After a visit to Mexico City, I tried cooking Oaxacan cuisine. Oaxaca’s vegetarian and fish dishes are highly prized and easily adapted to the kosher palate. I frequented a Latin market near my office to find fresh green tomatillos, chilacayota squash, and sweet lemons. 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 a moral duty to return lost items. In ancient Israel, you might not have a wallet but 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 June 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. He replied that 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. I was having doubts and regrets about the burdens of the criminal process. From my friends, the advice was 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 be 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. Is being a good citizen worth the effort and risk? Rightfully, the law sustains a civil society. Emotionally, legal processes negatively impact both the accuser and the accused.

And then there’s Jewish law. As the Torah directs us to return lost items, I expect as much from others. Others are not compelled by altruism but are guided by their needs or desires.

I entered the courtroom last week and approached the woman and her attorney. I wanted to put 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

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

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

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

Nazis have played a prominent role in Mel Brooks’ comedy. His first major film, “The Producers” was a comedy movie about the Nazis. He said that making fun of Hitler robbed the despot of his power and symbolism. While humor is one way to take down formidable and evil people, comedy can also erode our respect for all political leadership.

Of course, humor is as old as the Torah. In Parshat Balak, the pagan prophet Balaam was twice called by King Balak of Moab to curse the Hebrews. Balaam asks God’s guidance (yes, our God) and God told Balaam not to go. With the arrival of a second request from Balak, the prophet asked again—this time God permits Balaam. Perhaps God was being facetious, and Balaam couldn’t navigate the mixed messages. He saddled up his ass to attend to Balak. Teasing Balaam, God sends an angel to block his way. The donkey sees the angel, but Balaam does not. Biblical hilarity ensues when the donkey effectively calls Balaam an ass. When the humor ended and Balaam stood at Balak’s side, Balaam offered a blessing for the Hebrews.

Making fun of political and religious leaders is a comedy staple these days. The more horrible the leader, the greater the resource for entertainment. Late-night television hosts skew politicians, both the ones they favor and despise.  A pre-pandemic study by the Pew Research Center found that 61% of young people regularly or sometimes learn campaign information from comedy television. Many have shifted to TikTok where news reporting is often in the form of humorous skits and satire.

The most potent humor is based on facts, reimagined or refashioned with absurdity. As a manner of political discourse, these jokes rob powerful people of their authority and respect. Yet, political satire often gives way to comic cruelty.

How can we understand humor in a time of existential threats? Comedic relief is an off-ramp for the tension we feel watching the news. Humor is a way of deflating the stress expanding inside us. Comedy is a necessary tool to cope with a seemingly insane world.

At the same time, comedy debases political candidates and world leaders. Political humor reinforces stereotypes such as ageism and sexism. Jokes about our leaders, hone in on character flaws. By focusing on the faults of some, comedy may be damaging our shared perceptions of all elected officials.

Comedy has its place in soothing our psyche wounded by despots and ill-suited politicians. Yet, comedy should not be the only source of information and the sole expression of political yearnings. When we stop laughing about today’s political leaders, we must restore the blessings of balance, truth, and respect in our country.

Rabbi Evan J. Krame