Thank you, Rabbi Maderer for inviting me to speak today.  And I’d like to thank all of you for remaining loyal members of this great congregation, and thank you for keeping the Jewish community alive in your hearts.

During this Yizkor Memorial service, we remember the 48 hostages (only 20 of whom are still alive) still held by the terrorists in Gaza on this 726^th day since the horrific massacre of our people on Oct. 7, 2023.  May God bring the hostages home speedily, and may there be a cessation of this war soon.

I’d like to offer my condolences to all of you who are mourning the loss of loved ones, especially during this past year, but also all of our loved ones who we still mourn, and whose memories we pray will always be a blessing.

We come together today to remember.  “Yizkor” means Remembrance, We pray that God may remember them, and that we may remember them as well by saying the Kaddish, the Jewish prayer of mourning.

As one of our wonderful members of our congregational family Kiera Faber wrote recently, which I share with her permission:

“We say Kaddish for our loved ones by reading out their names in community.  We are collectively validating their existence, enlivening them, bringing them into the present – into our own living world – if only for a fragile moment.” [Faber]

In other words, Yizkor is about Death, but it is really about Life.  The death of a loved one causes us to think more deeply about our own lives, and the lessons we can learn from the way they lived their lives?

Now, in the waning time of this long day of Yom Kippur, we reflect upon the many profound prayers we have offered in hopes that this Yom Kippur has given us guidance on how to improve our lives. This is why this Yizkor service comes toward the end of our day, in order to help us see our lives through the prism of memory… the memory of those who came before us, as we try to learn from them.

As our prayer book teaches us, “Memory can tell us only what we were in company with those we loved; it cannot help us find what each of us, alone, must now become.”  [GOP-Levy].

This is why we are here now.  To think about what we must now become.   And we look for examples from the people around us, as well as from our sacred Jewish texts for guidance.   I’d like to tell you about one of the most powerful stories in the Hebrew Bible about an obscure character found in the Book of 1^st Kings, known as King Rehoboam.  I learned about this story from a commentary by Rabbi Jack Riemer, a well-known author and teacher.

King Rehoboam was the son of the great King Solomon who built the first Temple in Jerusalem, and united the 12 tribes into a powerful nation.  But when Solomon died, his son Rehoboam inherited the throne, and he immediately raised taxes severely on his people, so much so that the kingdom split into 2 parts.  10 tribes seceded and formed the northern kingdom (called Israel), leaving Rehoboam with only 2 tribes to form the Southern kingdom of Judah.  So Rehoboam’s legacy was to be the king who split the land into two separate nations, making it much weaker than Solomon’s united nation.

Soon, the King of the much more powerful Egypt invaded Jerusalem and plundered the treasures that were in Solomon’s palace.  As the Bible tells us “The king of Egypt even carried off the golden shields that Solomon had made.”  [I Kings 14:25-26].

After this awful invasion, during which most of their valuables were stolen, the text tells us “King Rehoboam had bronze shields made in place of the gold ones that he had lost, and he entrusted the bronze shields to the officers of the guard who guarded the entrance to the palace.”  [I Kings 14:27].

Now, what do these bronze shields have to do with our Yizkor Memorial Service?  At this moment, we think about the loss of loved ones who were the best of our lives,  just as the ancient Israelites lost their gold shields, we too have lost our gold shields, representing the best of our lives.

And we think of how we can go on, to make the best of what we have left.  We may never be able to replace the gold shields that have been taken from us, but we too can try to make our own bronze shields and we “give those substitute shields the same dignity and honor we gave the golden shields we once had, but lost.”  [Riemer]

Life will never be the same as it was before we lost our loved ones, before we lost our gold shields. But at this Yizkor service, we are called upon to make the most of our lives, and to make the most with our bronze shields.  In a way, we are re-creating ourselves.

This is the very purpose of YK, to think seriously about our lives and to try to do T’shuva, to return to our true selves.  With God’s help, we go through a re-birth, a renewal of purpose.

This is the grand vision of Yom Kippur:  we can change, we can renew ourselves, we can rise up to any challenge and find our real purpose, no matter the obstacles.

This applies to all of us, whether we have lost a loved one or not.  We all experience some kind of loss in our lives:  loss of health, loss of a job, loss of a relationship, loss of strength through aging.  All kinds of losses.  All of us will lose our golden shields at some point in our lives.  It is our task to create the best bronze shields we can, to take their place.

I know a lot of people who have retired, and many of them are dealing with these feelings of loss. Emily and I have a dear friend who ran a very successful business for many years, but she decided to sell her business and retire.  I asked her recently how she felt about being retired, and she said she didn’t like it.  She said she felt like she had lost her “purpose.”  I said I can certainly understand that!

So I said, “can’t you find something to do?”  And she said “Well, actually, I am doing something.”  In the town where she lives there is a homeless population, so she decided she would try to do something about it.  She arranged to build tiny houses for the families facing the housing crisis.  Tiny houses are small-scale homes approximately 400 sq. ft. in size, and are part of a broader social movement promoting simpler, more affordable and environmentally conscious living.  She approached the principal of a high school for troubled youth, and convinced them to undertake a project to help build some tiny houses in their shop class.  She found some vacant land and then went to battle with the city council to get the zoning and approval.  And she raised the money to make it all work.

And voila!  She is providing some temporary housing for those experiencing homelessness, helping them gain stability, finding jobs and securing sustainable long-term housing.

I believe our friend is one of the greatest examples of re-creating yourself that I have ever known.   And if you look real hard, her bronze shields certainly look like solid gold to me.

Now we may not all be able to something on this scale, but there are so many ways to use your talents, skills, knowledge and connections to make things happen in our world.  There are so many ways to make your own set of bronze shields.

But how do we know where to begin?  We are overwhelmed by the news, and the constant barrage of problems in our world.  As our prayerbook says, “There is always a crisis raging somewhere” and we barely notice because we become almost immune to the suffering all around us.  “We tune it out, so we can get on with our day, believing there is nothing we can do about it.”

But sometimes, somehow, we may be moved to act, like hearing the shofar blast loud enough to alarm us to act.

We see the problems in our world and we may or may not really notice.  We may hope that someone might help them.  But we keep on walking.

Our friend saw them and felt from the bottom of her soul that she must find a way to help.  And so she did.

These High Holy Days come to wake us – to alarm us – to command us to act – to find a way to get out of our shell of indifference and be a Jew of action.

During this Yizkor service, we are commanded to remember, but we are also commanded to move forward with our lives – to choose life – and to re-create the kind of life in which we use our God-given talents to change the world for the better…to live up to our potential to find what we must now become.

There is a famous verse in the Book of Ecclesiastes [9:11] in our Bible that says, “time and chance happen to all.”  Time and chance.  This is actually a major theme of Yom Kippur.  What does Ecclesiastes mean by “chance?”  We know that some of us will live a very happy life this year and, God willing, we will not be touched by sadness.  But we know the possibility always lurks, the chance that something unknown, unexpected, unforeseen may suddenly tear our lives apart.  Even though we believe it could never happen to us, we know that at any moment it could happen, a sudden tear in our existence, an abrupt diagnosis from a doctor, a phone call in the middle of the night, and nothing is ever the same again.

