Renewing Freedom Seder

Renewing Freedom Seder

(A song of welcome framing the event)

Circle ’round for freedom, Circle ’round for peace;

For all of us imprisoned, Circle for release.

Circle for the planet, Circle for each soul

For the children of our children, Keep the circle whole.

— Linda Hirschhorn

 

Seder: We call this a Passover Seder.  Seder means ORDER. This is the order:

Kadesh, Holiness

Urechatz, Washing

Karpas, New Growth

Yachatz, The Bread of Brokenness

Magid, Story

Rachetza, Washing

Motzi Matzah, The Bread of Freedom

Maror, Bitterness

Korech, Combining the bitter with sweet

Shulchan Orech, Meal

Tzafoon, Redemption

Barech, Blessing

Hallel, Praise

Nirtzah, Closing

Lighting Candles   We are the generation that stands between the fires. Behind us is the blaze of slavery and the smoke of indifference. Fires burned from the shacks for slaves on plantations and smoke leapt from the chimneys of Auschwitz.

Before us is the nightmare of fire, scorching our planet, burning down our democratic institutions. In the glare of gunfire from illegal weapons killing our children. In the burning anger of hatred and bigotry. It is our task to contain the fire. To transform the fire from an all-consuming blaze, into the source of light in which we see each other; each of us is different, all made in the image of God, and all worthy of a safe and healthy planet.

We light these candles, this flame, to see more clearly. That this earth and its people shall not be consumed by the fires. We light this flame to see more clearly the rainbow in our many-colored faces. Baruch Atah Adonai Elohainu Melech Haolam, Asher Kidshanu b’mitzvotav, vitzivanu, l’hadlik ner shel Pesach. Blessed are you, Adonai our god, Breathing Spirit of the Universe, who gives us light that we may become a light for peace and freedom and healing for all people and our planet.

* * * *

The traditional blessing for a holiday, or a special event is Baruch Atah Adonai Elohainu Melech Haolam, Shehecheyanu, V’keeyemanu V’higeeanu Lazman Hazeh. Blessed are you, Lord our God, Creater of the Universe, who has breathed life into us, lifted us up and carried us to this moment.

Seder Plates

We have two seder plates. The first follows the Jewish tradition; an egg for new life, greens for springtime, bitter herbs recalling the bitterness of slavery, Charoset mixture of nuts and apples mixed to look like the mortar used by slaves in building for Pharaoh and a bone from the Paschal lamb that was offered as sacrifice.

Today we also offer chef, author, Jewish man of color, and teacher Michael Twitty’s Afro-American Seder Plate, with foods that recall slavery in America; an egg for rebirth, with the upcoming easter holiday, a cornbread flat and pressed down, greens as a traditional health food for slaves, yams a staple of the African diet, chicken bones as slaves were only allowed to keep chickens, hot peppers for the sting of the master’s lash, a mixture of pecans and molasses, foods available to the slaves, and the orange which is a sphere showing the perfection of inclusion.

Kadesh/Sanctification [Pour a cup of grape juice.]

At a Passover Seder, four cups of wine are offered, representing the four ways God brought the children of Israel out of Egypt. For this seder, we focus on the transformation of slaves into free people. Today we will drink one cup of wine to honor four stages on the path to liberation. These cups are 1) becoming aware of oppression, 2) opposing oppression 3) imagining alternatives, and 4) accepting personal and communal responsibility to act.

Baruch Atah Adonai Elohainu Melekh Haolam, Borei Pri Hagafen.

Blessed are you, Ruler of the universe, creator of the fruit of the vine.

Urechatz / Washing Hands – (The first time)

We wash hands but do not say a blessing. At this point, we might not yet be ready to bless God for the cleansing benefits of water, while we have not yet escaped slavery and reached freedom in the dry desert. We symbolically wash hands. And then we offer this poem.

Blessed be the works of Your hands, O Holy One.

Blessed be the hands that have touched life.

Blessed be the hands that have nurtured creativity.

Blessed be the hands that have held pain.

Blessed be the hands that have embraced with passion.

Blessed be the hands that have tended gardens.

Blessed be the hands that have closed in anger.

Blessed be the hands that have planted new seeds.

Blessed be the hands that have harvested ripe fields.

Blessed be the hands that have cleaned, washed, mopped, scrubbed.

Blessed be the hands that have become knotty with age.

Blessed be the hands that are wrinkled and scarred from doing justice.

Marian Wright Edelman

Yachatz – This is the bread of brokenness, symbolizing the affliction of slavery. We break the bread and separate one part away from our table. [Someone lifts a sheet of matzah, breaks it in half, places it in an envelope and removes it from the room].

Maggid – The story of slavery and freedom is now told.

The traditional seder begins with four questions. These questions are to provoke discussion and gain insight. For today, we have four new questions. Select one of the four, turn to your neighbor and offer your thoughts. The four questions we ask today are these:

Why is this seder different from all other Passover seders?

How do we connect our lives with the bitterness of oppression, cruelty and servitude?

Why should we engage in these rituals, when there is so much work to be done?

Why do we go home to comfort, reclining in our contentment, while others are in peril?

God secured freedom for the Hebrews through a series of miraculous plagues. Turn to a person near you. What is a plague of the modern world that keep people enslaved?  How will you commit yourself to not just see these plagues but also repair this brokenness?

The Story will continue in song. We begin with Moses confronting Pharaoh. We continue with the liberation through the sea. We trek through the desert, not knowing where our journey will end. And as always, we must keep our eyes on the prize!

Go Down Moses

When Israel was in Egypt’s land, Let My people go; Oppressed so hard they could not stand, Let My people go; Go down, Moses, way down in Egypt’s land, Tell old Pharaoh: Let My people go!

The pillar of cloud shall clear the way, Let My people go; A fire by night, a shade by day, Let My people go. Go down, Moses, way down in Egypt’s land, Tell old Pharaoh: Let My people go!

As Israel stood by the water-side, Let My people go; At God’s command it did divide, Let My people go. Go down, Moses, way down in Egypt’s land, Tell old Pharaoh: Let My people go!

When they had reached the other shore, Let My people go; They sang the song of freedom o’er, Let My people go. Go down, Moses, way down in Egypt’s land, Tell old Pharaoh: Let My people go!

Wade in the Water

Wade in the water, Wade in the water, children,

Wade in the water, God’s a-going to trouble the water

See that host all dressed in white, God’s a-going to trouble the water

The leader looks like the Israelite, God’s a-going to trouble the water

See that band all dressed in red, God’s a-going to trouble the water

Looks like the band that Moses led, God’s a-going to trouble the water

Eyes on the Prize

Paul and Silas, bound in jail

Had no money for to go their bail

Keep your eyes on the prize, hold on

Hold on, (hold on), hold on, (hold on)

Keep your eyes on the prize, hold on!

Hold on, (hold on), hold on, (hold on)

Keep your eyes on the prize, hold on!

 

Paul and Silas began to shout

Doors popped open, and they walked out

Keep your eyes on the prize, hold on

Hold on, (hold on), hold on, (hold on)

Keep your eyes on the prize, hold on!

 

Well, the only chains that we can stand

Are the chains of hand in hand

Keep your eyes on the prize, hold on

Got my hand on the freedom plow

Wouldn’t take nothing for my journey now

Keep your eyes on the prize, hold on!

Hold on, (hold on), hold on, (hold on)

Keep your eyes on the prize, hold on! (repeat)

* * *

We must tell the story of slavery, but that is only the beginning. We must expand upon the story to reveal a vision of a better world of freedom and justice for all. In this way, the quest to end oppression continues. We begin that process with gratitude and praise.

When the Jews ascended from the Sea, they were grateful and raised their voices to offer songs of praise. After seeing God’s miracle, what else could the people do but turn to God in praise and song.  That love of God is expressed in the Song of the Sea,

Mi Chamocha B’aylim Adonai, Mi Kamocha Nedar Bakodesh,

(Who is like you God, Revered in holiness and praise)

Norah Tehilot Oseh Feleh, (repeat)

(Wonderous are the miracles you made).

