I need a little more inspiration to get me through these High Holidays. Focusing only on my failings and foibles feels precariously narrow-minded. The Days of Awe are more awesome when we focus on the purpose of change. To truly improve, my inner work should serve something greater than myself.  The challenge is to embrace my status as an agent of God.

In the very last words, the Torah describes Moses as an agent of God, an Ish Elohim ( אִ֥ישׁ הָאֱלֹהִ֖ים ).  As an agent of God, Moses was humble. From shepherd of sheep to the nation’s leader, Moses served, focusing on grander goals and holy purposes. When Moses’ anguish got in the way of his leadership, his agency had to end.

Throughout Jewish history, seemingly ordinary people served as God’s agents. Joseph went from the pit to the platform of Egyptian power, ultimately saving his family from famine. Esther saved the Jewish people, challenging a King and confronting evil Haman to rescue the Jews from destruction.

People can still be agents of deliverance. I think of people like Marian Wright Edelman and the Children’s Defense Fund, or Bono and his commitment to end poverty on a global scale. Perhaps, the greatest agent of God in the twentieth century was Martin Luther King, Jr. In his final speech (reminiscent of Moses) Dr. King, stated “I just want to do God’s will.  And he’s allowed me to go to the mountain.  And I’ve looked over, and I’ve seen the Promised Land!  I may not get there with you, but I want you to know that we, as a people, will get to the promised land.” All of them came from relatively humble beginnings.

Each of us can serve as God’s agents in the world today. We don’t have to be big-name rock stars, lawyers, writers, or activists to be used by God. All we need is a willingness to undertake two pursuits. We have to be willing to serve as agents for a godly purpose. And we have to align with values of caring, compassion, decency and dignity.

When God chose Moses, he was an ordinary shepherd.  All he did was respond to the call of God. God provided the way for Moses to deliver the Hebrews. That is what God asks of us. The shofar’s fragmented blasts remind us that this world is broken and our hearts are breaking. The Torah reminds us that most ordinary of people might just be the agent of change that delivers a better world.

Rabbi Evan J. Krame

כִּֽי־קָר֥וֹב אֵלֶ֛יךָ הַדָּבָ֖ר מְאֹ֑ד בְּפִ֥יךָ וּבִֽלְבָבְךָ֖ לַעֲשֹׂתֽוֹ׃

“No, the thing is very close to you, in your mouth and in your heart, to observe it”
Leviticus 30:14

Artificial Intelligence can design, simulate, and recreate history with remarkable precision. AI-driven platforms offer immersive experiences that provide deep insights into the past. While AI holds promise for education, entertainment, and research, bridging the gap between historical knowledge and spiritual growth remains a challenge.

In contrast, Judaism offers a profound way of engaging with historical experiences without the aid of technology. Through rituals and traditions, Judaism creates a form of spiritual déjà vu, allowing individuals to relive historical events as if they had experienced them firsthand. This approach goes beyond merely imagining historical events; it integrates them into daily and yearly practices in a deeply meaningful way.

For example, in Parshat Ki Tavo, Moses instructs the people to remember the miracles they witnessed. Yet, we know that the generation that witnessed these miracles had died in the desert. For the generations that followed, the liberation from Egypt is not just a historical fact but a living, resonant experience. Through rituals and teachings, each person can feel as though they are reliving the experience. As Moses would say, one only needs the will to see and hear.

Judaism effectively imparts its core values through shared experiences. Teaching the value of freedom through the lived experience of liberation is central to Jewish practice. At the Passover seder, for instance, we proclaim: “You were slaves and now you are free.” This ritual not only commemorates freedom but also reinforces our desire for it.

Moreover, Judaism emphasizes the value of freedom weekly. On Friday nights, the blessing over the wine recalls the Exodus, a reminder that freedom is an integral part of Shabbat. The act of resting on Shabbat—taking time off from work—symbolizes freedom and transformation. No AI or computer program can replicate this lived experience of liberation.