But Ecclesiastes teaches us that “chance” is not the only kind of loss.  It also teaches us about “time.”  We really can’t do much about chance.  But time is something over which we can have some control.  For it is we who determine how we use our time.  Of course, we cannot slow the progress of time, but we can resolve to use our time well.  We can realize the value of time and we can decide to make our lives worthwhile. [David Wolpe]

When King Rehoboam lost his golden shields, he made bronze shields to take their place, and he tried to make the best of it, in spite of his loss.  The interesting thing about bronze is that you need to polish it.  Gold shines bright without a whole lot of work.  But bronze tarnishes easily, and you need to work on it to keep it looking good.

So it is with our lives.  After we have suffered a loss, we need to work hard to rebuild our lives, to improve our relationships with those around us.  To find a way to make our world a better place.  We need to keep polishing our bronze shields, and if we do, they will glisten and shine almost like the finest gold.

The Book of Psalms teaches us that “we are like a fragile vessel, like the grass that withers, the flower that fades, the shadow that passes, the cloud that is dispersed in the sky, the dream that flies away.”  [Ps 103]

Do not live life as if it were forever – for we are reminded at this service of Memorial that our time is short.  “Time and chance happen to all.”  Do not turn away from what you need, and can give, because you think there will be time.  The moment will be stolen from you – and when it is lost, it will be gone forever.

God has given us this profound moment as we begin our New Year so that we may consider the meaning of our lives, and the purpose of our days.

And in this way will we truly understand the amazing value of our own lives.  Every moment is precious.  Let us resolve to use our time well.  May we promise to reach out to our loved ones, to lighten each others’ burdens, and to help build the kind of world which our tradition envisions .  And with God’s help, may we find what each of us must now become.

AMEN.

 

MATERIAL GATHERED FROM:

Kiera Faber Adult Bat Mitzvah speech at Congregation Rodeph Shalom 2025.  1^st Kings 14:25-27.     “When The Golden Shields Are Gone,” by Rabbi Jack Riemer, from May God Remember, edited by Rabbi Lawrence Hoffman, Jewish Lights Publishing, Woodstock, VT. 2013.     “It is Hard to Sing of Oneness” by Rabbi Richard Levy, from Gates of Prayer, CCAR Press, New York, 1975.     Ecclesiastes [9:11], from an idea by Rabbi David Wolpe in a sermon 1996.     “Misery for Breakfast” prayer from Mishkan Hanefesh Rosh Hashanah, CCAR Press, New York, 2015.     Psalm 103.

 

 

Avinu Malkeinu, shema koleinu – Almighty and Merciful, hear our voice. Yom Kippur traditionally is a time of repentance, of seeking forgiveness for past sins, for behavior that should have been different. However, one of the most emotional moments of these holy days is standing before the ark and listening to the chanting of Avinu Malkeinu, and for me the most profound verse is at the very beginning – Almighty and Merciful, hear our voice..

When I hear those words I want to cry out, where is Pastor Martin Niemoller and his famous post Holocaust poem,

First they came for the communists
and I did not speak out
because I was not a communist

Then they came for the socialists
and I did not speak out
because I was not a socialist

Then they came for the trade unionists
and I did not speak out
because I was not a trade unionist

Then they came for the Jews
and I did not speak out
because I was not a Jew

Then they came for me
and there was no one left
to speak out for me

The greatest sin then and I believe that the greatest sin now is silence – silence in the face of evil, silence in the face of cruelty, silence in the face of the distortion of the truth, silence in the face of the destruction of the values that we hold dear. Silence when we are challenged as the people of Israel.

This is the sixty fifth year that I will be speaking on Yom Kippur – sixty five years of trying to bring a message to congregations, and to congregants. Those years have included the murder of a president, a war in Vietnam, a six day war in Israel and a Yom Kippur war just six years later, many other traumatic moments in our world but also the grand moment of the election of our first black president. During these sixty five years I have seen the grief of parents burying children and children bidding farewell to their parents. I have shared the joy of births and B’nai Mitzvah ceremonies, of conversions, of marriage ceremonies of many different religious, racial and sexual orientations. And each year I observe my father’s yahrzeit who died on Yom Kippur when I was only twenty years old. During all of these personal experiences, I was reminded of how precious is human life, all of human life, and that we, especially we the people of Israel, have a covenantal responsibility to protect that sense of sanctity. Thus, once again on Yom Kippur I cry out, a personal cry, Avinu Malkeinu, shema  b’koli, Almighty and Merciful, hear my voice.

Hear my voice when I ask with Job how there is so much human suffering in a world where so many believe in a benevolent god. Job was put to the test, losing everything. His friends argued over and over that he is the cause of his own suffering, that the good are rewarded and those who are guilty of wrongdoing pay the price. So, said his friends to Job, “you must be guilty of some sin because a benevolent all knowing and all powerful god would not punish you if you are innocent.” In real life the innocent do suffer, but who causes that suffering?

So I view the world.  I see men in masks raid stores and homes and kidnap those who they deem to not be American. They are brutally captured and taken to unknown places, often in conditions that are subhuman. I see those same men whisk away frightened little children who have escaped horrible circumstances, whose parents often sent them to America to save them from the terror from whence they came. Now, with no sympathy, with no caring, they are loaded on to planes and sent to foreign countries only to be terrorized once again. Those in the government of the United States who order these deportations do so without empathy.  These migrants have been called vermin, just as Hitler labeled Jews. We are shown pictures of the victims of unimaginable cruelty in cages with government officials claiming some sort of victory. So the innocent do suffer, but the perpetrators are human, not divine.

Hear my voice again when I ask how it can be that we have become a nation that seems to want to destroy the future of this earth. That can be seen in our attack on academic freedom, on proved and valid scientific research, on the continued development of medical knowledge and the application of proven medical practices. How can it be that we are willing to risk the lives of women who are being denied proper health care, of our children by trying to convince their parents that they should not be protected by vaccines that have saved millions of lives, how can it be that we want to increase the pollution of our atmosphere rather than continue the development of alternative sources of energy that will slow or end the pollution of our environment. How is it that we care so little about future generations that we are willing to weaken or destroy the very institutions that have helped to save human life.

Hear my voice when I ask about the freedoms that are being systematically taken away from us  – freedom of speech, freedom of the press, freedom to choose one’s own sexual identity, freedom to criticize, freedom to seek asylum, freedom to protest, and even the freedom to have your vote count.  The rights of some are being protected while the rights of others are being denied, the ability of some to advance and the lives of others are being destroyed. We are moving ever closer to the oligarchy and autocracy of Russia and farther from the democracy of Lincoln.