 

Won’t you help me sing, these songs of freedom,

all I ever have, Redemption Song.  Redemption Song (B. Marley)

 

Dayenu – The most popular of the traditional Passover Seder songs comes just after the story of freedom is told. It is a song of enoughness. As we acknowledge the gifts God has given we are asked to hold a feeling of enoughness, to affirm the blessings we received and  for a moment of appreciation, ask for nothing more. The chorus is one word – Dayenu, it is enough for us.

Ilu ho-tsi, ho-tsi-a-nu, Ho-tsi-anu mi-Mitz-ra-yim Ho-tsi-anu mi-Mitz-ra-yim Da-ye-nu! (Had we not been taken out of Egypt, it would’ve been enough!)

Chorus: Da-da-ye-nu, Da-da-ye-nu, Da-da-ye-nu, Da-da-ye-nu, Da-ye-nu Da-ye-nu

Ilu na-tan, na-tan la-nu, Na-tan la-nu et-ha-Sha-bat, Na-tan la-nu et-ha-Sha-bat, Da-ye-nu! (Had we not been given the Sabbath, it would have been enough!)

(Chorus)

Ilu na-tan, na-tan la-nu, Na-tan la-nu et-ha-To-rah, Na-tan la-nu et-ha-To-rah, Da-ye-nu! (Had we not been sent the Bible, it would have been enough!)

(Chorus)

Washing with a Blessing

Washing is a health act – We wash our hands as an act of cleanliness and prevention of disease. We wash not only for our own healthcare but with respect for the people around us. As we all learned in this decade, the best first-line defenses against most viruses are the ones that Grandma and common sense taught us, hand washing.

Washing is a spiritual act – When the angels visited Abraham and announced the birth of his son Isaac, Abraham greeted them by washing their feet, symbolic of their status as honored guests. Jesus washed the feet of his disciples during the Last Supper as a demonstration of humility and service.

These acts of washing are marked with a blessing. (One person holds out hands for washing while the other pours water over them three times.)

Baruch Atah Adonai, Eloheinu Melekh Haolam, Al Netilat Yadaim.

Blessed are you source of life, as we lift our hands in blessing.

Matza  “Why do we eat this pressed-down bread?“ Because it begins as the bread of affliction, the bread of a pressed-down people—but becomes the bread of Freedom when we move toward resistance. We are so consumed with freedom that we rush to bake the bread without time for the bread to rise, We lived then and now we live, as Dr. King taught, in the “fierce urgency of NOW!”—swiftly moving toward our liberation.”

(The leader breaks off a piece of the matzah)

Why do we break the matzah? Because the world is a broken place. And why do we share the matzah? Because if we do not share it, it remains the bread of affliction; when we share it, it becomes the bread of freedom. This year we share in a world of greed and war, but we pledge to work together so that we can share and celebrate in a world of justice and peace.

Barukh Atah Adonai, Elohainu Melech Haolam, HaMotzi Lechem Min Haaretz.

Blessed are You, Breathing-Spirit of the world, who through sun and soil, seed and human toil, brings forth this bread from the Earth. The leader eats some matzah

Maror [The leader takes a piece of raw horseradish] This bitter herb recalls the bitterness of slavery. The legacy of slavery is the impact on us today, systemic racism, economic inequality and social injustice. Yet, an estimated 50 million people still live in slavery around the world. Dehumanized, losing their identity, stripped of humanity, reduced to poverty, denied basic rights of self-determination and agency, families torn apart, children separated from parents, spouses separated from spouses, no rights to own property, to marry, living in fear of violence and abuse. The bitter herbs of Passover remind us of enslavement of the past, the ongoing suffering today, and that slavery yet endures.

Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheynu Melech haolam, Asher kidishanu b’mitzvotav, vtzivanu Al a-chilat maror.

“Blessed are You, Creator of the Universe, Who brings forth the fruit of the earth — without the bitter we might never appreciate the sweet.” [Leader eats a chunk of horseradish.]

We join together at this season of Passover and Easter to connect our separate stories in the hope of telling new stories, stories of freedom, stories of dignity, and stories of justice. We must carry on. We begin this process on this very day. Our telling cannot end today. We continue on this journey and pray that One Day all will be well, all will be safe, all will be free.

Closing Songs –

Woyaya

One Day

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Working Together Works

Working Together Works

Rabbi Evan J. Krame, March 9, 2025

There is a story of a young child working in the field of a family farm with their father, moving stones to clear the land for planting. The child attempts to move a stone far too heavy for even a single adult. The father asks, “Are you strong enough to move that stone?” The child hesitates, uncertain. Then the father asks, “Are you strong enough to ask for help so that we can move the stone together?”

The problems of this world are like great stones. No one can move them alone. But together, we can clear the land, making it fertile and fine.

Every day we can take part in holy work. God created the world in six days, but people have damaged this sacred earth. Our task is to create a better world.

And the most fundamental lesson of creation is this: we are all of God’s making. Every person, regardless of background or birth, is created in the image of God. No one is greater or lesser than another.

When we forget that truth—when any of us see ourselves as superior or more deserving than another—the fabric of society begins to unravel. That is when waters flood, and walls begin to buckle. That is when we find ourselves needing liberation from greediness and injustice.

Adam and Eve were sent from Eden with a divine challenge to engage in work, together. Their departure set humanity on its mission: work to improve the world.

The problems of today’s world are even more complex than in the days of Adam and Eve. Oppression, materialism, and pollution are all great stones we cannot move alone.  But together, in partnership, as a covenantal community, we can work to break down those stones, to pave the way to a better future.

Americans, for too long, have focused their work on building careers.  At this time, other urgent work must be done. We must address the issues of restoring what has been taken, redeeming what was lost, and creating peace where there had been strife.  That work begins by activating the compassion in each of us, often dormant, sometimes distracted by careers, technology, and greed.

How does the work begin?

First, with vision. We must refuse to look away. When I drove down Seven Locks Road, I saw your sign calling to me to help save this church. I pulled over. To begin the work, we must first use vision. See the need. Envision the future. Show up to be seen.

Next, we must listen. We must hear the voices within our community and across generations. I cannot fully know the depth of pain experienced by the members of this church. But I can listen. I can hear your stories of struggle and resilience, and I can learn. And when I heard your stories, I knew I could invite you to listen to mine. That is when we began working together, in holiness—rebuilding this church, strengthening this community, and renewing our shared vision for this nation.

We must work together

The work of repair cannot fall solely on any one person’s shoulders. It is our collective obligation to show up, to struggle, and to work together. We must right wrongs, uphold justice, and walk in God’s ways. As the Jewish tradition teaches, l’taken olam b’malchut Shaddai—WE repair the world not only as if it were God’s dominion but because it is God’s dominion.

For our work to be holy, it must be inclusive. The proof is here today: your work, and the work of those who support you, have built this sacred space—a place where all are welcome, wanted, and loved.

Many people today feel isolated. But when we embrace our obligations to one another, we replace isolation with solidarity. Working together is most critical in dark times, such as these, because our work has the power to drive out the darkness. There is no place where we cannot shine God’s light. As the Prophet Isaiah taught us, when you go through deep waters, God will be with you. When you go through rivers of difficulty you will not drown. Isaiah 43:2

Who will continue this work?

Courageous people—those who do not retreat behind closed doors but greet and meet their neighbors. The courageous people who are here today, building relationships and working for justice.

Determined people—who understand, in the words of the Talmud, that the work may be more than we can complete, but neither can we desist from it.

Righteous people—who heed the words of the Prophet Micah: “Do justice, love goodness, and walk humbly with God.” Justice work is holy work.

And we will succeed. How do I know? Because the Psalmist assures us: “When you eat the fruit of the labor of your hands, you shall be happy, and it shall be well with you.” (Psalm 128:2)

Seven Locks Road is not a one-way street. It connects your history and our future.