From a purely historical perspective, claiming personal experience of past events might seem implausible. However, the impact of historical resonance extends beyond mere facts. Psychologically and spiritually, experiencing and reenacting key values, like freedom, provides a profound reinforcement of these principles.

In this way, Judaism’s approach to historical experience offers a unique model of integrating past events into the present, enriching our understanding and appreciation of essential values.

Rabbi Evan J. Krame

After a visit to Mexico, I tried cooking Oaxacan cuisine. Vegetarian and fish dishes are at the core of Oaxacan meals. A Latin market near my office has the freshest green tomatillos, chochoynes squash, and sweet lemons I need. Unfortunately, during one shopping trip, I dropped my wallet. The story of the loss and recovery of my wallet echoes the Torah portion Ki Teitze.

The Torah offers moral duty as a response to lost items. In ancient Israel, the currency might be your livestock – sheep or goats. The Torah offers “If you see your fellow Israelite’s ox or sheep gone astray, do not ignore it; you must take it back to your peer.” Deuteronomy 22:2. Currency has changed form, but the rule of retrieval and delivery remains.

After a recent visit to the Super Mercado, I dropped my wallet in the parking lot. Just after I pulled away, I realized the error. A few minutes later, I returned. Unfortunately, the wallet was not on the ground where I had parked. I approached a security guard at the doorway and asked if someone had turned in a wallet. No wallet was found, but there was a videotape we could view.

In the video, we saw a woman in a car next to my prior parking space, step out of her car, take the wallet, and drive away. It was clear from the videotape that this woman chose to take my wallet rather than turn it over to the store’s security guard. Accordingly, the guard called the police who arrived promptly. From the video, the police pulled the license plate number, found the associated address, and visited the woman’s home. She denied having the wallet. The police returned to the store, where I was waiting, and asked if I wanted to press charges. I did.

As the hearing date approached, I turned to friends for their perspective. Yet, most of the friends I consulted urged me to drop the charges. Some called on me to be compassionate as this woman might acquire a criminal record impeding her future job prospects or banking needs. Others advised that the criminal processes were a burden I should abandon. One person suggested that I could endangering myself by pressing the matter. Was I better off putting the episode behind me rather than appearing in Court?

I’m most curious about the tension between the rule of law and the reality of how legal processes affect us. Upholding the rule of law is complicated. Rightfully, the law sustains a civil society. Emotionally, legal processes negatively impact both the accuser and the accused.

And then there’s Jewish law. The Torah I follow directs us to return lost items. I expect as much from others. But needs or desires guide some people, not the law.

I attended the hearing last week and approached the woman and her attorney. I advised that I was interested in putting the episode behind all of us. In my mind, I would have settled for an apology. Her attorney quickly offered the return of $300. I accepted the offer, and we advised the state’s attorney of our agreement. I added that I did not want the woman to have a criminal record. The state’s attorney said she appreciated my kindness and would consider that when presenting her ultimate recommendation.

My story of loss and recovery awaits a final disposition from the Court. My moral sense, guided by the Torah, is firm. However, my appreciation for nuance and sense of compassion are informed by real-life experiences like losing a wallet in the parking lot of a Super Mercado.

Rabbi Evan J. Krame

Autocrats and their minions rule five dozen countries today. What is surprising to me is that most were elected to govern. Judicious and freedom-loving people are baffled by the eagerness to be governed by a strongman. Perhaps, there is no surprise as that impulse to give away power to a dictator is as old as the Torah.

At the precipice of entering the Promised Land, Moses warns the people about giving power to a king.

