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There are a lot of quotes about expectations and disappointment. Sylvia Plath said, “If you expect nothing from anybody, you’re never disappointed.” Shakespeare said, “Expectation is the root of all heartbreak.” Alexander Pope said, “Blessed is the one who expects nothing, for they shall never be disappointed.” And Brene Brown said, “Disappointment is unmet expectations, and the more significant the expectations, the more significant the disappointment.” All these great thinkers agree: without expectation there is no disappointment. Some expectations are put on us from others, but the most devastating disappointments are from expectations we have of ourselves. This sermon is about family-building and infertility. This may be a topic close to your heart. Please protect your mental health and step out as necessary. Family-building and infertility are subjects which affect many people who want children. I want to acknowledge that not everyone wants children. While this sermon specifically discusses disappointments from the expectation of having children, I hope it can also be taken as a metaphor for any disappointment borne from unmet expectations. I’d like to talk about today’s Haftarah portion. In it we have a story which begins with deep disappointment, a recurrent theme in our holy texts: a woman who is unable to conceive. We read of Hannah, wife of Elkanah, who has no children. Worse yet, her husband’s other wife Peninah has multiple sons and daughters. Knowing that Elkanah favors Hannah’s company, Peninah sees Hannah’s pain and taunts her. Every year as Elkanah spends the day offering sacrifices to God on behalf of his two wives and Peninah’s many children, Hannah spends the day crying. For what it’s worth, Elkanah puts no pressure on Hannah to have children: quite the opposite. He loves Hannah so much, he gives Adonai a double sacrifice on her behalf. He doesn’t understand her pain. He says to her, “Am I not better to you than ten sons?” Interestingly, Elkanah’s unwavering love for Hannah is also a theme within our sacred texts. Sarah, Rebecca, and Rachel all had trouble conceiving, and they were all deeply and utterly loved by their husbands. In a world where women were expected to be mothers, our forefathers showed us that a woman’s value goes far beyond her ability to bear children. Although we don’t see any external expectations in our text, I know it’s there lurking in the background. I know because I have experienced it myself, as I’m sure most people have. “When will you have children?” “The clock is ticking.” “You may not want kids now, but you’ll regret not having them sooner.” When internal expectations are compounded by external ones, the disappointment can be devastating. Ze’evi and I talked about our desire to be parents on our second date. That conversation was almost nine years ago. In connecting with other LGBTQ+ individuals going through fertility journeys, we learned a new term: social infertility. Most queer people are unable to have children “naturally,” and the procedures we have to go through as a result often mirror medical infertility even if there is no medical issue. We had paperwork to sign, medical and genetic testing to go through, psychological evaluation to pass, and lawyer contracts to write up and notarize. It took a year before we could even start trying. We found solace in talking with others going through what we were going through. We were frustrated with the system that made us jump through hoops. We felt envious of those who could build a family without doctors or lawyers. One day someone else on this journey said, “I knew I had social infertility; I didn’t expect I would have medical infertility as well.” After several months and multiple procedures, she still isn’t pregnant, and each cycle is more disappointing. There's not just the struggle of getting pregnant, but also staying pregnant. “We got pregnant and felt over the moon” one couple said, “but then we lost it shortly after. Our doctors said it’s actually a good thing, as it shows that we can get pregnant. But it doesn't feel like a good thing right now. We’re heartbroken, and we need some time before we try again.” The struggle of growing your family doesn’t only affect those trying to have biological children. A gay couple in NYC was on the adoption wait list for almost a decade. Whether it was homophobia, classism, antisemitism, or some combination of reasons, they were never approved. In Hannah’s story, many people focus on the ending: Hannah prays from her heart, her lips move without a sound, and her tears fall freely. God hears her cries and grants her wish: she conceives and gives birth. Everyone loves a happy ending, but to me it feels like a tacky add-on in attempt to turn a story of heartbreak into a feel-good tale. We don’t see the years of despair Hannah lives through. We don’t see every smile she forces as those around her have babies and she has none. When I read Hannah’s story, I imagine a story full of unspoken human experiences. Jealousy as others receive what you most long for. Self-blame as it seems like you are the only one struggling, because we don’t readily share our pain with others. We also don’t see Hannah’s experience with pregnancy. Going through it myself, I can imagine her anxiety. Not knowing what is normal, fearing every day that something could go wrong. Her growing belly more of a hope than a promise. Regardless of whether we can relate to Hannah’s experiences, we all know her pain: the