbi Steinberg emerging from the hospital. More often we experience gratitude as a form of noticing. When we walk through life with our heads down, it is impossible to notice the beauty surrounding us.   Our prayer Mah Tovu is one example of the power of noticing. When the prophet Balaam came to curse the Israelites, he looked around and saw beauty. He opened his mouth to curse them, and blessings emerged instead. When we notice the good, our curses can turn into blessings.   I don’t mean to trivialize difficulties, or romanticize suffering. Some curses don’t feel like blessings, especially when we’re in the midst of it. Sometimes it’s impossible to see the silver lining when the storm is raging. This too is part of life.   As the writer and activist Parker Palmer says, “If you tell a depressed person, ‘Why are you depressed? It’s a beautiful day outside, go feel the sunshine and smell the flowers,’ that will leave the depressed person feeling even more depressed.” In our Book of Psalms we have the line, min hameitzar karati Yah, anani vamerchav Yah – from a narrow place I called out to God, and God answered me from an expansive place. When we are in the midst of suffering, we are not in the space to recognize beauty. We need to move from the narrow place to the expansive place before we can appreciate the light.   Someone recently diagnosed with Parkinson’s expressed that after an initial depression, his disease gave him a new outlook on life. Every conversation, every interaction, every action felt precious. He knew his time was limited, and that made every moment momentous. The curse remained, but new blessings emerged.   The good is there, waiting for us to receive it. While suffering itself is never a gift, it sometimes heightens the beauty of goodness, as it has in my life. The gift of gratitude is given to us all, regardless of the lives we’ve lived. Please, don’t wait until it’s too late before you start living. When we notice ourselves moving through life without awareness, simply putting one foot in front of the other, let us remember this gift of gratitude. Let us look up to recognize the beauty in the mundane, the goodness that surrounds us. We are so, so lucky to be blessed with our one wild and precious life. What will we do with those blessings?

Before you know what kindness really is you must lose things, feel the future dissolve in a moment like salt in a weakened broth. What you held in your hand, what you counted and carefully saved, all this must go so you know how desolate the landscape can be between the regions of kindness. How you ride and ride thinking the bus will never stop, the passengers eating maize and chicken will stare out the window forever.   Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho lies dead by the side of the road. You must see how this could be you, how he too was someone who journeyed through the night with plans and the simple breath that kept him alive.   Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside, you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing. You must wake up with sorrow. You must speak to it till your voice catches the thread of all sorrows and you see the size of the cloth. Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore, only kindness that ties your shoes and sends you out into the day to gaze at bread, only kindness that raises its head from the crowd of the world to say It is I you have been looking for, and then goes with you everywhere like a shadow or a friend.     I was talking with a fellow rabbi when he admitted to me, “My community is not where I want it to be.” I asked, “Are they not kind to each other?” “No, no. They’re very kind,” he insisted. “Are they not committed to social justice?” “No, no. They’re very committed to social justice.” “Are they not interested in learning?” “No, no. They love learning.” Finally I said to him, “They value chesed , kindness, tzedek , justice, and limud Torah , learning. What could they possibly be missing?” Sheepishly, he responded, “They don’t engage in ritual.” I was quiet for a moment as I thought. Then I asked him, “What is prayer if not an opportunity to connect to God? We connect to God to be better people: to be kind, to be just, to dedicate ourselves to learning and growing. If they can do that without ritual, maybe they’re not the ones who need it.”     On Yom Kippur we will read from the book of Isaiah, one of our prophets. The people are complaining that they prayed and fasted and yet God did not answer them. Isaiah chastises the people for engaging in holy ritual while living unjust lives. He speaks the word of God, saying: “Is this the fast I desire? A day for people to starve their bodies? ... No! This is the fast I desire: to unlock the shackles of evil, to break the bonds of oppression. Only then will your God answer your cries.” [1]   If our words of peace do not inspire us to work for peace, our prayers have failed. If our rumbling bellies do not inspire us to feed the hungry, our fast has failed.       I began this sermon with a poem by Naomi Shihab Nye. She was traveling when everyone on her bus was robbed, and one of the passengers was murdered. Shaken and scared, her belongings stolen, all she had was a pen and paper tucked in her back pocket. Seeing their strife, a stranger approached and gave them bread. That kindness changed Naomi. She wrote this poem on the spot, feeling like the mouthpiece for a message from beyond. Before you know what kindness really is, you must lose things.   