Hear my voice when I speak about our brethren in our beloved land of Israel. There has been so much discussion about how far Israel should go to punish those who attacked them with such wanton disregard for the value of the lives of those people who were simply living their lives in Israel. The cruelty of Hamas has been manifest, whether rape, or torture or vicious murder. Israel has faced international criticism for the nature and size of its retaliation. More than sixty thousand have been killed in Gaza. Thousands are facing starvation. The vast majority of those who are suffering and dying are not part o the hate group that attacked Israel, and they are suffering the most. This is a difficult moment for Am Yisrael, the people of Israel.

A lovely midrash speaks of the story about the people of Israel crossing the Sea of Reeds. According to the tale, the Hebrews, fleeing from the Egyptians confronted a body of water they could not cross. Miraculously the sea parted and they escaped, but the chariots of the pursuing warriors were drowned by the rising water. In gratitude for their rescue they sang a song of praise to their god, rejoicing for their good fortune. They were, however, soundly rebuked. “How dare you rejoice at the death of the Egyptians”, scolded the divine voice. “They too are my children.” They too are my children. How difficult is that midrash for the people of Israel at this moment in their history.

Ahad Haam, a leader of cultural Zionism in the nineteenth century, published an essay entitled “Lo Zeh Haderech,” this is not the way. Hear my voice – this is not the way. It is not the way to treat those who want to take refuge in this nation as did our ancestors. It is not the way to ignore the warning signs of an atmosphere that threatens to destroy this earth. It is not the way to attack our institutions that have made America the envy of the world and have created and safeguarded our democratic way of life, that have promoted academic freedom and excellence, have developed high quality science and medicine, have cared for the poor and the needy, and made this country a safe haven for a great diversity of human life. This is not the way, o Israel, to win a war against an enemy that is determined to destroy you. While it is not easy at this moment, remember the midrash, they too are my children.

At the end of every seder meal, we open the door for Elijah.

There’s an idea in Hasidism that each of us has inside ourselves an aspect of Elijah. It’s a spark of zeal, a spark of intensity. Wanting to help someone or tell someone good news, to make the world a better place — that feeling is Elijah working inside you.

The book Becoming Elijah by Daniel Matt, explores what has become of Elijah, in Jewish texts and Jewish tradition, how he’s reimagined by each generation. A hidden explanation of the title is that each one of us can become Elijah.

Hear my voice, my beloved congregation – become Elijah. Let Elijah enter the door of this sanctuary, of your home and of your heart, of every home and every heart to bring the message of caring and kindness and empathy, of justice and freedom, of love and peace. We are about to enter the Yizkor service. We pay tribute best to those who are no longer with us by making certain they did not live in vain. Hear their voice. Shema b’koli, hear my voice, Shema koleinu. Hear our voice o world. Let the spirit of Elijah into your souls and your hearts. Hear our voice, on this Day of Atonement.

 

“Today you are all standing before the Lord your God.” (Deut. 29:9).

“Do not separate yourself from the community”. (Pirkei Avot – 1:14).

I want to continue the theme from Rabbi Maderer’s Rosh Hashanah sermon, and let’s return once again to the writer Robert Putnam, who, years ago, authored the book that really put him and the issue of aloneness on the map:  “Bowling Alone: The Collapse and Revival of American Community”. We are a nation that goes to church (and synagogue) less, joins clubs less, and are losing trust in each other and our institutions. These trends have been exacerbated by technology, the pandemic, and now with AI and political polarization. This “separation” from community is an urgent problem; anger,  betrayal,  emotional disagreement on Israel, antisemitism, and politics eat at the core of our community. And most of this vituperation is online, where we don’t actually speak to each other or look each other in the eye.

As Rabbi Maderer shared in her sermon on Rosh Hashanah, RS is pro-actively trying to find meaningful ways to break through this cycle by rebuilding right here in our own community. We have begun a series of small group discussions where we can once again see each other’s humanity – “panim el panim,” face to face. When we  see the humanity in each other, we will reverse this downward cycle and “return” together in community.

With that goal in mind, and fully recognizing this may seem strange in the middle of a Yom Kippur service – please indulge me: find someone nearby you don’t know; introduce yourself, and share what brings you here today – what compels you to come to RS this Yom Kippur. Let’s take two minutes to get to know each other better – true to our vision to create profound connections.

I really appreciate your willingness to spend these moments in relationship with someone new; maybe someone you would like to get to know even better after today. If you are hungry for more, we will have an in-depth opportunity to connect later today before Afternoon Services begins as we launch our “Belonging Project.”

Now I want to briefly shift gears to a completely different topic – but one that’s equally important and close to my heart.

“When Moses’ father-in-law Yitro saw all that Moses did for the people, he said:  What is this thing that you do for the people? The thing that you are doing is not good. You will surely wear away, both you, and this people that is with you; for this work is too heavy for one person; you are not able to perform it alone.” (Exodus, 18)

We are blessed to have a deep and talented group of leaders in this congregation. While the congregation president may be most visible, one person cannot do it alone. As I complete my final Yom Kippur message to you, I want to lift up and recognize the leaders of this congregation without whom we could not maintain this sacred community. If you’re an officer of the congregation please stand, if you’re a member of the Board of Directors, please stand, if you are a member of our Board of Advisors, please stand up, and if you lead any of our many engagement groups please rise. Please look around at these hard working, often unrecognized leaders and thank them. I personally can’t thank all of you enough for supporting me these past few years and for the visionary work you do.

The Hebrew word for ‘thank you,’ ‘todah,’ is rooted in lehodot — ‘to acknowledge.’ A true thank you is never perfunctory; it is a humble admission: I could not have done this without you. Thankfulness requires humility. It acknowledges that we are not self-sufficient, that our lives are interwoven with the care and support of others. In admitting limitation, we begin to experience a deeper sense of wholeness…We discover that the very boundaries of our strength and control are what create the space for others to enter our lives.”

You renew and uplift me by your presence, your ideas and care, and maybe even some occasional kvetching. I still have 8 months left in my term, and there is much work to do. We are so fortunate to be part of this amazing place. Looking ahead, I will be succeeded by one of our extraordinary long-term leaders, Marsha Weinraub, who I am confident will do an incredible job. Please support her as you have supported me.

May we all go from strength to strength, together, in community, and in relationship. Shana tova.

Gut Yunteif.

This summer, my daughter Nora came home from JCC Camps at Medford beaming. She had just finished Color War – that end-of-camp ritual where the whole community divides into teams, covers themselves in face paint, and cheers as if the World Cup is on the line. She was sure her team was going to win.

Only… they didn’t win. The Blue team won. And I braced myself for disappointment. I was ready to hear complaints about unfair judging or dramatic stories about a relay that should have gone differently. Instead, when I asked how she felt, she smiled and said: “Actually, I’m happy. Because Addie – from Berkman Mercaz Limud – she was on Blue. And she got to win.”

That’s it. No jealousy. No bitterness. No self-pity. Just joy for her friend. That’s firgun.