disappointment that comes from an expectation for our future that does not come true. Brene Brown says there’s a difference between feeling disappointed and living disappointed. If we don’t let our feelings out, the disappointment will seep into every part of our lives. Grief is a natural and healthy response when our expectations are not met. Singer-songwriter Sarah Bareilles recently released an album entitled Good Grief which chronicles her experiences with infertility, a two plus year journey which did not have a happy ending. In interviews she laments that most people only talk about infertility once they are “on the other side.” Very few people discuss what she calls the “messy middle” – when you’re in the thick of it and don’t yet know if your expectations will be met. When you’re in the messy middle, it’s hard to grieve. You’re still holding onto hope. With each disappointment a part of you says, “Don’t be sad – it’s not over yet.” But it’s normal to feel sad even if you haven’t given up. I wish we could see Hannah’s messy middle. I wish we could see her every month holding back tears as her body told her it was not yet her time. And although I’m happy she got her wish, I know that is not the case for everyone. Sarah Bareilles is still figuring out her next steps, as she has come to the understanding that biological children are not in her future. Part of me wishes Hannah had adopted a child. Or became like a mother to all the neighborhood children. Or learned to love her life without fulfilling a parent-like role. Not because childbirth after infertility is not a great story, but because it’s told over and over again in our tradition, and we don’t see the alternatives. Life is not so neat. I wish we had more stories of people living in the messy middle, feeling lost and unsure of what the future holds for them. Stories of people realizing they have to pivot and create new goals and expectations. Stories of people wailing out in their grief and there is no answer from above, but rather, and answer from within. Even six months pregnant, I still feel like I’m in a messy middle. I have expectations that are not guaranteed: the expectation that this pregnancy will result in a live birth. The expectation that the baby will survive its first week, its first month, its first year. The expectation that my children will outlive me. Expectation may be the root of all heartache, but we cannot live as nihilists without hope or desire. We need expectations to give us a roadmap of where we want to go in life, but we cannot let our expectations hold us back if life has other plans. Let us learn from Hannah. Not the part that suggests every disappointment has a happy ending if we want it badly enough. But the part where she opens herself to grief and weeps when she experiences soul-crushing disappointment as a result of unmet expectations. Her example to allow yourself to be human. Everyone either is in or has been in a messy middle of sorts. Regardless of what the expectation is, we all have encountered disappointments from life not going our way. And sometimes the lesson isn’t to keep trying until we get our way, but how to carry on knowing we won’t.

An interesting thing about Jewish holidays is that each year they fall on different days in the secular calendar. The Hebrew calendar is based off the moon, with leap months every couple of years to keep holidays around the same time. Rosh Hashanah is always in the fall, Passover is always in the spring, but at times the dates can vary up to a month or so depending on where we are situated within the calendar cycle. This year is the year before a leap year: we will have an additional month of Adar which push everything back. As a result, holidays were earlier this year, including the High Holy Days. It is quite the coincidence that this year, Rosh Hashanah begins the evening of September 11th. And not any September 11th, but the 25th anniversary of the attack which devastated our nation. Most of us can remember exactly where we were when we first learned of the attacks. While the survivors and those close to the victims were most affected, the trauma of the attacks rippled throughout the country. Even all the way in Southern California, we felt it. I was getting ready to go to school when I saw my mom glued to the TV. “I’m not sure you’ll have school today,” she said. “Something terrible has happened.” We went to school not sure what to expect. All throughout my first period my teacher had the news on, unable to focus on the plan for the day. After about an hour of restlessly waiting for updates, school was cancelled and we were sent home. There is a quote ascribed to Holocaust survivor Viktor Frankl, which says: “Between stimulus and response is a space. In that space is our power to choose our response. In our response lies our growth and our freedom.” The greater the stimulus, the more important our response. The 9/11 attacks were unlike anything many of us had seen in our lifetimes. We were overcome with shock, sadness, and fear. While we mourned what had happened, we braced ourselves for what would come next. While we were powerless in the face of the attack, we had power in how we would respond. “In our response lies our growth and our freedom.” Although I was young, as a life-long advocate for peace, I knew a retaliatory war was not the choice we should make. Violence would not bring back those we had lost. I had grown up learning that dissent is patriotic. That freedom of speech is the stronghold of democracy and American values. And