On Yom Kippur we also read from Kedoshim, the Holiness Code. God gives the Israelites a series of commandments which connect to the initial commandment: You shall be holy, for God is holy.   We read: You shall not hate your siblings in your heart. Rebuke your people without shaming. Do not engage in vengeance or bear grudges. Love your fellow as yourself. [2]   We often quote “Love your fellow as yourself” by itself, but it has a different valence in context. [3] We may want vengeance against our fellow who has harmed us, yet we must love them. We may be justified in a grudge, yet we must let go of the hate in our hearts. And lastly, rebuke. To rebuke our fellow is another way to love them.   Kindness is the deepest thing. Being kind is not the same as being nice. Sometimes they can be used interchangeably, but not always. “Nice” is wrapped up in politeness, decorum, and status quo. “Kind” is concerned with heart and soul. Sometimes niceness is not very kind. Sometimes kindness is not very nice.   Lately I’ve felt that the American Jewish community is more concerned with being nice than being kind. I read a quote once that has been playing back in my mind. Naomi Shulman wrote, “Nice people made the best Nazis. My mom grew up next to them. They got along, refused to make waves, looked the other way when things got ugly and focused on happier things than ‘politics.’ They were lovely people who turned their heads as their neighbors were dragged away. You know who weren’t nice people? Resisters.”   While it is always appropriate to be kind, it is not always appropriate to be nice. Sometimes rebuke is the best way to show love.   These High Holy Days I am musing on life and death, central themes to the Days of Awe. On Rosh Hashanah we celebrate creation, the beginning of all life. On Yom Kippur we ask the question who will live and who will die, and we recite vidui, the deathbed confessional, in case we are among those who will not be written in the Book of Life.   These themes seem more dire this year as we are confronted with war and devastation in Israel and Palestine. As we hear the stories of young children killed by bombs or starvation or gunfire, as we watch the death toll continue to rise, we may ask ourselves: how can we make sense of the senseless killing? What does it mean to live in a world tarnished by death?   Too often we as American Jews prioritize being nice. We don’t want to make waves, we look the other way when things get ugly, we focus on happier things. I include myself in this rebuke. How is niceness holding us all back from kindness?   Our prioritization of niceness is often based in fear. I am immensely privileged to be the rabbi of a community which embraces diverse viewpoints and is passionate about advocating for the human rights of all people, including Palestinians. Yet I am no stranger to fear.   I am not immune to retribution. What might I lose if I am branded a “resister”?   On the other hand, what might I lose if I don’t resist? What if, when I meet my Maker, God asks me: Why did you not do more to unlock the shackles of evil, to break the bonds of oppression?   I had to ask myself: do I fear for my social status, or do I fear for my soul?   Before we know what kindness really is, we must lose things. I’ve lost work and friends because of who I am, or what I said, but that is nothing compared to losing my soul. It was with this realization that I decided to be a voice for Palestinian liberation.   This past summer, myself and 26 other Jewish clergy protested in favor of food aid to Gaza. It was not nice of us to disrupt Senator Thune’s office by singing songs of peace. It was not nice of us to refuse the request to vacate, to engage in civil disobedience, and to be arrested as a result. But our rebuke was an act of love, stemming from our shared value of kindness. Each of us has our own mission. Your mission will not be the same as mine. There are countless ways to resist. Not everyone will be arrested; some will call their representatives, others will have difficult conversations with family members, many will donate time or money to a worthy cause.   As we contend with death, we confront how we live. All of my sermons these High Holy Days will ask the question: how do we want to live our lives, especially in the face of death?   As we go into the Ten Days of Awe, the Ten Days of Fear, let us heed the call from God spoken through Isaiah: our suffering is meaningless unless it awakens us to the suffering of others; our prayers are meaningless unless they inspire us to create peace and justice in our world.   Let us remember the Holiness Code: love includes rebuking others and ourselves, not to shame, but to encourage us to be holy. Love is resistance, and resistance is love. Even one small act can change a person’s life, like the stranger who gave Naomi a piece of bread. Every act of kindness increases the holiness in our world. Let us dedicate ourselves to kindness, to ourselves, to others, and to the world.   We must set aside our need to be nice and step into the role of resisters. Being true to our souls and living out our values is a risk. To know kindness we must be willing to lose things. What is really important to us? What are we willing to lose? If we are willing to risk for kindness, it will go with us everywhere – like a shadow or a friend, like the voice of God whispering in our ear. Then we will know kindness as the deepest thing. [1] Isaiah 58:3-14; paraphrased. [2] Leviticus 19:17-18, paraphrased. [3] Rabbi Akiva said that no passage of Torah should be read alone, and must be interpreted alongside its connecting verses (Sifrei Bamidbar 131).