Firgun is one of those Hebrew words with no perfect English equivalent. It means genuine, unselfish joy in someone else’s success. Not flattery. Not politeness. Not the sportsmanship of, “I’ll clap for you so you’ll clap for me.” Firgun is what happens when we let go of envy and simply delight in another person’s good fortune. The Israeli sociolinguist Tamar Katriel put it perfectly in her landmark study of the word: “It is not just giving compliments; it is when you identify with, encourage, and feel proud of the other person.”

Now, we already know a word in Jewish life that gets close: naches. The joy a parent or grandparent feels in their child’s success. Every grandparent here knows it: “My grandkid got into college. My granddaughter led services. What naches!” Naches is wonderful, but it is tied to me – my child, my family. Firgun is joy untied from self-interest. Naches strengthens families. Firgun strengthens our entire world. Here at RS, we are rich in naches. Firgun asks us to widen the circle, to take joy in another’s blessing even when it has nothing to do with us.

And that brings us directly into the heart of the High Holidays, and into the most haunting words we recite each year from the Unetaneh Tokef prayer:

“Mi yichyeh u’mi yamut, mi va’esh u’mi vamayim… mi yushpal u’mi yarum.” “Who shall live and who shall die. Who by fire and who by water. Who shall be humbled and who shall be exalted. Who shall be brought low, and who shall be raised up.”

When we hear those words, we often focus on life and death, fire and water. But notice: the prayer is not only about mortality, but about status, dignity, honor. Some will be humbled, and some will be exalted. It reminds us that the test is not just what happens to me – it is how I respond to what happens to others. When someone else is exalted, do I resent it? Do I ignore it? Or do I find within myself the spiritual courage of firgun – to rejoice in their rise?

The opposite of firgun is schadenfreude – taking pleasure in someone else’s misstep or downfall. We know it: a rival falters, and part of us secretly smiles. Neuroscientists have shown that when someone we’re pitted against stumbles, our brains light up in reward centers – wired for that small, sharp delight. But our tradition pushes against that; we read in Proverbs: “Do not rejoice when your enemy falls.” Although it may feel good in the moment, it is spiritually destructive and leads us down a dark path. Unetaneh Tokef reminds us sharply: some will be exalted, some humbled, some raised, some brought low. The test is not what happens, but how we respond. Will we lean into bitterness, or will we lift toward firgun?

The Unetaneh Tokef itself gives us the answer: u’teshuvah, u’tefillah, u’tzedakah ma’avirin et ro’a hagezeirah – it is through turning, through prayer, and through acts of justice that we soften life’s harshness. Firgun can be part of that response.

The firgun of teshuvah is turning away from envy and gloating.

The firgun of tefillah is prayer that reshapes the heart, that teaches us not to focus only on our own needs but to open ourselves to the blessings of others.

And the firgun of tzedakah; not just giving money, but giving honor, giving joy, giving recognition freely. A generosity of spirit, where we expand our hearts as much as our hands.

Our tradition gives us a powerful model of firgun in the friendship between the biblical characters of Jonathan and David. David was the young shepherd who killed Goliath and rose quickly in King Saul’s court. Jonathan was Saul’s son and the heir to the throne. They were set up for rivalry.

Jonathan had every reason to resist David’s success. He should have seen David as competition. Instead, understanding God’s plan, Jonathan celebrated David’s rise. He chose firgun. When David was exalted and he himself was humbled, Jonathan didn’t shrink back in bitterness. He leaned in with joy, with delight in his friend’s greatness. The text tells us that Jonathan even took off his royal robe – the symbol of his succession – and gave it to David. 

And we don’t have to look far to find examples of firgun in our own time. The 2023 Super Bowl gave us an example in Philadelphia’s own Kelce brothers. Jason Kelce, the anchor of the Eagles’ team, faced his younger brother Travis – Taylor Swift’s fiancé and the star tight end for the Kansas City Chiefs. For weeks leading up to the game, the story was billed as “the Kelce Bowl.” Only one brother could walk away with a ring.

And when the game ended, it was Travis and the Chiefs who stood victorious – and Jason and the Eagles who walked away heartbroken. It would have been natural for Jason to be crushed, to retreat, to let the sting of defeat overshadow everything else. But what did he do? He found his brother on the field, threw his arms around him, and celebrated. 

That’s firgun. Even in the moment of being humbled, Jason chose joy in his brother’s accomplishments. He chose abundance over scarcity, love over rivalry.

The real challenge is mindset. We live in a culture of scarcity. A scarcity mentality pits people and groups against each other, saying: There isn’t enough. Not enough money, not enough attention, not enough love. If you shine, I must dim. If you win, I must lose. But Torah teaches abundance. In the wilderness, manna fell – enough for everyone. Similarly, on Shabbat, we escape the world of consumption and competition. Firgun is like Shabbat for the heart – a pause from grasping, a rest from comparison, a chance to believe that what we have, and who we are, is enough.

Unetaneh Tokef says, some will be lifted and some lowered. A scarcity mindset says: Your rise diminishes me. Whereas an abundance mindset says: Your rise blesses me too.

Bitterness thrives in this world when we resent one another, when we see our neighbor’s gain as our loss. Firgun resists that poison. It says: Your joy is my joy. My dignity is bound up with yours.

Imagine what firgun would look like in our families, our communities, our country. Imagine if LinkedIn became a platform of firgun – not just a place where we announce our own promotions, but where we amplify our colleagues’ successes. Imagine a holiday meal with family where siblings don’t compete for who is most successful, but rather delight in each other’s accomplishments. Imagine if politicians could say of their opponents, without sarcasm or spin: “That was a great idea – I wish I had thought of it.”

And imagine if that wasn’t fantasy, but spiritual discipline. Because the world we live in right now is saturated with the opposite. Social media thrives on comparison. Politics thrives on tearing the other side down. Our culture rewards outrage more than affirmation. Firgun is not naïve in the face of all this harshness. Firgun is resistance. It is a counter-cultural act of generosity in a world addicted to scarcity.

So I want to invite you now into a moment of reflection. Take a few deep breaths. Close your eyes if you’re comfortable.

First, bring to mind a time when you felt a little spark of schadenfreude – joy at another’s stumble. Maybe it was small. Someone who cut you off in traffic and then got stuck at the red light. A coworker who finally got called out after bragging a little too much. We’ve all been there. Hold it gently. Our tradition knows this is human. This is not about shame – it’s about honesty. Just notice that feeling, that tug of satisfaction at someone else’s loss.

Now let that go. And now, turn your heart toward someone you love very much. Someone whose joy is your joy. Imagine something important to them coming true. A dream fulfilled, a goal achieved. How does it feel in your heart as you see them shine? Breathe that in.

Now, stretch further. Picture someone you don’t always get along with. Maybe someone who annoys you, maybe someone who has hurt you a little, maybe someone who simply bothers you. Now imagine something important to them coming true. Imagine them succeeding. Can you – even just for a moment – touch a place in your heart where you can celebrate that for them? Can you wish them well? That is firgun at its hardest, and also at its holiest.

