“Do not follow the majority to do wrong”

 לֹֽא־תִהְיֶ֥ה אַחֲרֵֽי־רַבִּ֖ים לְרָעֹ֑ת ׃  Exodus 23:2

Perhaps you remember hearing a parent warn you about the dangers of following the crowd. Children ask to  engage in an activity because “everybody else is doing it!” In response, parents ask: “If everyone jumps off a cliff, will you follow them?” Such warnings teach us that blindly following others can lead to disaster.

This principle is deeply embedded in Jewish thought and law. The Torah explicitly commands: “You shall not follow a multitude to do evil” (Exodus 23:2). This verse underscores a fundamental Jewish value—moral integrity over societal pressure. It is human nature to seek acceptance and avoid standing out, but Judaism teaches that true righteousness requires standing firm against wrongdoing, even when the majority goes astray.

The Jewish people are a nation that stands apart, often at great cost. The Torah refers to Abraham, the first patriarch, as “HaIvri,” meaning “the one who crossed over.” Abraham rejected the prevailing idolatry of his time and followed the path of ethical monotheism. He did not conform to the norms of his society; instead, he set a new moral standard.

Jewish history is replete with examples of individuals who refused to follow the crowd when it led away from righteousness. The prophets of Israel, from Elijah to Jeremiah, stood against corruption and moral decay, calling the people back to justice and truth, despite facing hostility and persecution.

The Talmud further reinforces the idea that truth is not determined by majority opinion. There was a debate between Rabbi Eliezer against many sages.  A heavenly voice declared Rabbi Eliezer correct, yet the majority ruled against him. Rabbi Joshua stood firm and declared, “It is not in heaven” (Bava Metzia 59b), emphasizing that Jewish law follows rigorous intellectual and moral debate rather than supernatural signs or popular opinion.

Modern psychology confirms the power of conformity, showing that people often adopt the views and behaviors of their peers, whether or not they align with their values. Yet Judaism encourages critical thinking and moral independence. The Jewish tradition of questioning, from the Passover Seder to yeshiva study, instills the courage to challenge norms and seek deeper truth.

Albert Einstein, a Jewish thinker and scientist, once said, “The person who follows the crowd will usually go no further than the crowd. The person who walks alone is likely to find himself in places no one has ever seen before.” This echoes the Jewish ideal of standing for truth, even in isolation.

Living by Jewish values often means resisting societal trends that conflict with Torah principles. Whether in matters of ethics, spirituality, or daily conduct, what is popular is not necessarily what is right. As Rabbi Israel Salanter, the founder of the Musar movement, taught, “The loudest voice is not always the voice of truth.”

We need to hear the message of Judaism at this time. Stand up for what you believe, even if you stand alone and against the crowd. In a world that pressures individuals to conform, the Torah says: do not follow the crowd to do evil. Instead, seek justice, pursue truth, and have the courage to stand firm in your convictions, even when standing alone.

Rabbi Evan J. Krame

וִידֵ֤י מֹשֶׁה֙ כְּבֵדִ֔ים וַיִּקְחוּ־אֶ֛בֶן וַיָּשִׂ֥ימוּ תַחְתָּ֖יו וַיֵּ֣שֶׁב עָלֶ֑יהָ וְאַהֲרֹ֨ן וְח֜וּר תָּֽמְכ֣וּ בְיָדָ֗יו מִזֶּ֤ה אֶחָד֙ וּמִזֶּ֣ה אֶחָ֔ד וַיְהִ֥י יָדָ֛יו אֱמוּנָ֖ה עַד־בֹּ֥א הַשָּֽׁמֶשׁ׃

“But Moses’ hands grew heavy; so they took a stone and put it under him and he sat on it, while Aaron and Hur, one on each side, supported his hands; thus his hands remained steady until the sun had set.” Exodus 17:12

Sometimes, I find myself in the Torah. It helps that my name, Evan, is the Hebrew word for “stone.” Stones are versatile symbols in scripture—sometimes marking graves, other times serving as makeshift pillows. In this passage, the stone becomes a seat, enabling Moses to provide leadership despite his fatigue. I am a rock.

Among the many models of leadership offered in the Torah, the scene in Exodus 17:12 stands out for its emphasis on collaboration. As the Hebrews faced battle against the Amalekites, victory hinged on Moses’ raised hands. When he grew weary, a stone was placed under him so he could sit, and Aaron and Hur supported his hands. This collective effort ensured that Moses’ hands remained steady until the battle was won.

How do I see myself in this story? As an Evan—a stone—I imagine myself as the simple, likely rough seat that Moses relied upon. I am neither a throne nor a luxurious cushion but a humble, solid support found on a wilderness hillside. And yet, in this moment, I am one of the heroes of the story. The stone, though unsung, is essential to the collaboration that leads to victory.

This episode teaches a profound lesson about leadership: it is a shared endeavor. Success, whether in battles or in life’s smaller struggles, requires the combined efforts of many. Everyone has a role to play. We can choose to be supportive of our leaders, offering strength and steadiness, or we can be mere bystanders—silent as stones. Yet it is crucial to recognize that not all leaders are worthy of support. The Amalekites had leaders too, but their legacy is one of brutality and defeat.

Alternatively, this story reminds us that providing quiet and steadfast support to others is a holy act. It is not always glamorous, and it may go unnoticed. But without the foundation of those who show up reliably and selflessly, families and communities would falter. When we feel unappreciated for our efforts, the Torah gently reminds us that good outcomes often depend on the strong, silent support of those who form the bedrock of our lives.

The model of support here is as humble as a stone and as solid as a rock. While the titular leader may receive the praise, equal appreciation is due to the footholds and boulders upon which they rest. As the stone, we may not always receive gratitude, but the holiness of helping is its own reward—a key element in sustaining a better, more compassionate world.

Rabbi Evan J. Krame

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