Here, in Potomac, Maryland, we have built a legacy from our intertwined histories. And here on Seven Locks Road, we have the four Churches and three synagogues standing side by side, bearing witness to the power of faith communities working in harmony. We worship differently, but our voices rise together. God’s presence dwells not just in your house of worship or mine but anywhere we invite the Divine presence by being good neighbors and working together.

Our understanding of God’s nature will change the way we work. For those who seek a caring God, the work will benefit people with grace and kindness.  For those who follow a God of harmony, our work creates neighborhoods where people can live together respectfully, gracefully, and peacefully. But as Eleanor Roosevelt said, “It isn’t enough to believe in peace, one must work at it.”

Our fates are interwoven. And our fortunes will be better as we share our values, hopes, and dreams for a just and compassionate nation. Even as you laid the foundation stone for this building, we are together laying the foundation for mutual respect, enduring trust, and deep faith—supporting the holy structures of this community. That work starts right here, in Maryland, in Potomac, on Seven Locks Road, in this church, where neighbors and friends, elders and children, gather to say: We have marched through the waters, we have crossed over the bridge, we have worked to build a better future—stronger, more beautiful than before.

We must keep our eyes, ears, and hearts open and continue the work.

There is no life without a task, no person without a talent,nno place without a fragment of God’s light waiting to be illuminated. No setting is without its potential for holiness. No moment is without its call.

It may take a lifetime—or longer—to fully embark on the work, but once we begin, we realize that all it ever took to start was the willingness to see and to listen.

As Moses saw the burning bush, as Abraham heard the Heavenly voice, so too does God call to us today. And the greatest response—the response of Moses, of Abraham, of all who hear the call—is simply in Hebrew the word hineni: Here I am. Ready to see the need. Ready to heed the call. Ready to begin the work of healing this world—together.

May the favor of the Lord, our God, be upon us; let the work of our hands prosper, Psalm 90:17

Olam chesed yivaneh, the Psalmist at Psalm 89 reminds us, that God’s steadfast love is forever. And from that place of love, we will build and rebuild this community, this country and this world.  I must build this world from love, you must build this world from love, and if we build this world from love, then God will build this world from love. . . .

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Standing in the Shoes of Civil Rights Witnesses

Standing in the Shoes of Civil Rights Witnesses

There is something haunting about a pair of empty shoes, especially children’s shoes when you know children have been murdered. I stood at the corner of Kelly Ingram Park in Birmingham, Alabama, looking at the sculpture that Elizabeth MacQueen built to memorialize the four young girls who were killed when the 16th Street Baptist Church was bombed in September 1963. My eye was drawn to a pair of empty shoes at the bottom of the sculpture.

I was there as part of a Civil Rights trip organized by Rabbi Evan Krame’s Jewish Studio and sponsored by the Jewish Federation of Greater Washington. Growing up, I had learned about racial injustice and the significance of the civil rights movement, but the personal connections formed on this trip brought forth increased empathy for the individuals and communities involved. When grappling with the pain of racism, antisemitism, or other means to disregard another’s humanity, it is sometimes necessary to hold onto an image. For me, the image was a pair of empty shoes.

The power of this trip was the opportunity to hear from those who could bear witness.

At the 16th Street Baptist Church, we heard from Rev. Carolyn McKinstry, who survived the bombing as a teenager. Four of her friends were chatting in a girls’ room when the bomb detonated; they all died. We followed in Rev. McKinstry’s footsteps as she showed us how she walked past the girls’ room and upstairs to the sanctuary where she found herself when the bomb blast ripped through the side of the church. As she talked, the four girls, Addie Mae Collins, Denise McNair, Carole Robertson, and Cynthia Wesley, became more distinct individuals. Rev McKinstry shared that she had also been present four months earlier at another significant point in history: the Children’s March. In May 1963, thousands of children attempted to walk from the 16th Street Baptist Church to downtown Birmingham.

As we stood in the church listening to Rev. McKinstry, it came into focus for me that it was children, her friends and classmates, who stood up against segregation, had fire hoses and police dogs turned on them, and went to jail. I had learned about these events, but hearing from someone who was there moved the learning from my head to my heart.

While it is impossible to walk in the shoes of the great civil rights leaders, seeing firsthand the locations where history happened was pivotal. Our visit to Selma provided the opportunity to walk across the Edmund Pettus Bridge, and even more remarkably, to hear from Joanne Bland, who was there on that “Bloody Sunday.” Bland was a child at the time and had a child’s view of what it meant to live in the segregated south. The right and power to vote was not lost on our group as the timing of the trip was less than a week after the most recent presidential election. The structural poverty we observed among the African American community, along with experiences that provided a deep dive into the dehumanizing experience of slavery, Jim Crow, and current incarceration rates was at times overwhelming. It was an emotional rollercoaster as we reflected on intractable aspects of continued injustice.

In Montgomery, we stepped back into history again when we met with Valda Harris. Living down the street from Martin Luther King, Jr’s parsonage, Valda Harris’ childhood was bookmarked by the Montgomery Bus Boycott when she was a child and the Freedom Riders when she was a teenager. In 1961, the Freedom Riders traveled through the south to test the Supreme Court ruling that outlawed segregation on interstate buses and terminals. When they disembarked in Montgomery, they were brutally attacked. Valda Harris’ home served as a safe house for the Freedom Riders as they spent several days regrouping and recovering. It was an unforgettable experience to be invited into this home and sit in the same rooms once host to John Lewis and the Freedom Riders.

Rev. Carolyn McKinstry, Joanne Bland, and Valda Harris share a common trait with the last remarkable women we met on our Civil Rights trip, Dr. Vonnetta West. Among other accomplishments, Dr. West is a consultant at the King Center in Atlanta and a scholar of nonviolence. All four women talked about the need for civil, respectful discourse and the imperative to see the humanity in each of us.

Dr. West brought us back to the present, and spoke about how protesters lose their cause when they “name call” and dehumanize those they disagree with. She talked about allyship and about how a visit to the Holocaust Museum affected her, and shared that it is impossible not to be moved when you stand before the exhibit with the shoes of so many who were murdered during the Holocaust.

As I listened to these women, I was reminded of the Judaic teaching that we are all created in the image of God, b’tzelem Elohim (Genesis 1:27). I see this idea reflected in the principles of nonviolence that mandate that we seek to defeat injustice, not people. It is imperative that we see humanity in each of us. Finding a connection to another’s lived experience is one way we create meaning and gain understanding.

Traveling with a Jewish group, I found myself thinking of both the Jewish values I grew up with and the trauma of the Holocaust. I am a first generation American on my father’s side. He and his family had to flee Nazi Germany, so the stories I learned about the injustice of treating a people as “less than” or inferior felt personal. When the holograms of two slave children at the Montgomery Legacy Museum cried out, “have you seen our mother,” I saw this echoed in photographs of Jewish children behind barbed wire in a concentration camp.

This trip allowed us to learn about the lived experiences of those who witnessed a cruel and dark period of our country’s history. Their stories were a gift. In Judaism, we are taught that we have an obligation to do our part for Tikkun Olam, to repair the world. We are taught, “it is not your duty to finish the work, but neither are you free to desist from it” (Pirkei Avot 2:16). The women we met shared with us what they and others did and continue to do. They challenged us to ask ourselves, what are we doing today with our freedom?

We need to recognize humanity in each of us. We need to increase our ability to have civil discourse even when we disagree. We need to listen and learn from each other so that increased understanding will strengthen allyship. Judaism teaches that we are required “to do justice, to love kindness, and to walk humbly” (Micah 6:8). While we may not be able to literally walk in each other’s shoes, when we are united, we can stand up against all forms of injustice.

Lisa Handelman is The Jewish Federation of Greater Washington’s Director of Inclusion & Belonging.

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The Height of Absurdity

Monty Python remains one of my favorite sources of comic relief. They find humor in absurdity. Python’s comedy is rooted in a futile search for significance in an incomprehensible universe. Have you seen their movie “The Meaning of Life,” utterly devoted to countenancing the absurd?

