Shana Tova. It’s so wonderful to see each and every one of you. It’s particularly heartwarming to welcome my parents, Bruce and Laurie Herman, and my sister, Rachel Herman, who are here with us over the holiday. I want to welcome Cantor Noah Rachels, his wife Amy and daughter Maya, as well as Amy’s mother, Jayne Rosen, and Cantor’s sister, Stacy Rachels, who have come to Sacramento to celebrate Rosh Hashanah.
For those with whom I have not yet had the chance to meet in person, I look forward to getting to know you over the course of 5784, and I also hope to deepen my connections with those who I had the privilege of meeting last year. With our new team in place, most notably with the arrival of Chazzan Noah Rachels but also recognizing the extraordinary work of our staff and volunteers, we’re building something special at Mosaic Law Congregation and I’m tremendously excited to begin the new year.
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I want to start with a question that seems simple, but in fact is quite complex. Why are you here today? Is it tradition, spirituality, or perhaps God? Maybe it’s community and family, or some combination of all, or perhaps something completely different?
Everything about contemporary society cuts against our being here. Our lifestyle allows us to be transactional in nearly every waking moment-meaning there’s no reason to do anything that doesn’t come with some kind of payoff or reward.
So, are we here to acknowledge that there’s at least one time in the year where there’s a greater good that doesn’t require a reward, or is the value in being here and observing our traditions amidst family, friends, and community, a reward in and of itself?
I can’t answer the question for you. for as they say, two Jews ten opinions, which means we likely have 30,000 answers represented today—please don’t email those to me as we’ll never get to Yom Kippur. What I can do is ask the same question of myself:why am I here, other than being a Jewish professional, and what’s my specific role?
Here’s the harsh reality. I’m not empowered with special skills to magically fix things. I can no sooner create world peace, stop antisemitism, repair a broken family, or remove asbestos from a building than anyone else. If that’s what you were expecting from your rabbi, I’m sorry to disappoint.
It gets worse. My role as the spiritual leader of our kehilah kedosha, holy congregation, means that at times I’m supposed to create discomfort by challenging you in the hope that through this process we can all become better versions of ourselves. I take this role with complete humility, and like the Cantor’s rendition of Hineni, it’s hard to measure up to the task. That said, we have this moment in time to deepen our connections and make 5784 better than in 5783.
First, let’s make sure we’re on the same page. An online review of Noam Pianko’s book, Jewish Peoplehood: An American Innovation,[1] verifies what we intuitively know as true, that fewer American Jews today describe themselves as religious. I’m now going to say something that may shock you, so hold onto your seats, but this may actually be good news. It’s not that I don’t want you to come to shul, observe Shabbat, kashrut, the holidays—not at all. I’d love for you to do those. It’s that American Jews are recognizing that our peoplehood, through ethnicity and nationality, is what binds us. As my teacher, former Hillel International Director of Hillel, Avraham Infeld taught “Judaism is not a religion! It is a people.” We are a people and a nation grounded in a belief system.
I’ll discuss Jewish peoplehood another time; today I want to speak about nationhood and Israel. Every time we read from the Torah, kiss the mezuzah, and recite the Shema, we affirm our nationhood. This has never been dependent on externalities and good news. For the better part of 2,000 years, when our people were in exile, there was very little good news. Yet, through resilience and faith, we passed down our national identity l’dor va’dor, from one generation to the next, until each generation felt it in their hearts, if not their kishkes.
We are the beneficiaries of the miraculous rebirth of Israel, something which too many today take for granted, but when we think of what our ancestors longed for as they escaped one level of persecution for another, it was exactly that. As I stand before you just a few feet from the Israeli flag, I hope it never becomes just an abstract symbol, but remains an emblematic representation of a real place with real people. While we must acknowledge and respect all peoples and identities who live there—consistent with the Israel’s Declaration of Independence—we can never deny or abandon the centrality of Israel to the Jewish people or the significance it plays in our identity.
For whatever reason, I felt a personal connection to Israel during the Second Intifada, the five-year war of terror when over 1,000 Israelis were brazenly and wantonly massacred in a barrage of bombings targeting buses, hotels, universities, synagogues, coffee shops and nearly every other aspect of life. That period, only 20 years ago, was so traumatically painful, many Israelis would not leave their homes except for work, school and other limited purposes. Many are still living with the physical and emotional scars from that time.