yet, when I voiced my anti-war sentiments, I was given the opposite message: my dissent was unpatriotic, and my critique of our government was anti-American. For a long time I was told I would feel differently when I was older. That adults had felt the naivete of pacifism when they were young, but they grew out of it, and I would too. With this feedback I hoped my viewpoint was only disrespected because of my age, and when I grew up, my ideology, even if disagreed with, would be accepted as valid. Yet as the years passed, my ideology has become less and less accepted, despite my age and my increasing numbers of gray hairs. My dissent is even less patriotic today than it was 25 years ago. For so long I fought: I am a patriot. I critique my country because I love my country. I must admit, I am tired of that fight. We learn from our Torah that dissent is holy. Abraham, the first Jew, had no qualms about speaking truth to power. In Genesis 18, God has just promised Abraham that Sarah will give birth to a son in a year’s time. God says, if Abraham continues to be righteous, then God will give Abraham all the blessings God had promised him. Then God says: the people of Sodom and Gomorrah have sinned greatly. I will go and see the extent of their actions. As if intuiting what God would do if the cities were found guilty, Abraham asked God: “Will you destroy the innocent along with the guilty? What if there are 50 innocent, will you wipe out the city and not forgive it on behalf of the 50 innocent? Far be it from you to do such a thing, to not judge justly, to punish innocent and guilty alike!” Quite the rebuke from Abraham. Although he was 90, compared to the ageless God who has experienced eternity, God could have said: “Who are you? What do you know? You are young yet. Maybe when you have seen what I have seen, you will understand. Live a little more, then we can talk.” Instead, God relents, saying, “If there are 50 innocent, I will forgive the city for their sake.” Abraham then enters into negotiation with God. Having accepted 50 innocent, Abraham asks about 45 innocent, then 40 innocent, then 30 innocent, then 20 innocent, all the way down to 10 innocent, and each time God agrees. Abraham had only met God in Chapter 12 of Genesis, and by Chapter 18 he was already arguing with God over matters of justice. And instead of dismissing him, God listens and relents. Our Torah teaches us over and over again that there is no such thing as absolute power: even God’s power must be checked by righteous people, and they show their righteousness by standing up to God. Our Torah also teaches us that the most faithful followers of God are the ones who dissent, who ask for mercy, who exercise restraint. What makes Abraham’s story so powerful is the people he was protecting were strangers to him. His nephew Lot lived in Sodom, but he did not say: Spare my nephew. He said, spare the city. His concern was for innocents in general, not innocents who were connected to him. And he was willing to spare the guilty on behalf of the innocent. Holocaust survivor and prominent civil rights leader Rabbi Joachim Prinz said: When God created humans, God created us as everyone’s neighbor. Neighbor is not a geographic term. It is a moral concept. Indeed, loving one’s neighbor was not about geography to Abraham, but morality. Opposing the loss of life in the Middle East along with the loss of life in NYC and DC was not about geography, but morality. On this 25th anniversary of 9/11, I am considering two tragedies in one: the initial tragedy of the terror attack which stole innocent lives in NYC and DC, and the resulting tragedy of the countless innocents killed in Afghanistan and Iraq because of our own fear and anger, and our inability to judge justly, sparing the whole on behalf of the innocent. Abraham’s comments, “What about the innocent?” got him labeled as one of our greatest leaders. Yet many Americans who asked the same question were labeled as anti-American traitors. The truth is, morality says innocent is innocent, regardless of geography. For a long time the label patriot was an identifier which grounded the anti-war justice work I was involved in. But over the last decade or so, I have wondered if it is a label that still fits me. When someone calls themselves a patriot without any explanation, most people do not think of someone like me. If I use that term for myself, I feel like I need an asterisk to explain what I mean by it. Maybe dissent is no longer considered patriotic. Maybe freedom of speech is no longer the hallmark of American values. Maybe this is no longer the country I was taught about in school. Just as most people today don’t think “faithful” means questioning God like Abraham did, they also don’t think “patriotic” means questioning their country. Unfortunately, the term patriot may make us think more about January 6th than Ruth Bader Ginsburg. Labels change their meanings or get corrupted by those who claim them. I hope one day we can return to the belief that true patriotism questions and dissents. But until then, my aim will be to be like Abraham: thinking of those who deserve better, even if I don’t know them, even if I have no connection to them, because justice is justice no matter where we are. On this anniversary of a tragedy, I hope we can look to the future while learning from our past. I hope we can aim to end wickedness rather than wiping out those we deem as wicked – and the innocents in their midst. May the memories of those killed in 9/11 and the resulting wars be for a blessing.

