My Dear Chicago Sinai Community,
As we come together this Kol Nidre evening, I can’t help but reflect on the shock and devastation that enveloped us in the wake of October 7. In those heart-wrenching moments, countless of our Israeli brothers and sisters, and many of us, too, found ourselves saying “ayn milim”—there are no words. Yet now, 372 days later, I stand before you with words that I feel compelled to share. I come to you from a place of vulnerability, aware that some of you may resonate with my thoughts while others may not.
In this moment of uncertainty, I am reminded of a beautiful Talmudic teaching. The Torah, in recounting the story of the Exodus, tells us that Moses says the redemption will take place “k’Chatzot”—around midnight. This raises an important question: why the word “around”?
The Rabbis explain that this ambiguity teaches us something vital: it encourages us to embrace the reality of uncertainty and to teach our hearts to say “I don’t know.” Listen to that again—teach your heart to say “I don’t know.”
To be a person who can say “I don’t know” is a profound strength, especially in a world that often values certainty above all else.
With that in mind, I invite you tonight – allow yourself to be a person who says “I don’t know”. To be a little willing to come from a place of enough uncertainty that you are willing to listen. To listen when you agree with what you hear, and even more so, when you do not. I ask you to hear me all the way through.
Because as your rabbi, on this most sacred night of our Jewish year, I feel a deep calling to express what has been on my mind and in my heart.
First, I feel called to share a few truths up front:
For some of you, you have told me, I know, the “Z” word is a triggering one – so allow me to define what I mean when I say from this bima, I am a Zionist.
I believe that both Israelis and Palestinians have the right to self-determination.
I believe that the only way to ensure the safety, dignity, and flourishing of both Israelis and Palestinians is a just negotiation that protects human rights and political self-determination of both peoples.
I am fully aware and deeply worried that Israel is located in arguably the world’s roughest neighborhood, with many enemies who seek to destroy it from close range.
I am pained to my core by the horrors wrought by Hamas and Hezbollah, Islamist terrorist organizations with charters set out to eliminate the Jews from the land.
Tonight, I am feeling multiple responsibilities as a rabbi in this unique chapter of our story. I will do my best to explain what I am seeing and feeling, and most of all, to initiate an exploration of the wisdom and insight that our tradition can offer to help us navigate this very moment. And my hope is that this becomes an opportunity for us to engage in sacred dialogue embracing the complexities of our feelings as we seek connection and understanding.
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Look up at the ceiling [point]. The values of our congregation literally surround us – look at that one, right over there.
Let us begin with the words of Hillel from Pirkei Avot, im ein ani li, mi li? If I am not for myself, who will be for me?
I remember waking up on the morning of October 7 early. I picked up my phone and was caught by utter shock that my usual US and local morning news headlines were filled with the word “Israel”…I knew it was bad. But what I didn’t expect was what you didn’t expect. That as the day would unfold we would learn that October 7 would be the greatest attack on our Jewish people since the Holocaust.
What I didn’t expect was that thousands of innocent civilians, most of them living as peaceniks on the border with Gaza, and celebrating at a music festival would be brutally slaughtered. That their bodies would be massacred and sexually violated. That no one – men, women, children, the elderly, would be exempt from the cold blooded attack of that day. What I didn’t expect was that over 250 people would be taken across the Gaza border and held hostage. What I didn’t expect was that it would take hours and hours for the survivors of the deadly massacre to be rescued. What I didn’t expect was that we would have to go back in history and pull out the word pogrom to define this horrific day.
What I didn’t expect was that within 24 hours, the entire North of Israel would be evacuated as a result of threats from Hezbollah in Lebanon. What I didn’t expect was that residents of both the towns along the border with Gaza and the border with Lebanon would be displaced for over a year… and counting.
What I didn’t expect was that when I traveled to Israel two months later, for Israel to have been frozen in time. To walk through destroyed homes of Kibbutz Nir Oz – with torn up photographs, toys in front yards overturned, dark blood stains on the floors of homes, and bullet holes through bedroom doors. I didn’t expect that I would see Sukkot still standing, expired milk on tables, and open bottles of wine left over from Kiddush lunch that Simchat Torah morning. I will be honest – I cannot get those images and smells out of my head.
What I really did not expect was that on October 8 we would hear a deafening silence from so much of the world and from so many we thought were our friends, and our allies. I did not expect that some would appear to even rejoice – uttering “death upon Jews”, covering our hallways and classrooms, and college campuses with swastikas, removing Jews from many of the Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion protocols in our workplaces.