It was then that I argued with my parents who canceled my trip with the Alexander Muss High School in Israel for safety concerns. Call me rebellious, but I wasn’t having it. Israel was in my heart, my thoughts and my feelings. I was going regardless, and I would not be dissuaded.
That trip was life-changing for me, opening me up socially and enabling me to gain comfort in taking risks. I loved our teachers who lived the history they taught, one day in class at Hod HaSharon, the next on a tiyul, a trip to see the sights we had learned about. Our sacred texts came alive not just through abstract history but in seeing, feeling, hearing, touching, and tasting what the land could offer. My best memory, ironically, was at the Kotel, the Western Wall, on Tisha B’Av where I could feel an entire people in mourning for what was, while also appreciating the beauty of what is. While I vividly remember hearing ambulances from the horrific Sbarro Pizza bombing in Jerusalem on my last day, none of the attacks that summer deterred our group. I felt safe and at peace. That experience taught me that seeing is believing.
My second trip to Israel was on a Jewish pluralism mission on college winter break at the end of 2003 and the beginning of 2004-still during the Second Intifada. I remember a Shabbat walk on the Sea of Galilee at Kibbutz Ein Gev when I had a spiritual experience that I still can’t put into words. I felt God’s presence come alive. I paused, taking in the beautiful scenery and the overwhelming sense of inner peace and gratitude. That mission was not only transformative for me but also for many of the other 85 participants. Remarkably, nearly a third of us became rabbis. The power of being in Israel for 10 days with people with whom I developed lifetime friendships is something I will cherish forever.
I’m sharing these experiences because I’d like you to commit to deepening your connection to Israel in 5784. If you can take a class, take a class. If you can contribute money, contribute money. If you can learn a few more words of Hebrew, אז נדבר עברית.
Anything you can do above and beyond what you did in 5783 will help deepen your connection. But as seeing is believing, I encourage everyone to consider joining us in our first congregational mission in over a decade. I’d love to see a show of hands of how many here have gone to Israel on a mission through Mosaic Law Congregation or another Jewish organization. My guess is that if you speak to those whose hands are raised, they’ll attest to the life-transforming nature of the experience.
For our upcoming trip in June, I am particularly excited about a dinner at Erets Beresheet, where we will engage in biblical hospitality, as well as a culinary tour led by our very own Ruthie Edelstein. By experiencing the natural beauty and rich history of Israel together, we will have an exciting and unforgettable experience of a lifetime. The only way we can know about what is truly going on is by being there: to walk along the beach in Tel Aviv, to shop in the shuk, or marketplace, of Jerusalem, to climb the hills of Judea, and to breathe in the beautiful dry air of the Negev. More than seeing, we’ll be there to listen, ask questions, and gain insight from our sisters and brothers who live and experience life there.
If Israel is already in your kishkes, you intuitively know what I’m talking about, and we need your spark and enthusiasm with us on this trip. And, if that feeling in you or your family has yet to develop, by all means, let’s experience the transformative magic together.
For all of us, whether we’re able to join on the congregational mission or choose another way to deepen our ties to Israel, we unfortunately cannot escape the extraordinary internal and external threats taking place in Israel. I’ve spoken about some of the issues, including judicial reform, from the bimah, as have Alan Edelstein and Jonathan Lightman, and as we’re all painfully aware, there are no easy solutions.
What I can offer is that beyond learning and speaking is listening, really listening, to those with whom we agree and to those with whom we disagree. We successfully do that in all other facets of our identity, on God, on kashrut, on Shabbat observance, without feeling compelled to raise our voice, being accusatory, or storming out of the room when the conversation does not go our way. We have to figure out a way to do that on Israel as well.
In her book, High Conflict, Amanda Ripley talks about times when people with opposing views would deliberately engage in conversations with the express purpose of understanding the other’s points of view. One example occurred at B’nai Jeshurun Congregation (affectionately known as BJ) in New York City, where many of the members were shocked when Donald Trump became president.
BJ’s congregational leadership worked with an organization called Resetting the Table, which along with community organizer Simon Greer, paired synagogue members with Michigan correctional officers. Visiting the officers in Lansing was most difficult for them as they had to let go of preconceived notions. One experience was a trip to a shooting range where they saw how guns are used not only for recreation but also for defense. They learned of the officers’ difficult encounters with inmates, including one who had a bucket of urine dumped on her. The congregational members had difficulty seeing the quantity and types of weapons used for defense, but after getting to know the officers, they developed a newfound appreciation for their perspectives.