Take the Dead Parrot Sketch. A man walks into a pet shop, hoping to return a recently purchased “Norwegian Blue” parrot, which is clearly dead. The shopkeeper, however, refuses to acknowledge that fact. “It’s pining for the fjords,” “It’s resting,” “Stunned,”—his insistence that the dead parrot is alive borders on madness until the customer bangs the petrified bird on the countertop. To make matters worse, the shopkeeper offers the customer a slug in exchange.

The sketch hinges on a basic assumption: that we expect others to see things as they are—or at least as they appear. The pet store proprietor clings to being wrong. But we all know the absurdity of people whose reality ignores facts and disregards truth. This shift from reality transforms the dead parrot sketch into a surreal, comic experience.

Monty Python taps into our deep-seated desire for order and meaning in a universe that refuses to provide either order or meaning. Sometimes, the world seems like that pet shop, doubling down on lies. Your best response may be to bang a dead parrot on the countertop.

The Pythons look at the world and find indifference, chaos, and futility. But instead of despair, they point out how funny that can be.

Life doesn’t always make sense, and we should not pretend it does. So, who is tasked with pointing out life’s absurdities? For one, comedians. Not just the comedians, though—also the rabbis. Comedians would have you believe that absurdity is merely fodder for humor. The world continues being preposterous, just for laughs.

On the other hand, the rabbis witness absurdity and ask you to have belief and faith. For rabbis, it’s not the absurdity of the world that matters, but rather how we respond.

Albert Camus, author of The Stranger, rebelled against escaping from the harshness of the human condition. For him, a true hero accepts that life is bleak and, even, if meaningless, presses forward, nonetheless. Camus’ ideal is Sisyphus, condemned to roll a rock up a mountain daily, only to watch it roll back down that night. Despite the failure, and the absurdity of the task, Sisyphus tries again. Comedians have tried to tackle the tale of Sisyphus but there are very few good jokes about him. There’s this one joke about Sisyphus but it goes on and on and on. . .

Camus finds meaning in struggling each day, even if it is without reward. Camus despised the madness, violence, and oppression of the 20th century. His response was to appreciate living each day, even as we accept the insanity of returning to push rocks up hills followed by the inevitability of death. Judaism is more hopeful than Camus. We believe that life demands we seek better options than pushing a rock up a hill.

Two Jewish holidays focus on responding to life’s absurdity: Yom Kippur and Purim. On Yom Kippur, we ask, “Who shall live, and who shall die?  We rehearse for death by wearing white and fasting. There’s a book in heaven marking our fate and gates that close at day’s end. We are praying for life, while fully confronting death. These rituals may seem farcical. But these rituals help us to focus on ways of responding to the world’s inherent irrationality.

The other holiday of absurdity is Purim. The Zohar, Judaism’s premier mystical text, connects Yom Kippur and Purim. The pairing lies in the name: “Yom HaKippurim,” implying that something absurd or random will happen in the future. The mystics believe that one Yom Kippur to come, we will rejoice and dance, transforming difficulties into delight.

Purim is an absurd story. Esther, a Jew, married the Persian King. When a decree was issued to kill the Jews, she asked her people to fast and pray. (Sort of like Yom Kippur when we fast and pray to avert the decree). Esther revealed her Jewish identity to the King and exposed Haman’s plot to kill the Jews.

The King, in a bizarre twist, issued a new decree allowing the Jews to defend themselves by killing the people originally ordered to destroy them—and the Jews did so. Yes, the world always finds it absurd that Jews can destroy their enemies.

One could interpret Purim as comedy. Rather, I see it as a story of faith and courage. Because sometimes, absurdity, like a King’s proclamation, is neither benign nor comical but rather quite dangerous. Time and again, Jews fought/fight for life in the face of a pointless decree of death. Purim is about faith in the future, taking ownership of Jewish identity at a time when it was imprudent to do so.

Is faith absurd? Rabbi Noah Farkas wrote, “Many philosophers call the idea of faith “‘living in the absurd”’ because we can never truly know life’s meaning.”  Philosophers argue that we discover facts through science, but faith? He wrote: “Faith operates beyond facts. Faith is an adventure, pushing us between comfort and discomfort, from the known to the unknown.” The scientific mind rebels against faith, even as faith makes life more pleasant.

Dr. Alan L. Mittleman, in his 2024 book Absurdity, and Meaning in Contemporary Philosophy and Jewish Thought, takes this idea further. Mittleman shows how Judaism, just like philosophy, grapples with deep doubts and perplexities. Instead of shutting down conversation, Judaism promotes dialogue. We dispel meaninglessness when we engage and when we question the world around us.

As Jews, we are particularly attuned to absurdity, perhaps because of our history – never setting down roots for too long, always somewhat on the periphery of mainstream society. We’ve kept our humor intact, even in dark times. Yet, in Judaism, the punchline is different. We cling to three words that change everything: faith, hope, and love.

Each day you rise in gratitude is an act of faith. Each Jewish child born is a protest of hope. Every mundane act is a demonstration of love. Because of these truths, Judaism cares less about what we accomplish and more about who we are. We aren’t merely like Sisyphus, endlessly pushing rocks up a mountain. Instead, how we live—how we carry our burdens, whether trudging or dancing—expresses our faith, hope, and love for life. That is how we contend with absurdity. That is my connection to God.

God’s expectation? God expects us to live as an expression of love, with reason, intelligence, and compassion, for the sake of a future we may never know.

These are times when embracing our Jewishness may seem absurd to some. We are, after all, a people who are often hated. In Nazi Germany, no Esther was able to avert the decree. Eighty years later, after October 7, there was a wellspring of anti-Semitism yet again.

In 2024, or 5785, Jew-hatred persists. In the three months after Hamas attacked Israel, anti-Semitic acts in the United States rose by 360%. Anti-Semitism is increasing most rapidly among young people. The old tropes and groundless conspiracy theories have taken on new life. All Jews are now viewed as oppressors, not the oppressed. According to the ADL nearly half of Americans believe Jews are irritating, dishonest in business, and have too much power in the United States. And we know this to be absurd.

Absurdity permeates political discourse. Today we face war when there is enough land for peaceful coexistence. You know the region I’m speaking about. The greatest number of displaced people due to war is . . . Sudan. What was the last time you saw protestors blocking the Brooklyn Bridge over the war in Sudan?  Absurd!

Or the gay, Jewish Americans calling out “from the river to the sea” without acknowledging that the Arabs who coined that phrase have no room for them as gay, Jewish, or American.

Or Marjorie Taylor Green, congresswoman from Georgia, who recently said “they control the weather.”

Or Ta Nehisi Coates’ book “The Message”, in which he portrays Israel’s treatment of Palestinians as a moral crime, without ever mentioning the history, Hamas, and denying the right of a Jewish State to exist.

Or those Israelis who think they can build walls, knock down houses, and confiscate land to create safe homes for themselves. Yes, Jews can add to the absurdity of this world.

And in a month, people who fear that Jews are imperiled and not powerful might have a Jewish first gentleman in the White House and a Jewish Majority leader in the Senate.

So why draw attention to ourselves when there are so many like Haman who want to destroy us? Why do the members of this tribe double down on this religion? Why would any member of the tribe want to stay in this club?

Because being Jewish transcends the absurdity of life. On our holidays, Judaism affirms human redemption (Yom Kippur), holy insurrection (Passover), and happiness in freedom (Sukkot). The world remains absurd, but our survival and hopefulness defy absurdity and surpass comedy.

Yom Kippur and Purim challenge us to decide: can life’s absurdity inspire courage and faith to make a better future?

Judaism teaches us to stand up for morality. We begin with ourselves. through self-reflection and self-criticism. This is the purpose of Yom Kippur—to infuse meaning into our Jewish identity by railing against the absurdity of hate and oppression, starting with our souls. The purpose of Purim is to connect with Esther’s courage. Like Esther, we must work to change the world because each human being is worthy of a better world.