כִּֽי־תָבֹ֣א אֶל־הָאָ֗רֶץ אֲשֶׁ֨ר יְהֹוָ֤ה אֱלֹהֶ֙יךָ֙ נֹתֵ֣ן לָ֔ךְ וִֽירִשְׁתָּ֖הּ וְיָשַׁ֣בְתָּה בָּ֑הּ וְאָמַרְתָּ֗ אָשִׂ֤ימָה עָלַי֙ מֶ֔לֶךְ כְּכׇל־הַגּוֹיִ֖ם אֲשֶׁ֥ר סְבִיבֹתָֽי׃

“If, after you have entered the land that your God יהוה has assigned to you, and taken possession of it and settled in it, you decide, “I will set a king over me, as do all the nations about me,”  Deut. 17:14

Notice the subtlety revealed by the language. While addressing the nation, Moses notes that individuals will decide to have a king. This warning reminds us that individuals are complicit in delivering power to a ruler, just as the Germans elected Hitler. Subsequently, in history, dozens of dictators have used the electoral system to take power.

The Torah sets limits on the kind of person who should serve as king. The King should not have too many horses (wealth) or too many wives (greed and lust).  Rather, the King should keep a copy of the Torah at their side. “Thus he will not act haughtily toward his fellows or deviate from the Instruction to the right or to the left, to the end that he and his descendants may reign long in the midst of Israel.”

Of course, Solomon, the third king to rule, had a surfeit of both horses and wives. Both his wisdom and hubris were on full display. Perhaps it is also a character trait of those who would be rulers to consolidate and even abuse power.

While the Hebrew Kings were born to their station as descendants of David, modern autocrats most often pursue power through electoral processes. It has happened in Hungary, Egypt, Venezuela, Turkey, Pakistan, Malaysia and Nigeria. Perhaps anyone who pursues power should be suspect. In order to establish a foothold, they manufacture crises to legitimize their rule. Then, these autocrats subvert democracy by weaponizing their public support. According to Alexander Matovksi, “By mimicking democracy – allowing multiparty elections, oppositions and somewhat free markets and media – they [keep] authoritarianism alive in most places across the world.” The electoral process should serve as a check on the impertinence and even despotic nature of some politicians. A free press questions their motives. Campaign speeches reveal their personalities. And a reported history of public service portrays their skills.

Once again, the Torah is a great predictor of our times. Some people living in a blessed land like the United States are willing to elect a self-styled King. The Torah warns us this time of year, corresponding to campaign season, that we should not give power to despotic rulers.

Rabbi Evan J. Krame

I believe that there is indeed a perfect wedding gift for a Jewish couple. It doesn’t come from Tiffany’s, nor does it sparkle in a display case. This gift has the profound power to transform your life: a mezuzah made from broken shards of glass from the wedding ceremony.

Weddings are profound liminal moments. They represent a transition from individual identity to a shared existence, brimming with potential and deep significance. As the ceremony culminates in the breaking of the glass, the tradition serves as a poignant reminder of life’s fragility. This act is not meant to overshadow the joy of the occasion. Rather it deepens our appreciation of liminal and transformative moments.

Imagine capturing the essence of the wedding ceremony—the joy, the promise, the potential—grinding it into fragments, and then preserving those fragments as part of the mezuzah at the entrance to your home. The mezuzah greets you as you arrive and cautions you as you leave. This mezuzah becomes a symbol of the joy found in loving relationships. It is also a reminder of how relationships can fragment if we stray from what truly matters.

In Parshat Re’eh, Moses prepares the Israelites for their transition from desert wanderers to settlers of the promised land. “When your God יהוה brings you into the land that you are about to enter and possess, you shall pronounce the blessing at Mount Gerizim and the curse at Mount Ebal” (Deuteronomy 11:29). These mountains symbolize the mezuzot at the doorway of Canaan, marking the transition from displacement to settled life, with reminders of both fulfillment and consequence.

The experience at Mount Sinai was like a wedding between God and the Israelites, with the Ten Commandments as the ketubah and the mountain as the chuppah. Throughout their journey, the people tested their relationship with God—just as couples do in marriage. Despite arguments and rebellions, their shared goal remained: to settle in the land promised by God.

The bond between God and Israel has historically been strongest during periods of displacement. When Jews were oppressed, they were more tightly connected to their faith. In times of security and comfort, however, this bond often falters, lured by other values and distractions. In America, a mezuzah on our doorposts serves as a constant reminder of our values. As we navigate our daily lives, it helps us stay grounded and reconnect with our spiritual heritage.