Take another breath. Hold that feeling. And when you’re ready, open your eyes.

As you return from that moment of reflection, carry with you the awareness that firgun is not just a feeling – it is a practice. It is something we can build, like a spiritual muscle. We need it not only in here, but out there: at the dinner table, in our workplaces, in our neighborhoods, in the headlines. Imagine a world where our instinct is to celebrate each other’s rise, to widen our joy until it spills over. That is what firgun can create.

Firgun in a harsh world is choosing abundance over fear, dignity over cynicism, blessing over bitterness. It is not soft. It is strong. It is a spiritual muscle, built day by day, word by word, until it reshapes not only us, but the world around us.

May this New Year bring naches for those we love, firgun for those beyond our circle, and blessings enough for us all. May we meet the harshness of the world not with cynicism, but with firgun – a joy, generous of spirit, that makes us strong together.

Ken yehi ratzon. May this be God’s will. Gut Yunteif!

 

I had read about the Nazi book-burning, but only when I saw the memorial with my own eyes could I capture the magnitude.  I traveled to Berlin this summer and beheld the site of the largest book-burning—in the heart of the city, in the middle of a university plaza, in plain view of German society.  In the spring of 1933 a campaign to control culture, suppress dissent, and spread fear centered around the book-burning at Humboltz University. There, with great ceremony, citizens, students and professors listened to Nazi conspiracy theories and threw books into the flames.

As I bore witness to the attempted erasure of people and of the ideas that sustain us, I took in the memorial exhibit, created by Israeli artist Micha Ullman.  At the site, a window into the ground reveals a sunken library of empty shelves enough for the over 20,000 burned books.  A plaque reads: “where they burn books, they will ultimately burn people as well.”  The assault on truth laid the foundation for the Nazi’s worst atrocities against the Jewish People and against humanity.

Not our people’s first story of repression. Recall with me the prelude, to our Pesach story of redemption.  Do you remember when Moses is born, who saves his life?  When during the Israelites’ enslavement in Egypt, Pharaoh decrees that their baby boys be killed at birth, the Hebrew midwives, Shifrah and Puah, let the boys live.  They refuse to surrender to tyranny.

From where do they find the resolve? The bravery? The story reveals Shifrah and Puah are driven by: fear of God — yirah.  Torah teaches: the signature weapon of the tyrant is fear; the defining virtue of those who defy tyranny: Fear God.

Judaism’s notion to fear God was never before central to my personal faith, even as a metaphor. But as I return to the story of Shifrah and Puah this year I have a new read on it.

The point is not simply that they fear God; it is that they fear God instead of fearing the tyrant. They fear God, only God.

To fear only God—Does this mean the midwives, are immune to the fear of human threats? Of course not—they are flesh and blood. It means they do not permit terror, to determine their decisions. That’s what it is, to fear only God.

On Yom Kippur, when we come before the Holy One to examine who we are and who we ought to become, with the chilling imagery of the Unetane Tokef morning prayer, trembling, we declare: “On this day Your sovereignty is exalted, and Your throne is established.”  Yet, now I wonder: is the proclamation really about God at all?  Maybe the metaphor is just a warning: do not mistake any human authority, for divine authority. God is sovereign. No one else.

You need not even believe in God in order to be compelled by the message: Do not treat anyone else as though they are divine. For that would be idolatry.

Despite the pressure to fear Pharaoh, with their livelihoods and their lives at stake, the midwives refuse to surrender.  As they originate our People’s story of resistance the midwives demonstrate: do not allow fear of another person to shape your moral actions –only fear of God.  The midwives do not only birth Moses; they birth the spiritual moral courage of Judaism.

Shifrah and Puah grasp their unique power and refuse to submit to the authoritarian tool of fear.  Perhaps we crave their example, now more than ever, as in this chapter of our nation’s history, we walk, through a valley of the shadow.

I can speak to difficult issues with you because, here for my 25^th year, I trust you know that I cherish our relationship and that I am always interested in connecting in conversation with congregants about what is important to you, whether we agree or not.

Countless numbers of you have shared: today, our country feels scary.  True, not only for you, and for me, but also for our larger Reform Movement. We are not alone.

As Union for Reform Judaism president Rabbi Rick Jacobs has voiced: “The foundations of our democracy are being threatened; our security and rights—they feel less certain.”

Still, we are not in 1930’s Nazi Germany, and we ought not resign ourselves, lose hope, capitulate in advance.  We have agency… to preserve the pillars of democracy—to guard freedom of speech, protect minorities, defend Jewish safety, oppose political violence, stand firm against authoritarianism, refusing to permit wrath to control us.

When I see democracy backsliding: compliance deals that consolidate executive power, and dismantle democratic institutions, independent media threatened, due process denied, the justice system used as an instrument of personal retaliation, dissent and anti-discrimination work forced underground, I wonder: What might be the story of our society’s resistance?

And I remind myself: our People have faced repression throughout the ages and Jewish wisdom lights the way, from generation to generation. Jewish history teaches us, how critical it is to protect a free society. We know! Maybe that’s why so many want to divide us.  For in the face of anti-democratic forces, who knows better than we, the dehumanization of being cast into the shadows.

I had a classmate during rabbinical school, a brilliant, funny, and compassionate student, who became distant through the years.  I did not understand why this student declined invitations, avoided sitting with us at lunch, and participated less in class discussions.  All these years later, now a trans man, this rabbi has shared that while in school he had begun to transition, but some professors objected, and pushed him into the closet.  Once he was hiding his gender identity, the other aspects of his personality became repressed. Rabbi Nachshon Siritsky writes: “Hiding my true self meant depriving my soul of oxygen, until eventually I began to die on the inside.” When vulnerable people reject erasure and demonization, we know: it is time to be steadfast, in our fear of God, and only God.

For, who knows better than we, the power of solidarity, and the horrors, that can emerge in its absence.

Under the Nazis, Europe failed solidarity. To protect Jews was against the law and risked death; for the most part, the non-Jews of Europe did not take that risk. Today, for most of us solidarity rarely demands the price of arrest, imprisonment, or death.  Our livelihoods, more than our lives, are at stake.  When our universities, law firms, corporations, and media, capitulate, and when ICE—masked– neglects due process, with cruelty, kidnaps people…we cannot fail solidarity.

Complicating our experience, antisemitism is targeted at us from every direction. Hating Jews is the one thing the far right and the far left can agree on. There are those convinced that combatting antisemitism demands we attack free speech. To them, I would say: We are being used; we are being pitted against other historically oppressed groups and them against us, set up to easily be scapegoated and abandoned. Democratic institutions provide the very protections we and other minorities need in a free society.  As the CEO of the Jewish Council for Public Affairs Amy Spitalnick teaches: There is no Jewish safety without inclusive democracy; there is no inclusive democracy without Jewish safety.

Democracy is key to American Jewish life. I am uplifted by the ways our enduring Jewish values guide our congregants to uphold democracy as you follow the example of those midwives–who, refusing to treat a tyrant as divine, fear God and only God.  In this harsh world, you are finding your mitzvah.