We Jews, who see miracles in the mundane, and who create solace from sorrow, can rebuild a broken world that seems inextricably broken. We are the legacy of Esther, affirmed on Yom Kippur. We stand proudly as Jews, defying absurdity.

In a world increasingly plagued by uncertainty and chaos, it is easy to feel disoriented, detached, and even lost. Life may seem absurd, and faith may seem meaningless, but I live my life proudly and loudly as – a Jew—a beacon against absurdity and meaninglessness. My Judaism stands as a profound counterforce, a bulwark against madness, offering a framework, direction, and resilience in the face of a chaotic world.

Shabbat, for instance, is a profound response to the chaos of the workweek. This weekly practice offers a powerful reminder that, even in a seemingly irrational world, we can create sacred moments. Kiss your mezuzah when you enter your home in gratitude for a safe place to live, eat in a sukkah next week in recognition of the fragility of this world, show up in support of the hostages as one of the greatest mitzvot in our tradition, and support Jewish-based charities as tzedakah is the easiest way to improve this world.

Rather than resigning ourselves to despair, rather than unceasingly pushing that same rock up that same hill each day, Judaism transcends the absurd. We acknowledge the irrational and the unjust but respond with a commitment to justice, mercy, and hope.

For me, Judaism is a daily declaration that I matter, you matter, and the world matters. This is my expression of hope, my declaration of faith, and my promise to future generations: being Jewish can and will matter—for you even when the world is filled with absurdity.

Rabbi Evan J. Krame

 

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Moral Turbulence

There’s a TED talk that begins with a story—a tale of a transatlantic flight, where a couple heads to a vacation in Scandinavia. Suddenly, turbulence strikes! The plane dips and sways, and from the back, a band of teens erupts in joyful whoops, as if riding a roller coaster of the skies.

But then, the turbulence escalates—an even more abrupt drop! Ceiling panels tremble, wires hang like vines in a storm, and dust clouds the air. Fear grips the hearts; some weep, some pray. The captain’s voice cuts through the chaos: “Please stay calm! This aircraft is structurally secure and built to endure far greater turbulence!” And yet, as the plane steadies, the TED talk speaker shares a truth that resonates deep within: she no longer feels safe flying. Her husband, however, marvels at the craft’s resilience. Same facts, different conclusions.

There is a lesson here about perception! From one unfortunate episode, from the same set of facts, we can be filled with dread or awe. Will we tremble at the turbulence or lift our eyes in wonder? Both reactions spring from the same experience. Neither is wrong!

Our responses are shaped by our histories, our personalities, our very beings.

Some might call this “confirmation bias”—the tendency to see what we wish to see, to cling to our beliefs while dismissing the contrary. But I stand here today, my friends, to speak of a greater truth—a truth about the turbulent times that we navigate, particularly when it comes to Israel.

I was a history major in college, I went to law school, got a master’s in taxation and then smicha as a rabbi.  None of these qualify me to speak about the geopolitics of the Middle East. I am just barely qualified to discuss the moral and ethical dilemma of the last year of war. And to those of you who think you know my position on Israel, . . . I haven’t settled on a position. Like many of you, I have teetered on the see-saw of emotions – crying for our Israeli sisters and brothers, lamenting the Palestinian suffering.

If I did not speak of Israel, it would be rabbinic malpractice! And if you squirm in your seats, I invite you to take a breath. I tried to chose words steeped in our rich, complex Jewish tradition. I stand here only qualified to ponder the moral and ethical dilemmas we face. Like many of you, I have wavered on this see-saw of emotion—grieving for our Israeli sisters and brothers, lamenting the suffering of Palestinians.

Indeed, we have all endured a year of turbulence, wrestling with the events since October 7. While some wish to turn away, others strive to remain informed. Some focus on the dread and others are filled with awe. Yet we are all on this same flight, navigating through the storm, our biases tethering us to certain truths, while others slip away.

The Torah teaches us that we may defend ourselves against those who wish to harm us. Leviticus 26:7 declares, “Your army shall give chase to your enemies, and they shall fall before you by the sword.” The Talmud confirms that if enemies besiege you, even on Shabbat, you may act to protect your life.

Yet, Proverbs 24:17 warns, “If your enemy falls, do not exult; if he trips, let your heart not rejoice.” There is no moral equivalence in mourning the loss of life, Jewish life, Christian life, Bedouin life, or Arab life, the life of my beloveds, and the lives of my enemies.

We are reminded in the Midrash: as the Egyptians drown in the sea, the angels wish to sing, but the Lord rebukes them, saying, “My creations are drowning, and you are singing before me?” We, too, must not rejoice in the downfall of any person, for we all descend from one person, Adam, one source, God.

And God is not gladdened by death; God mourns with us.

These have been horrific days October 7, October 8, October 9, October 10, and — days that have stretched into sorrow, loss, and continued suffering, for Israel and for its adversaries.

We must attack before we are struck, yes! Israel must push back evil from its borders. But we must also pray for the wicked to change, not to perish. We cannot sing while God’s children are lost to violence, bullets and bombs.

Jewish tradition is asking: Can you hold both ideas simultaneously?  Can you both be afraid of flying while marveling at the technology that allows planes to fly safely?  Can you support a secure Israel without encouraging excessive violence to human life?

Jewish tradition asks us: can we hold these two competing truths together in our minds and hearts? Can we support a secure Israel while advocating for the sanctity of life? The first anniversary of the October 7 attack approaches, and with it, commemorations and demonstrations worldwide. What will be our goal? Revenge or reconciliation? Or something in between.

In the space between awe for God’s creation and fear of man’s capacity for evil, comes Morality. Morality is complex. Morality requires both courage and compassion.

During the American Revolutionary War, the patriots deployed techniques learned from the Native Americans – what we now refer to as guerilla warfare. Subterfuge, ambush, and stealth wore down the British. Guerilla war demoralizes the enemy and gives the radical self-ascribed moral standing.

In the twentieth century and now twenty-first century, terrorism is the continuation of politics by brutal means. The tools of war eveloved. The processes of war changed.

Terrorists flew planes into buildings. Terrorists use gliders to cross border walls and rockets to decimate homes.

As Carl von Clausewitz, a political observer and moralist, would say “war is nothing but the continuation of politics with other means.” As the world became accustomed to terrorism, Clausewitz would describe terrorism as another political tool.

The Palestinian liberation movement and Muslim extremists embraced worldwide terrorism as their politics of choice. They too claimed moral superiority and declared terrorism as a moral duty.  Americans did it to fight the British. Jews did it to gain control over Palestine.

Judaism advises that morality should dictate our path. Our tradition favors peace over violence, and co-existence over war. Psalm 34 calls us to “Seek peace and pursue it.”

Yet, we should not forget that the right to self-defense is a moral imperative, too. We must balance the sanctity of life with the right to defend one’s self. If we believe in the sanctity of life, then Israel must defend itself.

Chicago-born writer G.P. Gottlieb has written, “You are morally right to wish for a Palestinian state that recognizes Israel and seeks peaceful coexistence … It’s ethically caring to wish that Israel kills only Hamas militants and Hezbollah fighters — and the world is right to be upset about the deaths of ALL innocent civilians

“But you are morally bankrupt if you don’t demand that Hamas return all hostages. You are morally bankrupt if you don’t demand the eradication of the Hamas terror regime, which began this war …  with the horrifying and barbaric massacre of 1200+ babies, children, women, and elderly, and the kidnapping of over 240 civilians. [And you are] especially [morally bankrupt] because the Hamas charter …advocates the … destruction of Israel and the death or expulsion of all its Jews.”

Moral equivalency invalidates rights and obligations, Moral equivalency adds to the anguish and suffering of people.

To those who only speak of Israel’s moral obligations, or speak of Palestinian suffering,

To those who speak only of Israeli anguish or who speak only of Palestinian terror,

Both Jewish law, and a moral universe, say that there is no “only.”  There is no “only.”

We all have access to the same facts, but our perspectives naturally narrow. We are all flying on the same plane.  Some favor awe for the miracle of flying. Others are filled by dread. But there will be bumpy flights and some accidents.  And there will be more travel, nervous flights, to vacations and family visits. There is no “only.