The mystical significance of a mezuzah made from broken glass is profound. Isaac Luria, a sixteenth-century Jewish mystic, taught that God initially created vessels to contain Divine Light, but these vessels shattered because they could not hold the divine essence. The sparks of Light scattered in the shards formed the world as we know it. Humanity’s mission is to gather these scattered sparks and repair the broken world.

Creating a mezuzah from the broken shards from the glass-breaking ceremony at a wedding echoes this idea. It reminds us that even when life feels shattered, we have the potential to gather the pieces and make repairs. As Psalm 30:6 says, “Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning.” We need this reminder as we step out into the world and when we return home. The broken glass at a wedding symbolizes not destruction but the possibility of renewal and repair.

A mezuzah crafted from these broken shards embodies this powerful message. It transforms destruction into beauty and serves as a constant reminder that, even in imperfection, there is potential for repair and renewal. This is why a mezuzah made from the broken glass of a wedding is truly a perfect wedding gift.

Rabbi Evan J. Krame

Judaism has a constitution: the Torah. The fifth book of the Torah, Deuteronomy, outlines rights, privileges, proscriptions, and constraints, all aimed at creating a God-centric society. Like any constitution, adherence to these rules requires commitment from its followers. This might explain why this week’s Parsha, Eikev, commands us nine times to “keep” or “observe” God’s laws.

Deuteronomy also predicts disloyalty among the people. It anticipates that they will forget the commandments and disregard God’s laws. Testing boundaries is part of human nature. Outright rejection of the rules is anathema.

Some people take the Torah at face value without interpretation. They are called Karaites. Karaites remain in the Middle East, resisting change. Their numbers are few.

In contrast, modern Judaism adopted a radical reinterpretation of the Torah. Judaism had to adjust after the destruction of the Second Temple. The rabbis recorded and codified their interpretation of the Torah laws, to suit a world without a Temple and Judaism in diaspora.

Despite the repeated demands for observance in Parshat Eikev, some rules are impossible to follow. Others are too esoteric or repugnant. For example, we don’t stone a wayward child, turn red heifers into magical potions, or stone a man to death for failing to observe the Shabbat.

The values of the Torah, expressed in Parshat Eikev, include: “And now, O Israel, what does your God יהוה demand of you? Only this: to revere your God יהוה, to walk only in divine paths, to love and to serve your God יהוה with all your heart and soul, keeping God’s commandments and laws, which I enjoin upon you today, for your good.” This relationship with God forms the foundation of the Jewish Constitution, the rules of observance an extension of those values.

Progressive Judaism focuses its observance on upholding the values expressed in the Torah. The Torah instructs us dozens of times to be kind to strangers, feed the hungry, and care for orphans. These value-focused mitzvot appear far more frequently than any other law. The principles upon which many Jews focus their observance keep them walking in Divine paths, sometimes lacking the rigor of ritual practice, prayer, and community connections that should reinforce our devotion to the core principles that serve humanity.

On the other end of the spectrum, the ultra-Orthodox community adheres strictly to rabbinic interpretations, demanding rigorous observance. These rules endure because observant communities choose to abide by them and reinforce them. Observance through daily routine and community norms is elevated above the principles undergirding the laws. For instance, if the Torah commands us to keep the laws as a sign between our eyes, small black boxes with straps are donned each morning. As the Torah says not to boil a calf in its mother’s milk, the community has agreed to prohibit cheeseburgers and veal parmigiana. The traditional Jew focuses on observance of the rabbinic rule of law as the Divine path ultimately upholding the values of being merciful and just.

Parshat Eikev offers both a directive to follow God’s laws and a guide to creating a civil and caring society. That is the nature of a constitution, a pact governing a community to uphold and protect foundational values through sanctioned behaviors.