What took place on college campuses this past spring, and has crept up this fall, too, is a real problem, and should concern us all. Too many of our students, not just random students out in the world, but our students, kids who grew up right here, at Chicago Sinai Congregation – too many of them have been confronted by some of the oldest tropes of Antisemitism. Let me be clear, criticism of the Israeli government and the way in which it has navigated this war is not in and of itself inherently antisemitic…but many American Jewish collegians are hearing and seeing much, much more than a mere critique of Israeli government policy. I have heard stories from our Chicago Sinai students whose real sense of security and assurance vanished after October 7. One student told me she was anxious to wear her hair curly after being told to “perish” on the streets walking home from the library. Another Sinai student told me he spent an entire semester without revealing to even his closest friends that he was Jewish.
And it is not only on college campuses – but also here in many of our own High Schools in Chicago. Reminders that the world hates Jews, that Israel should be destroyed, show up practically everywhere, from the classroom to school bathrooms. There are teachers here in Chicago who have taught our students that Hamas is not in fact a terrorist organization, proudly wearing t-shirts that say “from the river to the sea…” implying the elimination of our Jewish state. I’ve spent late nights talking to high schoolers who debated the risks of not walking out during a protest – what might others think about them? Would they become a target for antisemitism? Would their teachers penalize them with a “subjective” grade?
What happened on October 8th and so many days since has been nothing short of a wake up call that if we are not for ourselves, then who will be?
Israel has a right to defend herself. Any country would.
Since October 7, I have been living with a shattered heart. I know I am not alone.
Tragically, our fundamental safety, the presumption of Israel’s right to exist, was simply destroyed. We’ve heard flight attendants time and again teach us “put on your mask first, and then your neighbors”, and how many parents have instilled in children “safety first.”
Never before have these cliche sayings been more important for our Jewish community.
I’ve been with you in public spaces where you whispered “Israel” or tucked in your Magen David, star of David necklace. I listened as you feared leaving your mezuzah up during trick-or-treating last October.
When a candidate for President of the United States lifts up old antisemitic tropes by stating “If I don’t win this election, and the Jewish people would have a lot to do with that…” we have a real problem.
Our Jewish people have, unfortunately, been here before. It’s not hard to find examples throughout our history for us to draw wisdom. Let’s look back to the story of the festival of Purim, told in the biblical book of Esther. Esther faced the decree that all Jews in Persia were to be murdered. Her cousin Mordecai learned of Haman’s plans to destroy the Jews and spoke these words to her: u’mi yodeah im l’et Kazot hi-ga-at la-malchut “Who knows? Perhaps it was for this very moment that you were meant to be.”
Mordecai is speaking to each and every one of us! We are called to stand up at this moment. All of us. To use our voices as individuals and as leaders, in our own spheres of influence, social and professional circles, with local and state and federal representatives. I know it isn’t an easy ask – but do you think it was easy for Esther who approached the King without an invitation – which could have led to her own death. Lest you hear cynicism in my charge – I understand, there are real consequences to being Esther, but my friends, there are also real consequences to not.
So my call to you on this day of Yom Kippur is: be for us– because if we are not, no one else will be.
Reject the world’s oldest form of hatred.
Wear your magen david or your chai necklace, not underneath your shirt, but loud and proud. Light Shabbat candles — and put them in your window.
Educate those who do not understand that you cannot call for the genocide of the Jews and then say that it depends on the context. “Who knows? Perhaps it was for this very moment that you were meant to be.”
As the renowned Israeli author David Grossman wrote in a NYTimes Oped:
We cannot put aside our thoughts about young girls and women, and the men, too it seems, who were gang raped by attacking terrorists from Gaza, murderers who filmed their own crimes and broadcast them proudly and viscously live to the victims’ families; and the babies killed; and of the families burned alive…
And yet… look back up at that text, because it doesn’t just end if I am not for myself who will be for me…it continues…
U’chshani l’atzmi mah ani? AND if I am only for myself, what am I?
Our Jewish values call us to balance our love for Israel, ahavat Israel, and love of fellow Jews with the words v’ahavtem et ha’ger – loving the stranger.
We cannot sit here and espouse the biblical teaching that all human beings were created b’tzelem Elohim, in the image of God, and not recognize that this, too, has been an unimaginably horrible year for the innocent Palestinian people living in Gaza. More than 40,000 have been killed, a great many of whom are noncombatants. There are bombed out neighborhoods, devastation of hunger and disease – a deeply problematic humanitarian crisis. We cannot let Hamas off the hook for its rightful share in the responsibility for these deaths, as they have used the innocent civilians of Gaza as pawns, hiding in schools and hospitals and bedrooms of young children, to maximize the death and accuse Israel of genocide.