I stand here proud to advocate for Israel—my heritage, our future. I weep for the Palestinian lives lost, for my Jewish tradition demands compassion. Both truths can coexist. Both must coexist.

I can disapprove of the current Israeli government while decrying the evil of Hamas and Hezbollah. Both are valid.

I can advocate for peace while pressing Congress to provide weapons to Israel. Both are necessary!

So let us be sensitive to our choices. Let us support Israel’s right to defend itself without celebrating lost lives. This, my friends, is our Jewish tradition—a call to morality when the way is not clear. When it seems like the ceiling is caving, and the journey is fraught that is the time to sense both the dread and the awe.

May the One who makes peace in the heavens bring peace to our world. May we safeguard those under attack, protect the vulnerable, soften the hearts of the warlike, and strengthen those who defend the innocent

And as I lament the loss of good and blameless souls, I stand proud, declaring with all my heart, Od Yavo Shalom, There will be peace.

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Connectivity: God or the Internet?

In the pandemic years, we witnessed significant changes in how Jews gather to pray. It has been most evident in how we utilize television and live streaming to pray from the comfort of our homes. One notable example is the Central Synagogue’s services, featuring the esteemed Rabbi Angela Buchdahl, a top-rated Jewish “program.” The impact of these professional and meaningful offerings on Jewish prayer is profound, both as a blessing and a challenge.

Technology influences our connections within our communities. The pandemic forced many of us into confinement at home and seeking solace, we turned to electronic media.

Synagogues have sought to make services accessible long before the pandemic. Adas Israel, in Washington, DC, pioneered this approach, broadcasting services on the radio. Such broadcasts aimed to accommodate those who were ill or elderly and couldn’t attend in person.

The Romemu community in New York championed Zoom and live-streamed services before Covid. Their approach respected virtual participants, offering a membership category for internet participants. Romemu elevated the technological approach to prayer, making the experience more personal and highly professional.

Zoom provided life cycle event connections for a Shiva minyan or a bar/bat mitzvah service. It also allowed smaller communities to sustain daily minyans. Zoom services welcomed individuals who couldn’t previously participate in communal prayer. There are compelling reasons to support a Zoom minyan.

Yet, fulfillment of your prayer obligations was not through electronic media. Ten people had to attend to complete a prayer service minyan. Then Covid happened. Progressive segments of the Jewish community accepted remote participation. Progressive Judaism already tends to emphasize the individual’s needs. Accordingly, virtual presence was equivalent to in-person participation.

The idea of remote participation expands upon Jewish law. The Talmud teaches that synagogues must have windows to connect worshippers with the outside world and allow those outside to join the service. Similarly, Mishnah Rosh Hashanah teaches us that hearing the shofar outside a synagogue fulfills the obligation. This inclusivity aligns with the spirit of live stream services.

A person standing near windows or doors to the prayer space, with visible eye contact, could be counted as part of the minyan. Another source even suggests that ten people standing in a field, able to see and hear one another, constitute a minyan. If someone standing outside a window can be counted, why not include those in a Zoom room participating in a service?

Should online services relieve us of the obligation to gather physically as a community? Or we must ask ourselves: do the benefits of a Zoom minyan outweigh the tradition of gathering in person?

The Conservative Movement’s Committee on Law and Standards (CLS) has questioned the continued use of the Zoom minyan. They suggest it should be limited to emergencies, such as a pandemic or natural disaster.

Psychologically speaking, they might be right. Words can offer comfort, and voices can provide support, but they cannot replace the touch of a hand, a hug, or physical presence. Those who cannot be touched, whose hands we cannot shake, whose smile we cannot see, remain alone.

The pandemic taught us that isolation can cause harmful loneliness. Technology rescued us from seclusion but did not fully replace the warmth of human connection.

The best forum for fostering connection is in the spiritual setting. You may sit in a theater with a crowd of people, but you aren’t forming a community. You can attend a sporting event, but a gathering of fans won’t satisfy your need for meaningful relationships. As social as pickleball and book clubs may be, I’m not sure such leisure activities create significant personal connections.

Jewish tradition understands the profound spiritual significance of coming together face to face, heart to heart. When gathering for a life cycle ritual or a holiday service, we have the opportunity for something profound to happen. We are meant to be present, share our joys and sorrows, and support one another on life’s journey.

Don’t mistake the convenience of online participation for spiritual fulfillment. The crisis of loneliness still looms over our society.

Through simple yet profound acts of connection, we can heal the wounds of isolation that plague our world. If not for yourself, your sense of loneliness your physical participation may be a blessing to someone else who needs more personal relationships.

We must reaffirm our commitment to one another and the idea that our faith communities are not just places of worship but sanctuaries of love and fellowship. We must be beacons of light in a world that sometimes feels dark and disconnected.

Despite the technological allure leading to isolation,  God’s presence is most powerful when we come together as a community. The spirit of unity and togetherness is a testament to our shared humanity, and it is through these connections that we find God’s love. In an age of screens and gadgets, we must remember that God and not the internet is the connection between people.

Let’s prioritize gathering in person, not just for religious purposes, but for the sake of ourselves and the well-being of our neighbors. It is in these connections that we find strength, hope, and the ability to overcome the crisis of loneliness that plagues our society.

While technology can connect us across distances, it cannot replace the power of physical presence and the warmth of human touch. We must balance embracing modern tools and upholding the traditions and values that have sustained us for generations.

Rabbi Evan J. Krame

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Forgive Yourself Too

Today, as we gather on this sacred day of Yom Kippur, we come together to reflect on the profound theme of forgiveness. It is a day when we focus on seeking forgiveness from God and from those we may have wronged. We examine our actions and ask for pardon with a sense of urgency in our hearts. Yet, there is one aspect of forgiveness that often remains elusive, and that is the act of forgiving ourselves. This is the type of forgiveness with which I struggle the most.

In our tradition, we are no strangers to acknowledging our wrongdoings. From the earliest days of our faith, we have been guided by a set of moral principles and teachings that remind us of what we should not have done. We dedicate these 25 hours of Yom Kippur to introspection, where we meticulously examine our missteps and errors. It’s almost as if we are experts in identifying our own flaws and shortcomings.

But amid all this reflection and repentance, there lies a crucial foundation within our tradition, one that prevents us from sinking into a bottomless pit of self-loathing. That foundation is the concept of forgiveness.

Today, I want to address a struggle that many of us face—the difficulty of forgiving ourselves. We often find it easier to point out our own faults and to engage in self-criticism. We replay our mistakes in our minds, tormenting ourselves with feelings of regret and self-loathing.

Judaism, however, offers us a more constructive alternative to self-destructive tendencies. These High Holidays provide us with a roadmap for recognizing our mistakes, resolving to improve ourselves, and requesting forgiveness. As human beings, we are inherently imperfect. We stumble, fall, and make mistakes—it’s an integral part of our journey towards becoming better individuals.

We must not forget that we are deserving of forgiveness’s embrace. Our tradition emphasizes not only seeking forgiveness from God but also from one another. Forgiving others and accepting their forgiveness is an affirmation of our equality. It acknowledges our shared humanity, our shared capacity for error, and our shared potential for growth.

Leviticus 19:18 instructs us to “Love your neighbor as yourself.” This commandment underscores the importance of self-love. To truly love others, we must first learn to forgive ourselves for being imperfect. It’s a reminder that self-love is not only permissible but imperative.

Often, when we face challenges or fears, our past mistakes flood our minds. We wrestle with our imperfect selves, much like Jacob wrestled with the angel. Jacob, too, was a complex figure with a blend of imperfections and divine qualities. In the end, he forgave himself and his failings, accepting himself as both flawed and inspired. It was only then that he could reengage with the world with courage, hope, and integrity.
Wrestling with our mistakes is the path to personal growth. We must recognize that we are not born perfect, all-wise, all-skilled, and all-loving. Accepting our humanity and forgiving ourselves for our mistakes is the key to growth.

