I can no longer bear to watch the news. MSNBC was once my morning companion and my evening lament, my spirit and my sorrow. But now, the constant moaning is unbearable. It is the moaning of those who love democracy and those who fear persecution. I hear the sighing of the kindhearted and the open-minded. Who can be deaf to the yearning of the immigrant’s child and the peacemaker? And I can’t help but wonder: what is God’s reaction to this moaning?

When Israel was in Egypt—enslaved and oppressed, barely able to voice their agony—God heard them.

וְגַ֣ם ׀ אֲנִ֣י שָׁמַ֗עְתִּי אֶֽת־נַאֲקַת֙ בְּנֵ֣י יִשְׂרָאֵ֔ל אֲשֶׁ֥ר מִצְרַ֖יִם מַעֲבִדִ֣ים אֹתָ֑ם וָאֶזְכֹּ֖ר אֶת־בְּרִיתִֽי׃
“I have now heard the moaning of the Israelites because the Egyptians are holding them in bondage, and I have remembered My covenant.”
—Exodus 6:5

Millenia later, I wonder if God hears the woeful cries, awaiting God’s mercy. Without divine intervention, the responsibility to repair the world is ours alone. We learned from the sages that the task of repairing the world is great and we cannot desist from the work. It is upon us.

During the Shoah, as the Nazis systematically annihilated Europe’s Jews, our people moaned, cried, begged, and prayed. They had no arsenals, no munitions, no means of defense. And still, God did not seem to remember the covenant.

In 2024, a barbaric assault by Hamas echoed those horrors of the Shoah. Within hours, the terrorists slaughtered hundreds of young people at a music festival and desecrated bodies. The hostages moan in captivity while their families plead for release. As Hamas held Israelis and Americans in Gaza, enslaved and oppressed, suffocating in dark tunnels, how could God just listen to their pleas?

The Israeli response to the attack was swift and devastating. This time, an emphatic and unyielding “Never Again,” overshadowed the imperative to repair the world. The slogan “Never again” transformed yearning for peace into a cry of war. With tanks, planes, and bombs at its disposal, the Israeli army acted in response to the moaning of its people. But where was God? Was God crouched in the tunnels with the hostages? Was God fighting among the soldiers?

On January 15, 2025, we learned of a deal for Hamas to release thirty three more hostages. Israel will release 1,830 Palestinians in exchange. The ordeal of these hostages in Gaza has spanned 470 days, leaving a nation traumatized.

That same day, reports emerged of thousands more Palestinians in Gaza dead than previously acknowledged. Whether the number is 40,000 or 70,000, too many died. Each was a descendant of Abraham’s son Ishmael and their humanity should not be lost in the calculus of war. The sons and daughters of Isaac and Jacob were attacked, and in return, unleashed their fury. And I wonder if God heard any other moans—those buried under rubble, those fleeing destruction, those clinging to life, wherever they may be . . . in Gaza, in Sudan, or in Ukraine.

In the aftermath of Hamas’ attack, Israel’s leaders found justification and an imperative for their actions. Perhaps the horrific Hamas attack helped rationalize a greater, more brutal response. Israel’s leaders ignored the wisdom and caution of Western leaders, instead declaring, “Enough!” Jews learn from Exodus 22:1, “If someone comes to kill you, hurry to kill them first”. Formed of that same moral urgency, Israel used cutting-edge technology and crude weaponry to set back Iran, decimate Hezbollah, and destabilize the Assad regime in Syria. These actions helped to prevent future attacks on Israel.

And yet, with the release of thirty three more Israelis, I still hear the moans of the remaining captives, the cries of the mourners, the wails of the injured all unleashed by Hamas, and extended by a desperate Israeli government.

I seek solace, but only accumulate unanswered questions. How could Israel endure such a ferocious attack on October 7? What nation could tolerate such barbarity? And how could Israel, in turn, unleash so much destruction, killing neighbors— descendants of Abraham, children of Ishmael?

Psalm 71 begins:
I seek refuge in You, O LORD;
may I never be disappointed.
As You are beneficent, save me and rescue me;
incline Your ear to me and deliver me.