In case you’re wondering, the Michigan correctional officers also visited B’nai Jeshurun and heard from Rabbi Roly Matalon on the prevailing views of his congregation, particularly on social justice and political events. As one can imagine, the officers were equally challenged in their presumptions.
Three things had to happen to make this possible. First, people had to lean into conflict rather than backing away when the going got tough. Second, they had to learn the other’s story with curiosity and wonder. Finally, when speechless from an encounter, they were instructed to say, “Tell me more!” rather than end the conversation.[2]
Living in a pluralistic community requires the courage to admit that no one has a monopoly on truth and surely none of us has all the answers. Both the challenge and opportunity of engagement is in acknowledging that we’re not there to change someone’s opinions, but to listen, learn, and grow. This is beautifully described in our biblical and rabbinic tradition where each tribe fulfilled a two-week stint of a watch or guard duty, called a mishmar. This occurred in the Temple, and the changing of the guard was on Shabbat. Regardless of where any one tribe stood on issues compared to the next, the outgoing would always say to the incoming:״מִי שֶׁשִּׁכֵּן אֶת שְׁמוֹ בַּבַּיִת הַזֶּה, הוּא יַשְׁכִּין בֵּינֵיכֶם אַהֲבָה וְאַחְוָה וְשָׁלוֹם וְרֵיעוּת״ May God who caused God’s Name to dwell in this house cause love and brotherhood, peace and camaraderie to dwell amongst you.[3]
A few weeks ago, I watched a modern Israeli music video featuring two rappers, one from the political left, the other from the right. Regardless of whether you’re a rap music aficionado, this was an extraordinary piece of art with the responsive musical refrain of “I don’t hate you, but I need to tell you my grievances.” At the end of the video, the back-and-forth lyrical exchange was unceremoniously interrupted by a siren, prompting both rappers to set aside their differences and stand united in a common purpose—a most powerful statement that we should emulate in Sacramento.
My plan for 5784 is to foster dialogue among ourselves through deep questions of curiosity and acceptance of answers without judgment. Like the Israeli rappers in the video or the biblical tribes who rotated the guard duty, we must be able to declare unequivocally and viscerally, “I am in community with you and that transcends any particular opinion or belief that either of us holds.” At the end of the day, we are a congregational family, connected by an unbreakable bond which is stronger than politics or different levels of observance.
I’m going to end my talk where it began, by asking why we are here when external pressures work so forcefully against us. Tradition is certainly a pull, as well as being with family, but if you think about it, our new Jewish year opens an extraordinary window that society at-large does not see or recognize. Our charge is to go through that window together with the commitment that when we do so, we promise to one another and to God that we will make the new year better than the one before. If we should somehow stumble or slumber in this process, or if the ancient or modern liturgical melodies fail to inspire, then the unmistakable blasts of the shofar, which are produced so beautifully by Ben Glovinsky, are there to loudly awaken us with a call to action we cannot ignore.
The sound of the shofar beckons us to be deeply proud and connected, affirming our peoplehood and nationhood within the context of our shared faith. It was the same call that our ancestors experienced on Mount Sinai, that our parents, grandparents, and every one of our family members have experienced wherever they have lived, and that, God willing, our children, and their children, and their grandchildren will also experience. Hopefully, that should be reason enough to be here, that this awakening enters not just our heads, but our hearts as well. One final word. When we boldly and unapologetically conclude Yom Kippur with, “L’shanah Habah b’Yerushalayim,” next year in Jerusalem—which for some means we’ll be there physically and for others, we’ll have a deeper spiritual connection to Israel—let’s be mindful that next year has now arrived and it begins today. Shana Tovah.
[1] (PDF) Book Review of Jewish Peoplehood: An American Innovation. By Noam Pianko. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 2015. Religious Studies Review 43 (June 2017): 186-187 | Jonathan Zisook – Academia.edu
[2] Amanda Ripley, High Conflict: Why We Get Trapped and How We Get Out (New York: Simon & Schuster, 2021)
[3] Babylonian Talmud Berachot 12b
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