Americans face similar challenges with interpreting the Constitution. Should we be originalists, strictly interpreting the document in the context of its authorship, or uphold its values while adapting its principles to modern times? Unlike the Divine connection central to the Torah, some in the U.S. read a Christian nationalism into the Constitution, while others see the Constitution’s precepts as suggestions rather than obligations. Originalists claim to believe the Constitution is immutable through interpretation. Progressives advocate reinterpretation to reflect modern realities. In practice, neither approach suffices. To sustain a constitution requires deference to the original structure  complemented by elasticity for the future.

Ultimately, our approach to the Torah or the Constitution reflects our understanding of observance. The progressive view understands observance as elevating the values embedded in legal language. Meanwhile, the conservative view focuses observances on closely adhering to the text’s stated intent. In a healthy society, neither approach should prevail, and both should be honored.

Observance binds people together with a common purpose. We cannot remain strictly confined to ancient words nor dissolve society into individualized practices. The key to understanding our civilization lies in maintaining the sanctity of our constitutional obligations, both the plain meaning and the inherent values.

Rabbi Evan Krame

Jewish identity is more than having a Jewish grandmother. Being Jewish is sharing customs and traditions. Among those is a longing for Zion. Zion is more than a geographic destination. It is a safe place for wandering people and a spiritual homeland. Zion is an emanation of pride in being Jewish.

As we delve into the book of Deuteronomy, Moses desperately wants to enter the Promised Land, but God will only allow Moses to see it from a distance. From Moses’ situation, we learn that no single destination is ever the goal. Rather, the journeying toward a Promised Land is a perpetual exercise. Longing for Zion is a continuous voyage.

Israel is our Promised Land. The cities are miraculous. The people are resilient. The industries are transformative. I have regular contact with Israeli teachers, friends, and clients. Each of them is a beacon of hope for me that Israel will not merely endure but will light the way for other nations.

I did not just stumble upon my love of Israel. Zionism is part of my identity. My first ever trip on a plane was to Israel. Like Moses, I desperately long for the Promised Land. I dream about my next visit to Jerusalem. In my mind, I plan a family outing to the beautiful beach in Tel Aviv or to a restaurant in picturesque Zikhron Yaakov.

When I near the end of my traveling days, like Moses I will still dream of Zion. Israel is an expression of the hopefulness and endurance of being Jewish.

And just like Moses’ successor Joshua, there are battles ahead. How we comport ourselves, even in war, will determine the character of that Promised Land. Despite our disappointments, and even with our anguish, the Jewish soul always yearns for a safe place and a spiritual home.

Rabbi Evan J. Krame

In researching my family history, I discovered colorful if not disturbing aspects of my family’s history. This is no surprise. Stories of bad behavior fill Jewish history. These stories may change the way I remember family.

As we begin reading the fifth book of the Torah, Moses offers a recap of the travels through the wilderness. Moses’ report focuses mostly on the lapses of the Hebrews. He starts by describing the challenges of managing the Hebrews. Moses next recalls the episode of the spies when the people lacked faith in God, hesitating to conquer the inhabitants of Canaan. Because of their faithlessness, that generation perished in the wilderness. Toward the end of the 40-year sojourn, Moses waged military campaigns against various tribes in and around the Promised Land, resulting in a bloody and disheartening report.

I have often glossed over the difficult stories in the Torah about wars and the annihilation of populations. The text says this was God’s will, and our faith in God is mandated. These passages have been used to justify the idea that modern Israeli troops reclaiming our land, evicting hostile usurpers, and containing future threats are actions supported by Divine will.

For most of my life, the story of Israel was about immigration, battles, and miracles. More recently, a few Israeli historians have shared stories of disturbing Israeli aggression. Even as I learned the disturbing parts of Israeli history, my faith in an ascendant and triumphant Israel remained strong. If Israelis destroyed homes or killed Arabs, I believed these actions were in response to provocations. If Israelis wanted to live in their ancient lands, their rights were incontestable.