Rejecting anti-democratic threats to due process, you embody the mitzvah to love the stranger. Every week at our fresh food pantry Breaking Bread on Broad you serve our neighbors with dignity, no matter their immigration status; and our Breaking Bread on Broad leaders are trained to protect our guests should ICE target us with an unwarranted visit.

Defying anti-democratic assaults on science, you embody the mitzvah to guard nature. Expanding environmental sustainability, and countering climate change–most recently introducing composting in the synagogue—you affirm research-based science and the valid quest for truth.

Denying anti-democratic scapegoating, you embody the mitzvah to treat everyone as created in the image of God/betzelem Elohim.  With our Prism LGBTQ+ work, you advance visibility and safety, as with the upcoming Trans and Gender Expansive panel; you honor the story of LGBTQ+ Jewish life, preparing to mark 50 years since the founding of the beloved Beth Ahavah, Philadelphia’s historic gay synagogue.

You counter the isolation by community-building here at RS. And in the greater community–for we Jews need solidarity too. I am moved by your commitment to enter the boardroom, the school district, the neighborhood, bringing your strong Jewish identity into spaces where others do not understand antisemitism or where behaviors are fueled by antisemitism.

Know that when I enter multifaith coalition spaces, I too bring my Judaism and Zionism to the table, even when it is not on the meeting agenda, so that other faiths know to be aware of Oct. 7, know that our hostages remain in the captivity of terrorists, and know that Jews protest Israel’s current administration–that we are committed to Palestinian dignity, safety and freedom–And so they know: we will not, even among our justice partners, avert our eyes when antisemitism is present.

We cannot help others understand, if we do not know them. Those who would pit us against each other, are depending on our absence from that table. Isolation and despair, are tools of authoritarianism; community and hope, are agents of democracy.

Authoritarianism only requires surrender; democracy requires more. More spiritual examination of our own souls, our own potential impact. More courage not to abdicate our role or abandon our voice. More willingness to find our mitzvah in our community and exert our power in our spheres of influence–not a power fueled by ego, but by relationship and responsibility.  Democracy requires more and I see it coming from you. I see you answer the courageous call of the midwives, fearing no one, but God.

This evening for Kol Nidre, we stood before the open ark, emptied of its Torah scrolls, as though we were facing our own casket. The truth of our mortality confronts us with urgency, to say: do not allow false idols to define your moral path.

The world feels harsh.  For refuge, we turn to each other and to the books that sustain us; the words of the Psalm resound: “Even when I walk through the valley, I shall fear no evil, for You are with me.”  We are not alone.

Perhaps that is what the midwives would come to understand. God is with them.  And they are with one another.  God is with us, and we, with one another.

The midwives beckon us to embrace our agency and to occupy the space that demands.  Despite the pressure to fear Pharaoh, Shifrah and Puah become our People’s origin story of resistance…Calling out to us: do not allow fear of another person to shape your moral actions –only fear of God–as they birth the spiritual moral courage of Judaism.

On this holy day, when together we boldly ask: What is our responsibility? What is our mitzvah?

May our response be rooted in the fear of God, and only God.

 

Source: “My Almost Silenced Prayer,” Rabbi Dr. Nachshon Siritsky: Winter 2005 CCAR Journal issue, Opening the Doors to LGBTQAI+ Clergy: Past, Present, and Future, ed. Rabbi Ellen Lippmann and Rabbi Ariel Tovlev.

I trust you have heard the theory of 6 degrees of separation – the premise that all the world is connected by a social chain with no more than 5 links.  Similar, perhaps you’ve heard of 6 degrees of Kevin Bacon – the theory that any actor can through movie roles, be linked to Philadelphia native, the actor, Kevin Bacon. Here’s how you play: Can you connect Robert DeNiro to Kevin Bacon?  Robert DeNiro appears in Silver Linings Playbook with Jennifer Lawrence who is in X-Men with Kevin Bacon. (I’m quite good at this game.)

Now, a question for our congregation. How many degrees of separation, are in this sanctuary? If you meet a fellow congregant, how many links does it take for you to know another congregant in common? In her new book, The Jewish Way to a Good Life, Rabbi Shira Stutman teaches: it ought to take only one link. The degree of separation reveals the closeness—or distance—of the community.

She has me wondering about the degrees of separation at Rodeph Shalom about the strength of our connections here, and about the impact a synagogue can have in this difficult moment in American Jewish life. I know I am not alone in feeling this world has grown, harsh.

From anti-immigrant xenophobia, to transphobia, from antisemitism, to the world’s neglect of the Israeli hostages, to starvation in Gaza, and statelessness of the Palestinian people, to threats to democracy in our own nation…all of the injustice, the callousness, relies on tools of isolation and dehumanization.

At Rodeph Shalom, we are finding our mitzvah in the social justice work. But tackling each issue is not our only response. For, one answer to a harsh world, one way to resist isolation, division and demonization, is to know each other. Our sacred purpose as a congregation compels us to strengthen the connections that bind us, together, to heed today’s words of the Unetane Tokef prayer: Ma-ah-vee-reen et ro-ah hagezerah – we can transcend the harshness.

Our tradition understands: interconnectedness lies at the center of Jewish life. We sing the words of the Psalmist, which read: “Henei matov umanayim / How good and how pleasing it is when we dwell all together. But isn’t it sufficient to just say together, rather than all together? A mystical Jewish text suggests: “Together” describes the people; “all together” adds God to the mix.* When we gather we invite God’s presence. Communal gathering is not only human; it is holy.

Our sages imagine us at risk of losing our connections and offer a cautionary text. Pirke Avot teaches: “Do not separate from the community.” The ancient sages– as though they are living in 2025…watching us substitute our engagement with social media for actual human connection IRL…  as though the sages themselves are witnessing a world still healing from the pandemic… as though they have read the past surgeon general Dr. Vivek Murthy’s warning about loneliness threatening our lives, the sages put it so simply: “Do not separate from the community.”

Thought-leaders of our own time are catching up with the sages.  Biologists have found the feeling human beings call loneliness evolved as a signal. When you sense hunger, it is time to eat.  When you sense isolation, it is time to connect. But here’s where I see a difference. When we feel hungry, we eat.  When we feel alone?…we are not always so quick to respond by connecting. The pandemic – its grief, anxiety, and fear — remain with us. Lonesomeness today touches us, and so many around us: the professional who works remotely –with convenience but separated from co-workers; the young adult who seeks ways to make friends after college, the retiree who yearns for meaningful daily interaction; the divorced woman who watches Jeopardy in her apartment wondering if she knows anyone with whom she might attend services here at her congregation; the widower who watches Jeopardy in his apartment in her very building wondering the same.

Loneliness can beget loneliness. Isolation can pull us into inertia, despondence.  Still, we cannot get stuck or lose hope, for loneliness is not only a feeling and a health epidemic, loneliness is a guidepost for our survival.