I first want to acknowledge that this reflection may be controversial. It certainly is vulnerable. I’m exploring not only my feelings but lessons I have learned in community organizing with regard to power and self-interest. It’s uncomfortable to consider one’s own self-interest and the power inherent within it, but I feel like I must. Today is Tisha B’Av, a day in the Jewish calendar when we grieve and reflect on destruction and devastation. Even without this holiday, today would already be filled with grief and devastation. The news of children starving in Gaza. The reports of settler violence and murder of Palestinians in the West Bank. The recent horrifying video of Evyatar David, a hostage in Gaza, forced to dig his own grave as he too is slowly dying of starvation. On Tisha B’Av we read from the Book of Lamentations, a reflection on the despair following the destruction of the Temple. We read haunting reflections which could have been written by people in Gaza: “Better off were those slain by sword than those slain by famine, who pined away, wounded, for lack of fruits of the field.” (Lamentations 4:9) Last week I participated in an action with 26 other Jewish clergy calling for food aid for Gaza. In a couple comments in response to our demonstration, people asked, “What about the hostages?” These comments are meant to take attention away from Palestinians rather than bring attention to the Israelis still held captive in Gaza. I know this for two reasons: 1. Every action I’ve been a part of which highlights Palestinian suffering (whether letter or demonstration) has mentioned the hostages. This recent action likewise mentioned the hostages, as anyone who watched the livestream would see. 2. The hostages are being held in Gaza, and therefore are subject to all the atrocities the people in Gaza are experiencing. Falling bombs may kill hostages. Widespread famine may kill hostages. The fate of the hostages are tied up with the fate of the people of Gaza. We cannot claim to care about the hostages and then support actions which directly put their lives in danger. We have learned after 22 months of fighting that ceasefire deals are more likely to bring back our hostages than military force. And yet the violence continues. I saw a comment the other day that made me feel physically ill. After claiming to support the war in order to save the hostages, an individual was questioned about the possibility that the war might be what kills the hostages. This individual then went on to say that THESE hostages may die, but by dismantling Hamas we are preventing FUTURE hostages. Forget for a moment that this is illogical — we cannot dismantle an ideology through death, even if we kill all living Hamas members, we only give motivation for more to join in vengeance — and just consider this sacrifice of our people that this individual was willing to make. Would he have said the same if it was his child held hostage? How could he so easily turn his back on those who are suffering? I am ashamed to say this individual was a rabbi. Sometimes I am accused of not caring about the hostages. That could not be further from the truth. I have family and friends in Israel. I have lived in Israel. Their suffering haunts me. I understand deeply that it could have been my relative, could have been me. Sometimes I am accused of caring more about Palestinians than my own people. I try to care about all peoples — and I find myself especially caring about Palestinians because I have Palestinian friends, and because I feel responsible for their suffering — but if anything, I am concerned that the opposite is true: that at least part of my motivation for caring about Palestinians is primary concern for my people, those in Israel and Jews around the world. Their suffering will directly impact us. The more unsafe they are, the more unsafe we will be. Peace for them is the only way we can have peace for ourselves. Our destinies are intertwined. I wish I could be more objective. I wish I could care for all peoples equally. I do try. But I’m not sure it’s possible, at least for me. My heart is tied up with my family. Those within my inner circle will always come first. I fear it’s an innate, evolutionary drive, and I am only human. So please don’t think my deep concern for Gaza and Palestinians means I’ve turned my back on my people — when in fact, it is how I am trying to protect them. Yes, I care about Palestinian suffering — how could I not? But I also have a deep drive and desire to see my people safe. In truth, my activism is selfish in that way. But I am using the power of self-preservation to hopefully make a positive difference in the world. Self-interest is a key component to justice work. We all need to find something that serves both us and others, and to use the motivation of self-interest to help others. Our destinies are intertwined. In addition to the bodily concern for life, there is also the spiritual concern for the soul. We are not only risking our lives with this never-ending violence, but the very essence of our beings. The reports of IDF soldiers committing suicide because they could not live with their actions should equally haunt us. Even if we don’t care that we are hurting others, we should care that we are hurting ourselves. We can and should care about others. It’s not that I don’t care about others. I sometimes feel like my heart holds so many inside it that it’s too full to fit in my chest. And yet, caring for others doesn’t mean we don’t care about our own. In fact, sometimes care for ourselves and our own is the best tool to care for others. It is not selfish to use the power we have. But it also isn’t selfless to highlight others’ suffering. Our destinies are intertwined. We must end the suffering in Gaza. For their sake and our own.

commissioned by Temple Sinai of Atlanta in honor of Pride Month we are all always transitioning through space, time, identity, transitioning from who we used to be, transitioning to become the me we were meant to be sometimes transitions transform slowly like a snail shell growing imperceptibly sometimes transitions transform instantaneously like the sudden splitting of the Red Sea how did it happen for me? like a seed buried in a pocket afraid of the possibility of planting growth requires release letting go of the pockets that hold us captive the containers constraining our growth do not bury your seeds where they cannot grow release and let go — it is time to transform like a date tree tall and strong let yourself bloom let yourself bear fruit you are a blessing too holy is transition! may the One who transitions the seasons transforming light from dark help me transition from who I used to be transforming to become the me I’m meant to be Holy Transitioning One, help me see my transition too is holy like a snail shell growing imperceptibly like the sudden splitting of the Red Sea becoming is a holy thing of beauty

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.