Lately, everything I read is colored by a deepening concern for the state of our democracy. Even sacred texts, once sources of comfort and moral grounding, now provoke doubt. This week, as I studied Tazria—the Torah portion detailing the diagnosis and quarantine of those with skin eruptions, traditionally likened to leprosy. I found myself unsettled not by the affliction itself, but by the system established to identify and judge it. My dis-ease originated with questioning faith in authority.

The erosion of our democratic institutions resembles the biblical tzara’at—those mysterious skin eruptions that once meant exile—spreading across the body politic, demanding diagnosis yet defying simple treatment.

In Tazria, the priests served as both diagnosticians and judges. A skin eruption could lead to exile from the community, all based on the priest’s ruling. At first glance, this seems logical—a necessary containment of disease. But in our current climate, I can’t help but question the unquestionable: Why was the priest’s authority absolute? Why did the afflicted submit so readily? What did it mean for a family to have a loved one cast out—not for wrongdoing, but for a mark on their skin?

These questions feel eerily contemporary. Today, I see eruptions not on the skin but in the very structure of our society—signs of democratic decay. Just as leprosy isolated the individual, these eruptions are crises of authority, isolating communities, pitting citizens against one another, and corroding trust in shared systems.

Questioning Authority

When faith in our systems crumbles, we begin to question all forms of authority—judicial, medical, even Divine. The courts, like the priests of old who examined lesions and pronounced judgment, maintain power only through our collective belief in their legitimacy. When the those questioning authority are in power, the challenges are exponentially greater.

Honoring authority is the glue of American Democracy. Look at the judiciary. The courts have no physical power to enforce their decisions, but for our willingness to honor their authority. The Supreme Court represented the ultimate example of power exercised by a small gathering of judges because of a collective belief in their preeminence.

The legitimacy of our judicial system rests on our collective willingness to respect it. Most citizens comply, partly due to coercive mechanisms—judgments, liens, enforcement—but also because we believe in the rule of law.

We have endured those with vast financial means and limitless audacity, who bend the courts to their will. They delay, appeal, and manipulate. They challenge not just the outcome of cases, but the very integrity of the system itself. These oligarchs and plutocrats exemplify how wealth and power can be used to distort justice. Their abuses shake public trust and reinforce a cynicism that corrodes democracy from within. And yet, we maintained our faith in the judicial system even as we feared those abuses.

The Supreme Court

More recently, the Supreme Court unraveled rights guaranteed to women, upended laws guarding fair elections, and toppled regulations for consumer protection, I never imagined a time when obeying the Court might be optional. Yet here we are. The very administration that reshaped the judiciary in its first term now appears willing to ignore the courts altogether in its second term. This raises a painful question: What recourse do we have when the powerful shirk the Court’s authority altogether and evade justice?

And here’s where the analogy to Tazria deepens: the skin eruptions described in the Torah were visible signs of impurity, judged and acted upon by religious authority. Today, the eruptions we see—corruption, manipulation, erosion of norms—are just as glaring. But the authority to identify and treat them is no longer trusted. Our democratic skin is breaking, and the systems meant to diagnose and heal us are themselves infected.

Loss of Faith

Lost faith in our judiciary bleeds into a broader loss of faith—faith in systems, institutions, and even Divine authority. The erosion of trust in one system undermines confidence in all others. When the judiciary is corrupted, it casts doubt on every structure meant to uphold order and justice, including those ordained by tradition and scripture.

I find myself trapped between fear and faith. I fear the rise of authoritarianism, the manipulation of courts, and the blind compliance of those who should question the powerful. But I also fear what happens when faith in all authority collapses—when skepticism becomes default, and trust becomes naïve.

Perhaps this is what Tazria ultimately invites us to confront—not just the management of physical affliction, but the authority to address afflictions of society or spirit. Systems like the judiciary and the priesthood work only when we trust those who hold power. When fear is paramount and faith is fading, our enterprise is sickened. And maybe, in reading the Torah through this darker lens, I am not abandoning faith but seeking a version that can survive fear.</p>

Rabbi Evan J. Krame

“What’s the difference between depression and anxiety?” my friend asked over lunch. Depression keeps you fixated on the past. Anxiety traps you in fear about the future. Either way, many are either depressed or anxious about the state of the world. Our challenge lies in releasing the past and moving forward with purpose.

During Passover, at a time of global uncertainty, we’re reminded of the power of faith—the belief that we don’t have to remain stuck in despair. We cannot afford to be frozen by the past when what’s needed is a bold leap into the future.

Fear gripped the Hebrew people when they reached the Red Sea, —an army behind them, a vast sea ahead. There seemed no way forward. Yet that moment of despair became a moment of transformation. With no time to prepare, the only option was to leap. Desperate times call for audacious faith.