God, are You listening?  I’m seeking refuge and remain disappointed. Humans are not nearly as beneficent as You. Did You did not deliver the Hebrews from their bondage, their misery? Whose moans do you hear? God, are You watching CNN—or even Fox News? Can you watch for me, because I can’t bear to listen anymore! I read in the Torah that You can hear and respond. Will You, now?

Rabbi Evan J. Krame

I grew up watching my parents’ unwavering devotion to my grandparents, especially as they aged. Their dedication became the gold standard for care in my mind. When Grandma Sarah was hospitalized at Lenox Hill for two months, my mother commuted daily from Long Island to New York City on the railroad. It’s no wonder I felt guilty going to Florida to celebrate New Year’s while my mother remained in rehab. I doubted that the caring was sufficient given the long distance. And so, I wonder: how will my children care for me if I am elderly and in ill health?

The Torah offers inspiration in its depiction of Joseph’s devotion to his father, Jacob. As Jacob’s health declined, Joseph rushed to his bedside, bringing his sons with him. Jacob embraced his grandsons and gave them a profound blessing:

הַמַּלְאָךְ֩ הַגֹּאֵ֨ל אֹתִ֜י מִכׇּל־רָ֗ע יְבָרֵךְ֮ אֶת־הַנְּעָרִים֒ וְיִקָּרֵ֤א בָהֶם֙ שְׁמִ֔י וְשֵׁ֥ם אֲבֹתַ֖י אַבְרָהָ֣ם וְיִצְחָ֑ק וְיִדְגּ֥וּ לָרֹ֖ב בְּקֶ֥רֶב הָאָֽרֶץ׃

“The Angel who has redeemed me from all harm—
Bless the lads.
In them may my name be recalled,
And the names of my fathers, Abraham and Isaac,
And may they be teeming multitudes upon the earth.” Genesis 48

Jacob’s blessing is both realistic and timeless. He acknowledges life’s inevitable challenges and offers a blessing generated by a wish for redemption from harm. At the same time, he creates a profound connection across generations, invoking the memory of ancestors while anticipating the legacy of future descendants. Joseph, for his part, ensures his father’s blessing remains vital to his family’s story.

Fast forward to 2024. A dear friend with a debilitating but short-lived illness shared her pain at the lack of daily check-ins from her children, who offered little more than occasional texts and phone calls. Another friend confided that the geographic and emotional distance between them and their adult children feels impossible to bridge.

New standards shape modern parent-child relationships. We encourage our children to pursue happiness wherever it takes them, emphasizing autonomy and individuality. “Don’t guilt your children into meeting your expectations,” we are told.

At the same time, we plan for the consequences of these growing distances. We buy long-term care insurance, knowing we might lack family to support us in our old age. We modify our homes to ensure they are accessible, preparing to age in place. Independent senior living facilities are thriving businesses, driven by the idealized reality that living longer self-reliantly often means living alone but with greater needs.

The statistics speak for themselves: the population of people over 90 is growing rapidly. Yet longevity demands more support—medical care is increasingly complex and impersonal. If hospitalized, you need an advocate. If mobility declines, you need an aide. Moving in with family or depending on children and grandchildren for care feels increasingly uncommon.

Even as I write this, I hesitate to admit these thoughts aloud. Perhaps it feels selfish to wonder what I can expect from my children as I grow older. Yet the question lingers: are we truly preparing our families for a future where care and connection go hand in hand? Or are we quietly accepting a world where independence triumphs and the bonds between generations grow fragile?

The answers may not come easily, but the questions demand that we reflect—not only on how we care for our parents but on the legacy of care and connection we hope to leave behind for our children.

Rabbi Evan J. Krame

Captive in an Egyptian prison, Joseph’s ability to interpret dreams became the key to his freedom. What dreams did Joseph have during those long, uncertain years of captivity? Will dreams sustain those held in chains of oppression or illness today?

וַיְהִ֕י מִקֵּ֖ץ שְׁנָתַ֣יִם יָמִ֑ים וּפַרְעֹ֣ה חֹלֵ֔ם וְהִנֵּ֖ה עֹמֵ֥ד עַל־הַיְאֹֽר׃

Parshat Miketz begins; “After two years, Pharaoh dreamed he was standing by the Nile.”