One response to loneliness is scholar Robert Putnam’s latest project called, Join or Die.  With a Philadelphia appreciation for the Join or Die motto –from Ben Franklin’s take on the colonies in his political cartoon of the segmented snake that needs to rejoin itself to survive…and of course, its adoption by the 76ers in the 2018 playoffs run…  Putnam’s film Join or Die argues: Why you should join a club, and why the fate of America depends on it.

Although now you can watch Join or Die on Netflix, initially it was only authorized for communal settings. Sure enough, it was scheduled to be screened at a community center in Philadelphia earlier this month, and my husband suggested we go to view it. When I replied: “it would be more convenient to watch it at home,” he responded, “OK… but honey, do you see the irony here?!” Was I perceiving the opportunity to connect as a bother? Yes, I have some re-prioritizing to do. Maybe I’m not the only one. Putnam’s core point.

Putnam’s work tracks loneliness with a decrease in trust. This decrease surely contributes to the harshness so many of us long to transcend. Weakened social connections and weakened trust breed polarization and dehumanization.

How many settings in your life celebrate complexity or hold multiple generations and perspectives?  How many media sources do you digest from multiple points of view, or nuanced points of view?  It is not easy to find. We learn a different news story depending on the radio talk-show host we tune into. The social media we consume does not even require us to tune into preferred stations. It gives us each a different take with content curated according to algorithms, further entrenching us in our own perspectives rather than challenging us to be hard on our own opinions, or to understand someone else’s. There are few diverse places, of bonding and listening rather than persuading and blaming. Few spaces where we can grow in our own nuanced understanding, care for people who think differently, even feel responsible for them, and stretch our capacity for empathy. I believe although the complexity might be too much for the algorithms to handle; it ought not be too much for us to handle, congregant to congregant.

I pray that you sense, as I do, that when loneliness and polarization threaten us, part of our response is sacred interconnected community. Isolation is a tool of polarization. And loneliness is an epidemic, for which we – our congregation—is an antidote.

I believe our congregation has reached a time when we need to go back to the basics of our vision to create profound connections. My sense is we do not know each other well enough. As we embrace this new year it is time for a renewed commitment to communal life.

Last year in a retreat, our Boards of Advisors and Directors engaged in an exercise that brought them together in structured conversations. In small groups, they responded to prompts such as: What Jewish value do you want to leave for the next generation? Some of these participants knew each other for years; others were meeting for the first time. The experience was transformative, and at the conclusion we reflected, let’s just do that all year long.

At Rodeph Shalom gatherings let’s measure impact by reflecting: did I make a new connection?  Deepen an old one?

A collaborative team of congregants and staff are building a relational engagement campaign called The Belonging Project. Groups of congregants who do not know each other convene for small-group structured conversations that cultivate sharing that matters. After each gathering participants can help to co-create the next steps of the campaign. Slowly and deliberately, we are strengthening community, relationship by relationship.

The next step of The Belonging Project is to extend participation to the whole congregation. On Yom Kippur afternoon, in between services, we will have an opportunity for face-to-face relationship building when we gather in a large room of small groups for structured conversations about what matters in our lives.

In our initial engagement campaign gathering our prompt was: Where did you grow up and how did that shape you?   In my small group I listened to others speak with vulnerability and trust as they opened up about the impact of where they were raised. And I shared my own experience. I recalled as a child in the suburbs watching the urban Sesame Street and thinking–that’s the way to live! I’d like to share the playground rather than have my own yard, I’d like to be able to walk to the hardware store, (and have Big Bird as a neighbor!).  As I opened up to my group, sharing something that mattered to me, felt both human and holy.

I was so moved by the energy at that experimental gathering.  As though there might even be hope for Sesame Street to become more than a dream.

And then, something outside the plan happened. As everyone headed out to go home, two participants (who have granted permission to share), left the table more slowly as one parent in our religious school Berkman Mercaz Limud noticed aloud the torn black ribbon mourners wear—a kriya ribbon–pinned to the shirt of a woman, an empty nester he did not know. And both of them felt a pull, to remain in the space. Extending himself, he asked her whom she was grieving. She shared that her father had died just a week before. And then the man replied that his mother died earlier that year. They stayed on to share their experiences of bereavement and to share something of the loved ones they each were remembering. They could bring comfort and feel understood.

I think of what it demanded of that man and that woman to commit to showing up to connect that day. To prioritize the bonds of community enough to invest that time, demands dedication.

For many of us, building new relationships means taking a risk and moving outside our comfort zone, or resisting an urge toward inertia, helplessness, or hopelessness.  Still, deep down, don’t we know: When we connect with others, something happens within us. It can open our heart.  Move our soul.  Stir our curiosity. Inspire hope. Make us more whole. 

In a world still healing from the pandemic, it is our holy purpose to move through the discomfort, and to respond to loneliness by connecting. It is a precious gift to be in a place where we intentionally choose to care. In a world of callousness, may we know we are not alone. In this world where we profoundly need each other, may we sustain ourselves in our congregational bonds. In this season of possibility, ma-ah-virin et ro-ah hagezerah / We can transcend the harshness, together.

 

*Henei Matov interpretation based on commentary in The Relational Judaism Handbook, by Dr. Ron Wolfson, Rabbi Nicole Auerbach and Rabbi Lydia Medwin.

Shanah Tovah.

I want to begin tonight with a story from almost 20 years ago during my rabbinical school days, one I don’t often tell, but one that shaped me in ways I still carry. It is a story about dehumanization and being made invisible.

When I was living in Jerusalem, I was given a High Holy Day pulpit assignment through the World Union for Progressive Judaism to serve a congregation in Johannesburg, South Africa. It was a community much like Rodeph Shalom – urban, proud of its tradition, and deeply committed, though unable at that time to afford a full-time rabbi. They brought in students to lead, and I was honored to go.

I landed in Johannesburg, tired but excited. I had been thinking ahead to the High Holiday services I would lead, the community I would get to know. I handed my passport to the immigration officer, expecting the familiar stamp and a welcome.

Instead, the officer looked up and said, “You cannot enter the country.”

I was stunned. I had a valid American passport. No one had told me I needed a visa. Then I was told: South Africa requires you to have a completely blank page in your passport – one that has never been stamped. My passport had plenty of room, but every page had some kind of stamp from my travels. No page was pristine. And because of that, I was suddenly not a traveler, not a rabbinical student, not a guest of a synagogue. I was an “illegal entrant.”

Very quickly, I was escorted away, my passport confiscated. I was put into a detention cell. I recall the fear coursing through my body, the shock of how quickly everything changed. One minute I was arriving to serve a synagogue. The next, I was a detainee.

In that cell, I met others: a Chinese family, and a young man from Europe who had come to play soccer. We were caught in the net of technicalities, powerless. An officer came in with paperwork and said: Sign this statement admitting that you tried to enter the country illegally. If you sign, you’ll be deported immediately and never allowed to return. If you refuse, you’ll rot here. No lawyer, no phone, no embassy. Just invisibility.