We often spend more time berating ourselves for our errors than anyone else ever would. We fill our minds with negative thoughts, convincing ourselves that we are not smart enough, strong enough, or good enough. The loudest voice in our heads is often self-destructive.

But it’s time to let go of guilt, shame, and regret. It’s time to release the “should haves” and “maybes” and focus on what we will do and achieve. We are more than the sum of our mistakes. As Bryan Stevenson aptly put it, “Each of us is more than the worst thing we have ever done.”

In a world increasingly dominated by cancel culture, where our mistakes are magnified and used to define us, we must remember that we are better than any failure or mistake. Our mistakes are not our identities; they are opportunities to learn and grow.

So, how do we embark on the journey of self-forgiveness? It starts with admission and recognition of our lapses. Speak your feelings aloud, share your burdens with someone you trust, and give your mind a rest from incessant self-criticism.

Adopt a mantra, a positive phrase that reminds you that mistakes do not define you. Be proactive in making choices that disprove your worst thoughts about yourself. Believe in your capacity to become the best version of yourself.

Ultimately, healing and self-forgiveness will not only benefit you but also enhance your capacity to connect with others. When we let go of self-loathing, we can embrace humility, acknowledging our fallibility and opening ourselves to better relationships.

Life is a journey, and along the way, we will make mistakes and falter. But remember, to live life fully is to accept yourself. To accept yourself is to forgive yourself for being human. There is always room for improvement and growth, but acceptance means learning from mistakes and returning stronger than before.
In the end, self-forgiveness is not just a gift we give ourselves, but it’s also a gift we give to the world. When we forgive ourselves, we can love ourselves, and that love spills over, making us more capable of loving others.

So, as we strive towards forgiveness during these High Holidays, don’t forget to forgive yourself. Heal your wounds, embrace your vulnerabilities, and believe in your ability to become the best version of yourself. For in forgiveness, we find not only redemption but also the capacity to love and be loved.

May this Yom Kippur be a day of self-forgiveness, healing, and renewal for each of us. And may we emerge from it with the strength, resolve, and optimism to make the most of each God-given day.
Amen.

Rabbi Evan J. Krame

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Your Sacrifice

The key concept of Rosh Hashanah may be the willingness to sacrifice. What do you have that you would sacrifice? What are you willing to sacrifice? Money, Time, Individualism? For whom are you ready to sacrifice? For your family, your community, the Jewish people?

Abraham is the focus of the Torah reading for Rosh Hashanah. Abraham left Babylonia. He sacrificed his home and his independence to an unknown God and an unseen promised land. Then God tested Abraham him.  Was Abraham willing to sacrifice his son Isaac? God gave the command. Abraham obeyed. Abraham took his only child to Mt. Moriah with wood and firestarter. Some sages taught that Abraham demonstrated absolute faith in his willingness to sacrifice his son.

While studying at the Hartman Institute in Jerusalem this summer, Micah Goodman offered some thoughts on the concept of sacrifice.  He began with a census. In Exodus 30:11 in the Torah, a census was taken and a half shekel payment was paid as redemption for each person counted. Without the half shekel, there would be a plague.

Centuries later, King David ordered a census with disastrous results. As King, David laid the foundations of a nation. He had waged wars and united the tribes. David made Israel a nation just like the other nations, militaristic and subduing their own people.

To succeed in conquest, a King needed to count the available soldiers. The King needed to count the farms and farmers to know how much grain and animals the King could take.  To build a monarchy, a King counted the people, not as unique and precious, but as sources of power and wealth.

In II Samuel 24:1, the story of King David takes a turn. “The anger of the LORD again flared up against Israel; and He incited David against them, saying, “Go and number Israel and Judah.” David knows the danger of taking a census. Yet, David follows God’s command and orders a census to be conducted.

After the census, the prophet Gad approaches. Three punishments are proposed, a three-month rout by Israel’s enemies, a seven-year famine, or a plague. Each of these will hurt multitudes of people. Ultimately, God sent a plague that killed 70,000.

Judaism rejects the world where census taking reduces people to mere numbers. The role of Judaism is to tell the world that each person is precious. Each is created in the image of God, each as valuable as a world unto herself. The nations of the ancient world subjugated people and dehumanized them with submission, conscription, and slavery. Judaism rejects power structures that diminish humanity.

As Rabbi Jonathan Saks wrote: “The numbering of a people is the most potent symbol of mankind-in-the-mass, of a society in which the individual is not valued in and for him- or herself but as part of a totality whose power lies in numbers.”  Israel should be a nation of priests not a list of numbers. God offers love to people whose strength has nothing to do with numbers; God cares for people, not empires.

After the plague began, an angel of destruction approached Jerusalem.  David cried out to God. “I alone am guilty, I alone have done wrong; but these poor sheep, what have they done? Let Your hand fall upon me!” David offered himself as the sacrifice needed to stop the plague. David was willing to sacrifice himself for his people.

God heard David’s offer and stopped the plague. David was told to offer sacrifice to God on the threshing floor of a Jebusite’s farm. The sages say that the threshing floor became the location of the Temple, built by David’s son Solomon. This story again links back to where we started, with Abraham and Isaac at Mount Moriah. Mount Moriah too is the location of Jerusalem.

Abraham was asked to sacrifice his son and promptly did so. He only stops when the angel stays Abraham’s hand.

David took a census despite the risk. He failed this test. David is unprepared for the sacrifice to come. Of his people, his flock, 70,000 died.

Abraham is steadfast in his obedience. David is vacillating between his duty to God and his control of the nation.

Then, David offered himself as a sacrifice to stop the plague. Perhaps he realized that the monarchy had the potential to replace Judaism with the worship of power. Maybe he repented his role in creating an unholy kingdom. His atonement was to lay the foundation for the Temple to be built in Jerusalem.

Judaism boils down to three locations: Eden, Sinai, and Jerusalem.  Eden is the creation of the world. Sinai is the revelation of God’s word. Jerusalem is the promised land’s capital. And then we hope for a messianic time, which is the return to Eden. The loop is closed.

The “Jerusalem” has its foundation in the stories of Abraham and Isaac and David and the census.  The ideal of Jerusalem is the spine that holds Judaism together. Jerusalem is not just a city. It is a religious archetype. Jerusalem represents the land promised to Abraham by God for the treasured people saved from slavery by God. Torah commanded we create a place for God, a Bet HaMikdash, a Temple, ultimately built in Jerusalem. There was established a place of sacrifice where Abraham would have sacrificed Isaac.  Where King David sacrificed to stop a plague. Sacrifice in Jerusalem was the operating system of Judaism. Jerusalem represents the willingness to sacrifice for God.

Does sacrifice continue to be an essential part of the Jewish experience? Judaism demands sacrifices, sacrifices of your time, your earnings, and your independence. We sacrifice time to prayer and to rituals. We sacrifice our money, to feed the hungry, clothe the naked, care for the widow, and care for the orphan.  We sacrifice our independence as we are not complete as people without our attachment to the Jewish community. We are intertwined, all Israel responsible for one another.

Micah Goodman, whose lecture initiated this discussion, fears that sacrifice is no longer at the core of Jewish identity. What becomes of Judaism when we no longer sacrifice time to prayer and rituals? What becomes of people when we fail to care about each other’s needs? What becomes of Judaism, without a willingness to sacrifice some of our independence in exchange for Jewish connection and identification?

The system of Jewish worship was built on sacrifices. The offering of animals, incense, or foodstuffs demonstrated devotion in the ancient world. With the destruction of the Temple in the Roman era, sacrifice was replaced with a complex system of Tefilah, Teshuvah, and Tzedakah – prayer, repentance, and charity.  Prayer, repentance, and charity all require personal sacrifice.

Meanwhile, modernity, wealth accumulation, and individualism are blessings that improve our lives and curses in Judaism’s view of the ideal world.