The current Israeli government and especially their response to the Gaza war has shaken my relationship to Israel. No one with Moses’ piety lives to tell us God’s will. No leader with Joshua’s conviction leads the troops. Instead, Israel is led by faithless, felonious, prejudiced, and power-hungry individuals.

We are familiar with the difficulties of creating and sustaining the modern Israeli state. Just as the Torah shares rebellions and cowardice, the full story of Israel includes details of displacements, massacres, and assassinations conducted in the name of maintaining Israel’s sovereignty and safety. Accordingly, Israel’s detractors characterize the salvation of Jews from Europe and Arab lands as colonization. Israel, a miracle of blooming deserts and a start-up nation draws greater attention for its inscrutable military intelligence and use of advanced weaponry. A nation in the legacy of the shepherd David may be remembered as militaristic as Goliath.

I now struggle to read Deuteronomy’s opening chapters as a positive reflection on our people’s wanderings, just as I find it challenging to read about Israel and remain resolute in my Zionist commitment to a Jewish homeland. The craven leadership and oppression of Palestinians is not the history I want added to our Jewish family’s legacy. While every Jewish family has saints and sinners, heroes and villains, I fear that Israel’s militant hardliners are branding our entire Jewish family in the 21st century.

Rabbi Evan J. Krame

A father rushing to get his children to school on time hurried them into the family van. After crossing through intersections and only seeing green traffic lights the father relaxed a little. Then they reached a railroad crossing just as the gates began to lower. As a long slow freight train passed in front, the father banged on the dashboard and cursed under his breath. The children asked, “Dad, isn’t it wonderful to stop and count the train cars pass by?” The story begs us to ask ourselves how we mark the stops along the way.

Torah recounts the 42 places the Hebrews stopped on the way from Sinai to the Negev to the steppes of Moab. (Bamidbar (Numbers) 33). As Torah wastes no words, we might wonder about the purpose of mentioning these 42 obscure locations. The verses tell us that life is not a slog but an enticement to appreciate the stops along the way.

Midrash Tanchuma explains these verses with a parable of a king and his son who were traveling far from home when the prince got ill. Their journey home was difficult and slow. After the son recovered at home, the father recalled each stop along the way. The King recalled when the son had a fever and the King wiped his forehead, how the son ached and the King cradled him, and where the son was too tired to travel, and the King sat vigil. The caring parent-child relationship defines the journey. The parable teaches that God, like the king, steadfastly accompanied the Hebrew people during the many challenges of their journey to the promised land.

I understand the story as a lesson on the godliness of accompanying another person. In Judaism, deeds of kindness are without limit. From attending to a bride to digging a grave, Judaism emphasizes performing benevolent acts. We emphasize ways of accompanying other people at the stops on their life’s journey. Yet, our tradition asks a bit more of us than merely performing kindnesses.

Recall how Abraham greeted three travelers at his tent. He anticipated no reward. Yet he treated them with great reverence. The Jewish religion assumes we will act kindly so the tradition emphasizes the way we accompany others on their journeys. We can even be Godly, not just helpful but fully present. As the psalmist says, “When one calls on Me, I will answer them; I will be with them in distress; I will rescue them and make them honored.” Psalm 91:15. Not everyone can be like Abraham, readily welcoming strangers. Once our help is sought, we should not only assist with physical action but accompany with honor and compassion.

In each life, there will be many stops along the way. Some will be challenging or painful. Other stops may be small annoyances, like a slow train impeding our passage. Having people to accompany us through the stops and intersections we suffer is a blessing. Perhaps those who accompany us at those stops, will help us to refocus our attitude from discontent to wonder, especially if the people we help are the ones who help us to discover equanimity.

Moreover, when you are helpful in a most considerate way, you demonstrate how you hope to be supported at the stops on your life’s journey.  We don’t help others for any particular reward, but our actions are likely to accrue blessings for us as well. And by focusing our energy on how we accompany others, we can learn to better appreciate the stops along our way.

Rabbi Evan J. Krame