At one point, a guard began shouting at the Chinese family, and in my attempt to help, I was pulled out of the group and put in a cell alone.

The loneliness was crushing. Hours stretched with no contact, no idea if the congregation waiting at the airport even knew what had happened to me. I wondered if Laurel knew, if my parents knew, if anyone could see me. And that, more than the fear of what might happen, was the ache of being unseen. This is what dehumanization looks and feels like.

Eventually, I signed. Not because I had done anything wrong, but because I was desperate to escape that erasure.

I finally got a chance to call Laurel, my parents, and the synagogue. That moment of being able to speak, to be heard, to be known again – it restored my humanity.

I remember Laurel’s voice on the line. She listened, and then, trying to lighten the weight of it all, she said: “Well, at least you didn’t get eaten by a lion.”

Then, with the help of some bribes and some connections, I was ultimately able to secure my release and stay in South Africa, serving the congregation. But what stays with me isn’t the safari or the services. What stays with me is the memory of those hours in detention, when I was erased. When I was invisible.

And into that invisibility, the words of our tradition cry out. The words of Psalm 27, which we traditionally recite every day of this past Hebrew month Elul in preparation for the New Year, Al-tastir panecha mimeni – Do not hide Your face from me. That was my prayer in that cell. It is the prayer of every immigrant locked away in a detention center. It is the prayer of every undocumented child living in the shadows who wonders if speaking too loudly might put their family in danger.

But Psalm 27 does not end in despair. It proclaims: God is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? God is the stronghold of my life; of whom shall I be afraid? And again: Wait for God, be strong, and let your heart take courage. Psalm 27 is not just about lament – it is about courage and restoration. It is about refusing to accept invisibility as the last word.

Tonight, our tradition says, we open the gates. The Gates of Heaven, that God might see us. We open the Gates of our very souls, cracking open our vulnerabilities. And we open the Gates of Justice, that we might partner with God in bringing redemption to this world. 

The story of immigration and dehumanization is not new to our people. This summer, my daughter, Josephine, read Ruth Behar’s Across So Many Seas, a novel that tells the story of four generations of Jewish women, beginning with the expulsion from Spain, moving to Turkey, then to Cuba, and finally to Miami. Each generation struggles with exile, displacement, and invisibility. What Behar shows us is that invisibility is not just about legal status – it is about our collective memory as a people, about whose stories are carried forward and whose are erased.

Behar describes herself as a “vulnerable observer.” She refuses to remain detached. She insists on bearing witness, on making visible what could otherwise be hidden. Her work – and Josephine’s encounter with it – remind us that the invisibility of dehumanization has haunted our people for centuries. But also that our calling, generation after generation, is to insist on being seen, and to insist on seeing others.

“Al-tastir panecha mimeni. Do not hide Your face from me” – Psalm 27 is not just a plea for God’s presence – it is a charge to us, to ensure that those around us are not hidden, that their faces are not erased.

This is why dehumanization is not only a political crisis but a spiritual one. To reduce a person to a number, a case file, an “illegal,” is to deny the image of God within them. But Torah insists: B’tzelem Elohim bara oto – God created humanity in God’s image. Our High Holiday liturgy, Unetaneh Tokef, insists that on this day, God sees us each one by one. None of us is invisible before God. And so, when our systems erase people, when our society hides them away, it is not only cruelty – it is heresy.

We have felt this close to home. Every Wednesday morning, congregants come to volunteer at Breaking Bread on Broad, serving over 180 families, providing fresh food, diapers, menstrual supplies, books for children, and so much more. It has become a lifeline for neighbors, a place of sanctuary, a place where invisibility is turned into community.

But when ICE rescinded the Sensitive Locations memo – a policy that had kept immigration enforcement away from schools, houses of worship, and community centers – the safety of these places suddenly felt fragile. Families grew afraid. What if coming to Rodeph Shalom puts them at risk?

So, to ensure our neighbors feel safe, we trained staff and lead volunteers on how to best protect guests who might be undocumented. We continue to adapt to make it clear: this is a place of protection, not danger. 

And that is why Rodeph Shalom has formally joined the New Sanctuary Movement of Philadelphia, an interfaith, immigrant-led coalition rooted in faith, dedicated to dignity and liberation. It brings together congregations, synagogues, churches, mosques, and immigrant leaders themselves to change the reality of dehumanization.

New Sanctuary Movement organizes accompaniment – volunteers physically going to court with immigrants, sitting beside them so they are not alone. It organizes public action – demanding change, demanding justice. It builds leadership – most of its leaders are immigrants themselves, many of them women, who guide its vision. It creates community – so that invisibility is replaced by visibility, erasure replaced by belonging. I invite you to reach out to me or our lay leaders to get involved with New Sanctuary Movement – to attend an accompaniment training or a rally. To advocate for city and state policies that will protect immigrants.

And tonight, we all have the opportunity to participate in a practical action: advocating for the Welcoming Schools policies.

A Welcoming Schools policy ensures that every child in Pennsylvania, regardless of immigration status, has the right to attend school safely and without fear. It affirms that schools may not ask about or share immigration status. It prohibits ICE or DHS agents from entering school grounds without a signed judicial warrant. It often includes staff training, so that teachers and administrators know how to respond if immigration enforcement appears. It ensures that schools are sanctuaries for learning, not places of terror.

Why does this matter? Because when a child is afraid to go to school, they are invisible in the classroom. When parents are afraid to bring their kids, their education, their voice, and their very future is hidden. A Welcoming Schools policy is not a piece of bureaucracy – it is a moral and spiritual statement: children belong, and fear will not erase them.

Tonight, we’re not only talking about it – we’re doing something. At the end of some of the aisles, you will find a manila envelope filled with postcards. During a few moments of quiet reflection after this sermon, you are invited to take one, fill it out, and pass the envelope along.

If you live in Lower Merion, which has yet to institute a Welcoming Schools policy, take a card from the bag labelled Lower Merion. If you live in Philadelphia, use one of the other cards that thank our city for implementing this policy. And if you don’t live in Philly or Lower Merion, we have other postcards for you in the lobby. 

Please write your name and address, and then drop the card in the lobby on your way out. We will gather them, record our numbers so we have data to report on our impact, and deliver them together to the school boards at an upcoming meeting

Each postcard is more than paper. Each one is an answer to the Psalmist’s cry: Al-tastir panecha mimeni – Do not hide Your face from me. Each card is a chance to partner with God in bringing light where there is fear, in making sure no child is invisible. Each postcard is a testimony that says to a student: We see you. You are safe. You belong. Do not hide Your face from us.

May our witnessing say: Do not hide Your face.

May our solidarity say: Do not hide Your face.

And as God opens the gates tonight, may we open them too – for immigrants, for refugees, for children, for every neighbor who feels invisible.

Shanah tovah.

If you weren’t in attendance on Erev Rosh Hashanah, you can still add your name to the message to your school board in support of a Welcoming Schools Policy at rac.org/WSP.