But in Grossman’s words:
“We must ask ourselves if we can be blinded to the suffering of the Palestinian civilians in Gaza who have been caught up in this awful war.”
The vast humanitarian suffering that is occuring in Gaza shatters my heart – and it should shatter yours too. Any person who claims to have open eyes, your heart should break at what has happened to the innocent Palestinians. And the innocent victims in Lebanon and Iran.
We cannot afford to lose sight of our core Jewish values.
We cannot now, and we never have been able to.
One of our era’s most respected Jewish thinkers, Rabbi Shai Held, wrote, “The Torah could have responded quite differently to the experience of oppression in Egypt. It could have said, since you were tyrannized and exploited and no one did anything to help you, you don’t owe anything to anyone; how dare anyone ask anything of you? But it chooses the opposite path. Since you were exploited and oppressed, you must never be among the exploiters and degraders. You must remember what it feels like to be a stranger. Empathy must animate and intensify your commitment to the dignity and well-being of the weak and vulnerable. And God holds you accountable to this obligation.”
This is our central narrative for a reason – to not harden our hearts even when we are the sufferers.
My friends, I know many of you are deeply pained by the loneliness you have felt in this past year. Too many of those we thought were our friends, or people we built partnerships with around what we thought were shared beliefs around social justice, failed to pick up the phone and check in. They failed to speak out for us. They failed to stand up for us. They failed to condemn antisemitism and terrorism. They were silent on sexual violence against women.
But we cannot boil our year down to a game of reciprocity – you weren’t there for me, so I won’t be there for you. That is simply not Jewish. We show up, we care, we empathize because we are Jewish, not because we expect something in return. We show up, we care, we empathize because doing so is the only hope for building a world of peace, not bloodshed.
This is the season of repair. In this new year we must prioritize our efforts to rebuild relationships with communities and partners and friends. This won’t be easy. I am not asking you to diminish or deny your pain or your belief system. In fact, we will need to be ready to share our pain and disappointment. We will need to show up again at the table where decisions are being made about our shared communities, our schools, our universities, and our nation. We will need to be willing to share and to educate, but we will have no chance of being truly heard if we do not open our hearts to compassion.
This is what it means to be a Jew.
We do not get to walk away…instead, we must turn towards the other with radical empathy.
One more time, I invite you to look back up our sanctuary ceiling. If I am not for myself, who will be for me? If I am only for myself, what am I? There is a final part to the teaching… one that is not a throw away line, but is critical to our values and core mission as a Jewish people…
V’im lo achshav, eimatai? And if not now, when?
One hundred years from now, when future generations look back at this moment of our Jewish history – what might we want them to say? What will they say about the Jews living in America? As we count this terrible year among the darkest moments of our Jewish history – what will future generations learn from us? We cannot wait for things to “quiet down” or for the “war to end” or for college campuses to embrace real policies about what is and what is not tolerated as free speech. There is an urgency. As much as we may like to, we simply cannot afford to look away now and wish it all away.
So let us double down instead!
“Who knows? Perhaps it was for this very moment that you were meant to be.”
In the days that followed October 7 we came together. We supported one another. We checked in on one another. We bought new Star of David necklaces, we showed up to Temple, and we lit Shabbat candles.
Keep showing up. Keep being Jewish. And if you see something, say something. Or if you hear something, say something. Report it. Stand up to it.
Get off social media and engage in real conversations over coffee, walks, Shabbat dinners. Ask questions and listen to the answers. And don’t be scared to disagree, either – just strive to model how to do so with respect and sincere curiosity.
Since October 7th and even before, too many of us have been living with a false binary – that we must either unequivocally support every one of Israel’s actions or fundamentally reject Israel’s right to exist and defend herself– but there is a higher truth – that we can see a future where both the Israeli and Palestinian people are free and both have self-determination – we can care about both people. You do not have to accept the Israeli Government’s approach to the war in order to be a Zionist and care about the safety and wellbeing of the State of Israel and its people.
Im ein ani li mi li? Uchshani l’atzmi mah ani? V’im lo achshav eimatai?
If I am not for myself, who will be? If I am only for myself, what am I? If not now, when?
My Dear Sinai Community – We need to hear each other. I am just as eager to hear you as I requested you hear me. I look forward to continuing the conversation, as our new year leads us into a year of more compassion, more love and more peace. If there is one thing I do know it is this- Our hearts are big enough and Our people are strong enough to navigate the nuance and complexity we face today and tomorrow – if not now, then when?