Joseph interpreted Pharaoh’s dreams, predicting seven years of abundance followed by seven years of famine. Impressed by his wisdom, Pharaoh elevated Joseph to a high position, entrusting him to oversee a plan that would save Egypt. Remarkably, Pharaoh placed his faith in an enslaved Hebrew with nothing more than a reputation for understanding dreams.

While Joseph rose to prominence, we must not forget the years he spent languishing in prison. The Torah notes that God was with Joseph during this time, yet the pain of his incarceration cannot be overlooked. What dreams sustained him? How did God bring him comfort in his darkest moments? The text raises unanswered questions about Joseph’s mental and emotional state—questions that resonate even today.

This episode brings to my mind two thoughts. The first is of the 100 or more captives currently held in Gaza. What dreams sustain them in their captivity? What comfort do they cling to? I think of the unimaginable mental health challenges they endure—loneliness, claustrophobia, anxiety, degredation, and heartbreak. What will it take to secure their release? What skills, actions, and faith must we muster?

This reflection extends beyond physical captivity. Many today feel imprisoned by illness, disability, or the limitations of aging. These challenges have been a focus of my life’s work. And now, my own mother is facing physical incapacity and has no hope of full recovery and relies on oxycodone for comfort. For people facing these struggles, life can resemble captivity. What dreams give them hope? What comfort best helps them persevere? When might they just give up?

If empathy for the imprisoned still feels distant, consider this: You, too, might face some form of captivity in your lifetime—whether it’s short-lived or prolonged. (Remember the Covid epidemic?) It might come in the form of illness, loss of freedom, or confinement to a circumstance beyond your control. To prepare for that moment, you can begin by advocating for those already captive—whether they are prisoners of terror, illness, or circumstance. Concrete actions that demonstrate your concern send a powerful message to the world: This is how we wish to be treated in our own moments of vulnerability. We care about each person held captive, whatever the nature of the prison. Advocate for patients’ rights, prison reform, or rail against the laggard Government of Israel what has not follow the Torah that demands we prioritize the safe return of captives.

What will your dreams be if you ever lose freedom of movement or choice? Now is the time to dream boldly about the world you value most and take action to secure those rights—not just for yourself, but for everyone around you.

The story of Joseph offers a dramatic arc: a young man thrown into a pit, held in prison, and ultimately elevated to the heights of Egyptian power. Its happy ending lifts us up. But today, I find myself grappling with endings that feel far from happy. I wrestle with the reality of imprisonment—whether it’s within a prison cell or within the confines of our imperfect bodies.

Without the certainty that God will bring me comfort or that a fairy-tale ending awaits, I turn to you. I seek solidarity, I invite action, and I dream of a day when all forms of captivity will dissolve—like a bad dream finally giving way to the morning light.

Rabbi Evan J. Krame

When getting a haircut recently, I shared my stress about the current state of our country, especially the radical elements. Post-election, the news has me worrying about my family’s well-being. Between snips, my stylist advised me to tune out the distressing headlines. “Just ignore it,” he said with a dismissive shrug. But his advice struck me as misguided. Ignoring the threatening elements of our nation feels dangerous, especially for vulnerable communities; Jews, Trans people, Blacks, and others. Willful ignorance enables hatred and emboldens vigilantes. Rather than withdraw, I want to face these anxieties with a plan.

This brings to mind a story from the Torah. When Jacob returns to Canaan after years away, he knows he must face his brother Esau, who once threatened to kill him. Jacob is understandably consumed by fear and anxiety: “Jacob was very afraid and distressed” (וַיִירָא יֲעֲקֹב מְאָד וַיֵצֶר לֹוֹ).

But Jacob does not allow his fear to paralyze him. Instead, he devises a plan. He divides his family, flocks, and herds into two camps, reasoning that if Esau attacks one, the other might escape. Later that evening, alone and wrestling with an angel, Jacob emerges from the encounter transformed, though he carries a limp as a reminder of the struggle.

The reunion between Jacob and Esau unfolds surprisingly peacefully. Esau embraces Jacob, seemingly letting go of his anger. Yet Jacob remains cautious, politely declining Esau’s invitation to live together and instead choosing a separate path. Though Esau’s intentions appear genuine, Jacob’s anxiety persists—a testament to how fear, whether real or imagined, shapes our perceptions and decisions.