In that moment at the sea, Moses and the people cried out to God. Despair and anxiety would not do. God responded: “Why are you crying out to me? Now is the time for action.”

Action begins with trust—trusting minds, trusting hearts, and trusting limbs. It’s this elemental trust that allows us to leap. The real question isn’t whether to leap, but when. And how—will it be with eyes wide open, or closed in faith?

Throughout history, courageous women and men have leapt forward with trusting limbs, risking everything for a better future. Some were weighed down by the pain of the past, like slaves enduring unbearable degradation. Others were gripped by anxiety about what lay ahead. But still—they leapt.

So what does it mean to leap in America in 2025?

It means recognizing your power. Consider where you spend your money—economic choices shape the world. Keep pressure on elected officials. Stay informed, even when the news is hard to digest. Build relationships with your neighbors. Show up for your community. Be the example of the world you want to live in—especially in times of instability and fear.

Let this Passover be your inspiration to leap—and to soar.
Have faith that this is the moment to act.
And believe that your actions matter.

Rabbi Evan J. Krame

It shall be that when he [realizes his] sin and incurs guilt.

וְהָיָה֮ כִּֽי־יֶחֱטָ֣א וְאָשֵׁם֒ וְהֵשִׁ֨יב אֶת־הַגְּזֵלָ֜ה

We have leaders who are acting abhorrently. Yet, they think they are doing the right thing, impervious to correction or critique. No screaming at Town Hall meetings or pundits pontificating on MSNBC, will change their minds. These potentates won’t suddenly wake up and realize their guilt. Still, if nothing else, we can draw lessons from their behavior and strive to be better people ourselves.

Judaism teaches that righteousness and humility must be carefully balanced, for unchecked righteousness can lead to dangerous self-justification, while unchecked irreverence can lead to moral decay. At a time when despotic leadership thrives on ego and domination, understanding this balance is more critical than ever.

At the outset of Leviticus, the Torah introduces a variety of sin offerings, including those for inadvertent sins. The concept of inadvertent sin suggests that individuals, upon reflection, may recognize their misdeeds and seek atonement. However, reality shows that many bad actors never acknowledge their wrongdoing. They justify their actions, believing they are in the right regardless of the harm they cause—financially, physically, or emotionally.

All individuals are prone to rationalizing their behavior, excusing their actions with claims of entitlement, grievance, or superiority. Such justifications lead to broken promises, betrayals, and injustices, all masked as righteousness. This self-deception is exacerbated when leaders elevate themselves above reproach, acting without humility or self-doubt.

Jewish tradition provides a corrective to this moral peril. The Talmud teaches that each person should view themselves as equally poised between innocence and guilt (Kiddushin 40b). A single good deed can tip the balance toward righteousness, while a single transgression can tip it toward sin. This mindset cultivates humility and moral vigilance. Furthermore, the Talmud warns, “Even if the entire world tells you that you are righteous, view yourself as wicked” (Niddah 30b). This is not to promote self-loathing but to guard against arrogance and moral complacency.

Believing oneself entirely righteous can lead to disregard for others and a dangerous substitution of personal judgment for ethical law. On the other hand, seeing oneself as entirely flawed can lead to despair and inaction. The Jewish ideal is a middle path—recognizing one’s imperfections while striving for goodness.

True righteousness lies not in an unshakable belief in one’s own moral infallibility but in the ongoing effort to be self-aware, to correct one’s misdeeds, and to contribute positively to the world. By resisting the extremes of self-righteousness and moral defeatism, we uphold the balance essential for a just and compassionate society.

Rabbi Evan J. Krame

“I heard you the first time,” I might have said to family members who repeated instructions to me. Repetition can be both helpful and off-putting. Because the Torah is filled with repetition, especially in this week’s reading Vayakhel, I wondered about the value of repeating words, phrases, and instructions. Ultimately, repetition is a powerful tool—one that can be used for good or for ill.

Repetition helps us to remember. Beyond its utility, repeated information is often perceived as more truthful than new information. This finding is known as the illusory truth effect, and it occurs because repetition increases processing fluency. People learn to use processing fluency as a marker for truthfulness.

In the Jewish tradition, repetition serves a deeply ethical and spiritual purpose. The Torah reiterates commandments, moral lessons, and historical narratives to reinforce values and encourage righteous behavior. For example, the Ten Commandments appear twice—once in Exodus and again in Deuteronomy—underscoring their importance. In parshat Vayakhel, the weekly reading repeats the story of gathering gifts for building the mishkan and the construction plans. Repetition offers guidance toward the proper completion of holy tasks.  We repeat prayers and rituals, such as the Shema, reminding the faithful of their covenant with God. This use of repetition is meant not to manipulate, but to guide individuals toward a life of integrity, kindness, and devotion.