Modernity steals time from spiritual development to economic growth. The computer age, the internet age, the information age, and the virtual reality age provide compelling alternatives to spiritual life and ritual observances. Most people are not willing to sacrifice television for a day of rest.

Wealth is idolized, and poverty is increasing. Rich nations take from poor countries. Wealth is concentrated in relatively few people. Our government is a plutocracy, rewarding special interests with money and power. Meanwhile, we are unable to sacrifice a little of our wealth to end poverty or cure disease. Judaism requires tithing and tzedakah to meet everyone’s needs. We can afford to end poverty in the United States by providing a universal basic income. The estimated cost to end poverty is $175 Billion.  The military costs about $800 Billion. We choose to have poverty in the United States because we are unwilling to sacrifice our advantages for the sake of the many who are hungry today.

Individualism is a thinly veiled egotism.  We sanctify individual rights as God-given and sacred. Yet, the elevation of individual rights is often recast as individuals choosing themselves over the collective.  That individualism is born of nihilism and narcissism. Jews are selecting the “me” over the “we” are preferring the “I” to the “us.” We won’t sacrifice any of our independence for our religion or people’s sake.

My teacher, Micah Goodman, was chiefly concerned about Israel. Modern Israel was founded on a willingness to sacrifice life, wealth, and independence for a safe homeland for the Jewish people. That was Zionism! Devotion to Zion is eroding in Israel.  Groups of Israelis are forcing the government to serve their needs without regard for the nation or the Jewish people. For example, the ultra-Orthodox in Israel are insulated from army service while receiving inordinate Government subsidies for their communities.  Meanwhile, reservists, alarmed at the Government’s recent actions, will cease to serve the nation. The willingness to sacrifice for Israel is fading fast.

On Yom Kippur, we offer a martyrology service about rabbis who died for Judaism.  The martyred sages call to us through the ages. They are asking, what would you sacrifice for Judaism, for the sake of the Jewish people, for a Jewish future? Save your lives, . . but are you willing to give of your time, wealth, and independence?

When you have what to die for, you have something to live for.  Judaism has given the world a legacy of hope. Judaism affirms the inherent value of each human being. Our religion is a testament to the value of freedom and to human rights. Judaism speaks to the dignity of each person.

Fewer are willing to sacrifice for Judaism. People are unplugged from religious life and plugged into their devices. Perhaps we fear failing the test – as God tested Abraham and King David. Perhaps we are protective of ourselves, fearful that we don’t have enough time, enough resources, enough freedom.

The challenge for 5784 is to ask ourselves are we willing to sacrifice for Judaism, for the Jewish people, and for a Jewish future. Are we able to show our children and grandchildren, nieces, and nephews, that there is great value in giving time, wealth, and identity to being Jewish.

Judaism is about living in service of something greater than yourself.  If you live not according to God’s voice but to your own voice, you will be paralyzed within your ego, fearful, bored, lonely. The key is to find balance, balance between your devotion to the greater cause represented by Judaism and self-preservation. A life consumed only with your needs is not a life well lived.  A life only about yourself is imbalanced. A life lived only about yourself is unfulfilled. May this be a year in which you find the balance, recognizing the value in sacrifice that is the foundation of Judaism.

Rabbi Evan J. Krame

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Zion

Dear fellow clergy, distinguished guests, my neighbors,

Today, I want to reflect on how we, as a community, Christian and Jewish and Muslim, Black and White, all cherish the place called Zion.

In our traditions, Zion is a mountain in Jerusalem. Zion is where we built a structure worthy of God. Zion’s rocky edges and stone paths all glisten with the divine light of God’s love.

Zion is the place God chose to inspire us, radiating the divine light that illuminates our path. It beckons us to improve ourselves and our world. Zion’s light penetrates the cracks that are our imperfections, unseals our closed eyes, and warms our cold hearts.

Each week in synagogues, Jews read a portion of the Torah, the five books of Moses, a source of wisdom and inspiration. As we remove the Torah from its ark, we chant, “Ki Mitziyon Teytze Torah” – from Zion comes learning. From Zion comes law. From Zion comes Godliness.

When we seek Zion, we seek God. When we seek Zion, we strive to spread Godliness through our words and actions. Our pursuit of Zion aligns with the goodness that God intends for all humanity. It reminds us that we lead by our example, sharing the divine values of compassion, justice, and equality.

In Potomac, we have our own place which is Zion, the Scotland AME Zion Church. Four years have passed since flooding waters ravaged the church. The waters engulfed the building.  But God is greater than the raging waters. As the Psalmist taught us, the waters will pass, and God remains with us. And now we, all of us, together, must rebuild the church.

Why is rebuilding this place a joint effort? I turn to the Jewish philosopher Franz Rosenzweig. Rosenzweig understood the basis of our religions to be the ongoing revelation of God’s message. God’s words are not history. They are verses that continue to reverberate throughout the ages, speaking to us even today, every day. This understanding holds great significance for both Judaism and Christianity. As God continues to speak, it is our responsibility to listen attentively. To listen to God is to respond faithfully.

God asks us to pursue Zion. To seek Zion is to create a world where the Divine word, revelation, is heard and cherished above all else. A world unblemished by racism and antisemitism. A world free of poverty and defilement, greed and pride, hatred, and inequality.

Through our shared experiences, we must develop empathy and understanding for each other’s struggles. This empathy can motivate us to stand up against all forms of prejudice and bigotry. This understanding compels us to care for each other’s spiritual homes as if they were our own.

Our mutual traditions emphasize justice, fairness, and respect for all human beings. As we all respond to the call to build and rebuild Zion, we dismantle the barriers that separate us.

American ideals, Christian morals, and Jewish principles have endured and continue to endure despite the hatred that persists in our country. Racism and anti-Semitism are twin children of an evil ancestor born out of ignorance and prejudice. Good people have the power to combat these hateful ideologies. We must combine social action with inner spiritual work, building with the bricks of our humanity, and assembling a community in a place called Zion.

Let us engage in open dialogue, educate ourselves and others, and actively participate in efforts to create a more inclusive and equitable society. Let us be advocates for righteousness. Let us be neighbors and friends. Let us rebuild Zion in our own community.

The psalmist wrote, by the waters of Babylon, we sat down, and we wept as we remembered Zion. Today I sing a new song, by the waters that ruined the Scotland AME Zion Church, we do not sit and weep, but we rebuild Zion.

May the ongoing revelation of God’s words guide us on this journey, illuminating our path and inspiring us to create together a world that reflects the light of Zion. May God bless us with the strength, wisdom, and compassion to eradicate racism and hatred. And together, may we create a renewed Zion.

In honor of Juneteenth,

June 18, 2023

Rabbi Evan J. Krame

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Seder Topic: the Undemocratic Promised Land

The promise of freedom is at the heart of the Passover seder. Freedom is not merely the liberation from slavery but goes to the quality of our lives. This year, challenges to freedom plague our world and our people. Will your seder stick only to the 3,500-year-old story or fast forward to the present-day reality?

Ultimately, Passover directs us toward freedom. I doubt that the final phase of the Exodus has been reached if democracy in the promised land is in peril. We who love Israel are concerned about its recent descent toward autocracy.

Perhaps the most dangerous part of Netanyahu’s power grab is the rupture in Israeli society. Most concerning to me is that the hiloni (secular Israelis) are feeling disenfranchised. These are the men and women who defend Israel in the Army and are now hesitating to show up for reserve duty. Others are contemplating leaving Israel. Is Moses’ mission a failure if leading our people out of slavery to freedom brings us to an undemocratic Israel?

The persistent hope of the Exodus story is at the seder’s end when we say, “Next year in Jerusalem.”  Jerusalem may no longer represent our hopes for human rights and freedom.

From a distance, we have supported Israel when under attack. We have yearned for a resolution to the conflict with the Palestinians. But we have not yet dealt with the prospect of an undemocratic Israel.

Jews have been praying for a return to Israel, as a place of refuge, hope, and freedom for Jews. Today, our prayers must turn to protect the democratic Israel we love.

Rabbi Evan J. Krame

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