Jacob’s story resonates deeply in today’s climate. His fear of Esau, rooted in past threats, mirrors the psychological insecurity many of us feel in uncertain times. For me, this insecurity stems from doubts about the dependability of my fellow “radicalized” Americans. Remember the shooting at the Tree of Life in Pittsburgh or the demonstrations in Charlottesville or the encampment at Columbia University? History reminds us to stay vigilant. Anti-Semitism has long existed in this country, and while we have not experienced something as catastrophic as Kristallnacht, recent surges in hate crimes and extremist rhetoric are alarming.

In times of heightened tension, comfort and security come from preparedness. Jacob’s response to his fear is instructive: he acknowledges his anxiety, devises a strategy, and takes steps to protect his family and resources. Ignoring one’s fears—as my stylist suggested—is not a viable solution for building safety or resilience.

Some may dismiss such caution as overreaction. After all, our nation has weathered storms of division before. Yet, insecurity is not purely rational; it’s an emotional response informed by history and the temperature of the times. For those of us in vulnerable communities, the stakes feel too high to simply “tune out” and hope for the best.

Like Jacob, I grapple with how to balance engagement with self-preservation. I want to be a cordial neighbor while maintaining vigilance and boundaries. For some, this might mean considering extreme measures like moving assets abroad or seeking refuge in another country. Others may find solace in local community-building or advocacy work. That is where I devote my energies. The paths vary, but the need for a plan remains constant.

Jacob’s story reminds us that fear can constrict our sense of judgment but also sharpen our instincts. His example encourages us to channel our anxieties into thoughtful preparation. In the face of uncertainty, we are called to protect what we value most while striving to create conditions for a safer, more equitable future.

Evan J. Krame, Rabbi

Molly Ivins famously observed, “The first rule of holes is, when you’re in one, stop digging.” Thomas Friedman added, “When you’re in three, bring a lot of shovels.” Reflecting on the story of Isaac in Genesis, I’m inclined to think Friedman was channeling the Torah.

Isaac faced adversarial neighbors who sought to undermine his survival. The Philistines stopped up the wells that his father, Abraham, had dug. In a harsh, arid landscape, obstructing a water source isn’t just an inconvenience; it’s an existential threat.

“Isaac dug anew the wells which had been dug in the days of his father Abraham and which the Philistines had stopped up after Abraham’s death, and he gave them the same names that his father had given them.” (Genesis 26:18)

Isaac’s actions were not about innovation but continuity. He wasn’t trying to build something new; he was restoring what had been lost. By redigging the wells, Isaac extended his father’s legacy and sustained his family and community.

In the Torah, wells represent more than just a source of water—they symbolize connection and gathering. Rebecca met Abraham’s servant at a well, Tzipporah encountered Moses at a well, and throughout Jewish tradition, wells are places of critical encounters and shared purpose.

Today, Isaac’s determination to reopen his father’s wells challenges us to reflect on the legacies we want to protect. Many of these legacies are at risk:

The legacy of Jewish comfort in America is being stopped up by rising anti-Semitism.
Doubts about our voting systems are threatening the foundation of our democracy.
Caring communities are dissolving as we retreat into online shopping, social media trolling, and TikTok distraction.

Isaac teaches us that there is a time for innovation and a time for restoration. Reopening the wells of our fathers—those symbolic fonts of civility, freedom, and connection—has never been more vital. Without them, the sources that sustain our society may collapse under the weight of discord, subjugation, and disconnection.

I offer an example.  I have devoted myself to fostering relationships with our African American neighbors in Maryland. Some question the value of these efforts. Alliances between Jewish Americans and other minority groups have frayed. After decades of interfaith work, skeptics point out that some allies have failed to support Jewish Americans in their concerns about Israel and the fight against anti-Semitism. But as I reflect on both the Torah and Tom Friedman’s advice, I believe this is precisely the moment to bring more shovels to the task. Relationships between groups is not a one time dig, but an ongoing process that requires opening and reopening.

Isaac’s story reminds us that progress is not always about creating something new. Sometimes, it’s about preserving and restoring the essential foundations that sustain life and community. In a world increasingly fragmented, reopening these wells of connection and understanding is not just a choice—it’s a necessity.

Rabbi Evan J. Krame