In contrast, modern politicians use repetition as a tool for influence, often prioritizing persuasion over truth. They employ slogans, talking points, and carefully crafted phrases to shape public opinion. While repetition is effective in gaining followers, truthfulness is often a casualty. Repeating simple words and phrases can convince us that they are true, even if they aren’t. When we hear something multiple times, we are inclined to accept it because we assume that others believe it as well. Moreover, familiar ideas feel more credible simply because they are easier to process.

However, repetition can backfire. When overused, it can make a message seem suspect, especially if listeners begin to recognize its manipulative intent. Studies also show that repetition is most effective when the audience is not paying close attention. This means that careful, critical thinkers are less likely to be swayed by weak arguments, no matter how many times they hear them.

In the Torah, repetition is a means of reinforcing ethical principles. Torah encourages deep reflection and moral action. In modern politics, however, repetition is a strategy to control narratives and shape public perception, sometimes at the expense of truth. Understanding how repetition functions in different contexts allows us to distinguish between guidance and manipulation. The challenge, then, is to engage actively with what we hear, to think critically, and to ensure that repetition serves to enlighten rather than deceive.

Rabbi Evan J. Krame

וְעָשִׂ֥יתָ בִגְדֵי־קֹ֖דֶשׁ לְאַהֲרֹ֣ן אָחִ֑יךָ לְכָב֖וֹד וּלְתִפְאָֽרֶת׃

Make sacral vestments for your brother Aaron, for dignity and distinction.

Exodus 28:2

How you dress is of biblical importance. Yoga pants be damned, and sweatpants be cursed—what one chooses to wear is not merely a question of comfort. Rather, how you adorn your body speaks to the day you hope to have and the life you intend to lead, to dress for success. Before you rush out to refurbish your wardrobe, consider the dignity and adornment that suits the world before you.

Proper clothing can enhance a person’s stature. Moreover, we use clothing to express our intentions—formal wear to dignify special occasions and business suits to demonstrate importance. Clothing becomes costume when paired with certain meanings, just as ermine-trimmed capes denote monarchy and black robes impart justice.

Throughout history, clothing has served as a powerful emblem of political struggle and moral conviction. The American Revolutionaries, for instance, rejected British aristocratic fashions, opting instead for simple homespun garments to symbolize their commitment to independence and self-sufficiency. Similarly, the sans-culottes of the French Revolution deliberately discarded breeches, favoring long trousers to distinguish themselves from the aristocracy and express their solidarity with common citizens.

Aware of the power of clothing, Martin Luther King Jr. famously wore tailored dark suits each day, symbolizing the dignity of his work and the seriousness of his character. Intending to be arrested in Birmingham in 1963, King wore a workman’s outfit of blue jeans. Denim was a way for activists to show solidarity with the struggle for racial justice and equality. Similarly, members of the Black Panther Party in the 1960s adopted black berets and leather jackets as a uniform that exuded strength and resistance against systemic oppression.

Volodymyr Zelensky wears khaki green military-style clothing as a reminder that his country is engulfed in war. His choice of garb reminds the world that his country is under siege. The choice to forgo suits in favor of military attire underscores his role as a leader actively engaged in defense, not diplomacy.

Currently, clothing can serve to divide us, keeping neighbor from neighbor. Larry David drove this point home by wearing a red MAGA baseball cap on Curb Your Enthusiasm, Season 10. David wore the cap to avoid certain people in his liberal LA neighborhood, who he knew would shun him because of the cap. This illustrates how clothing can carry deep political and social meanings, marking individuals as allies or adversaries in contemporary discourse.

What are you trying to tell the world about yourself with the choices of what you wear? “Clothes do not make the man”, recorded Erasmus in 1500. As a theologian, Erasmus knew the biblical texts describing the clothing worn by the High Priest and his descendants. Yet, Erasmus, Shakespeare, and Mark Twain all famously encouraged us to look beneath the bespoke and the stylish to find a person’s true character. A good suit and tie can mask poor character, and athleisure wear can conceal good character. Rather, our readiness to repair the world should inform our fashion sense.

Clothing remains an outward manifestation of one’s values, allegiances, and convictions. The suffragettes’ white garments symbolized purity and moral righteousness in their quest for women’s voting rights. Modern protesters adopt specific colors—such as the blue ribbons worn over hearts aching to bring Israeli hostages home. Clothing can help to create unity and visibility in the face of oppression.

Combining the Torah’s teaching the priests’s clothing with the axiomatic knowledge of true character, clothing choices can demonstrate faithfulness and virtuosity.

As we struggle to sustain democracy, combat plutocracy, and confront hypocrisy, I suggest that we dress to reflect our objectives. Select clothing to set an intention for your day. Getting dressed in the morning, demonstrate that you are prepared to work for justice. Uncomfortable times not suited for relaxed clothing. We must use all our tools, including apparel, to stand up for justice, freedom, and democratic ideals. Let’s dress the part.