There is a thunderous crashing sound as the waves fall upon themselves, separated and split by an unseen force. Like a million waves breaking all at once. The walls of water are not smooth like the walls of our hut. The water constantly shifts and shudders, struggling to bridge the gap but held back like a rabid dog. The sandy sea floor is still wet. Those ahead of me begin walking, their feet sticking to the soupy sand, leaving behind perfect footprints. I cannot see Pharaoh’s army behind me in the thick of night, but I can hear them: the men shouting, the horses snorting, the chariot wheels creaking. I know they are close. I close my eyes and take a breath. I do not trust this hallway of water. There is still time to turn back. What shall I do?  We make a million choices every day. Many of them we make without thinking – time to eat, time to sleep, time to breathe, time to blink. Others require only a split-second of thought. To snooze or not to snooze. To brush your teeth before or after coffee. What to have for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.  And then there are choices that we wrestle with. Some are mundane: what color curtains go best in this room? And some are much more serious: what do we do when we witness our country falling into fascism? In the Jewish ethical tradition of Mussar, there is a concept called a bechira point. Bechira means choice, but it is not just any choice. It is a choice that defines who we are, a choice which changes our trajectory, a choice we cannot take back. This week we observed International Holocaust Remembrance Day. Viktor Frankl, psychologist, scholar, and Holocaust survivor, wrote: “Between stimulus and response there is a space. In that space is our power to choose our response. In our response lies our growth and our freedom.” We are making bechira point choices all the time, whether we realize it or not.  On this Shabbat we read from Beshalach, the portion where the Israelites cross the Red Sea and transition from enslaved individuals to a free people. Every person had a choice to make: do they step into the split sea, with the mighty waters surrounding them? Or do they stay back and take their chances with Pharaoh’s army? It may not seem like much of a choice to the Israelites. They had been persecuted and enslaved, their lives were bitter and hard, and they had yearned for freedom for so long.  But the people crossing the sea were not all Israelites. We learn the portion before that those leaving Egypt are an erev rav , a mixed multitude, individuals of many backgrounds. Who are these people? At first glance one may think they are opportunists looking for a better life. But this doesn’t seem to be the case. They brought with them a great number of livestock, something the enslaved Israelites did not have a lot of. As Mr. Rogers said, when we feel afraid or hopeless, we should look for the helpers. This erev rav were our helpers. They brought everything they had and joined their fate with ours. The Israelites’ bechira point was not much of a choice. I imagine they ran into the sea as if their lives depended on it, because they did. Although the choice ultimately changed their lives, it probably was not something most of them wrestled with. But the helpers. I imagine they saw the sea and paused. This was not what they anticipated when they joined the freedom march. Pharaoh was not after them; perhaps it would be better to turn back. This was not a choice of life or death: it was a choice of good or evil. And sometimes evil is the safe choice. When we read these words today, we may be tempted to identify with our ancestors. We want to see ourselves on the shore of the sea, making the choice to run toward liberation. But most of us are not the Israelites in this story, not now. Most of us are not making a choice of life or death. The majority of white Jews in the United States are the erev rav ; we are the helpers. Even if we are not being enslaved or pursued, we have the opportunity to journey alongside the oppressed to help them toward liberation. We can give material goods and financial help. We can serve as lookout to see when Pharaoh’s army approaches, and give warning to the others. For those of us among the erev rav , we are not choosing between life or death. We have an even harder decision to make: do we choose good, despite the risks to ourselves, our belongings, and our futures? Or do we choose evil, preserving the status quo, sacrificing liberty but saving ourselves? The struggle toward liberation is happening right now. The sea is parted before us, but most of us are not the ones who need the passage. And the ones of us who do need passage need helpers now more than ever. For those of us in the erev rav , our friends, family, and neighbors are asking for our help. We have come to our crossroads, our bechira point, a decision which will change our lives forever. The terrifying walls of water are in front of us, and Pharaoh’s army is closing in. Others have already begun to run for their lives. The time to choose is now: will we be the helpers, or will we preserve the status quo?

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.