I would like to express my deepest condolences to all of you who are mourning for a loved one who died during this past year, as well as those of you who are mourning the loss of loved ones in years past, as we recall all that they meant to each of us.

For those of us who live in Center City Philadelphia, we love walking around and seeing the old homes and historic buildings which have been renovated and restored, and now provide the homes, restaurants, shops and offices for new generations of people. In an older city like Philadelphia, neighborhoods rise and fall along with macro-economic cycles.  This neighborhood around our very own Rodeph Shalom, has seen so many cycles it could make your head spin. When RS first moved here in the 1860’s, this was a neighborhood of well-to-do German Jews, and then over the years, it became industrial then blue collar residential, then many ups and downs, mostly downs.  Then in recent years, miraculously many people have started to move back into the city to enjoy all the wonderful facets of life here, until much of the older housing stock was renovated and this is once again a vibrant and exciting place to live, not only our little block, but many of the surrounding neighborhoods like Northern Liberties, Fishtown and so forth.

You could say that all this growth is the result of gentrification, a word that to some is pejorative.  From a purely economic standpoint, it is a real positive that so many people enjoy living in these renovated areas that formerly were less glamorous.  But to the people who had lived here and had to relocate to more affordable neighborhoods, gentrification was not so great.  It is said that many of the newcomers may be convinced that no one and nothing of value existed before they arrived.  Who lived here?  What were their lives like?

Most people leave so little trace as they pass through life.  If we really wanted to know who they were, how could we discover the traces of their lives?

At this Yizkor memorial service this is exactly what we do in our own way.  We try to discover the traces of our loved ones’ lives.  “Yizkor” means “remember” and by devoting our efforts during this waning time of Yom Kippur, we remember our loved ones.

There is nothing more precious than memory, as we search for the traces of our loved ones’ lives.  Today, at our Yizkor Service, it is almost as though we become archeologists – carefully sifting through the dust of our memory.  Archeologists search for traces of past civilizations.  In Center City Philadelphia, we search for the meaning of the lives of people who have lived here for a few hundred years.

In Israel, archeologists look for traces of ancient civilizations going back thousands of years, looking for traces of our ancestors’ lives, who have resided there since all the way back to the time of Abraham and Sarah, 1800 BCE.

But today at our Yizkor service we too become archeologists carefully sifting through the dust of our memories to try to find the traces of our loved ones’ lives.  It is their memory that inspires us to live better lives ourselves.  We do more than simply read their names and recite the mystical words of the Kaddish.  We sanctify their memory best by trying to take what was inspiring in their lives and weave that into the fabric of our own lives.

And this is the most important purpose of Yom Kippur, to try to find ways to improve our lives and to improve the life of the world around us.  In fact, you could say this is the very purpose of Judaism, to try to find ways to improve our lives and to improve the world.

But how can we tackle such a monumental task as improving the world?  We Jews are indeed fortunate to have so much profound wisdom of how to lead a better life.  All of Jewish sacred text:  Torah, Mishnah, Talmud, thousands of years of commentary from our sages, to our current day scholars, all focus on giving us guidance for improving and repairing our world.

To me, one of the best sources of this literature may be found in the “Middot” the “Jewish Moral Virtues.”  “Middah” is the Hebrew word meaning quality, character, measure, and it refers to the Jewish wisdom literature on the many ways to live a better life.  The main idea is that it applies traditional Jewish ethical wisdom to our life in today’s world.

I would like to give you one example today, which comes from one of my favorite teachings in Judaism, and it is called “Hashavat Aveidah,” “the return of lost objects.”

It comes from our Torah, Deuteronomy 22: 1-3.  [1]  “If you see your fellow’s ox or sheep gone astray, do not ignore it; you must take it back to your fellow…[3]  You shall do the same with his donkey or his garment or with anything that your fellow loses and you find:  you must not remain indifferent.”  [Deut. 22:1-3].

Now this may sound like a very simple thing to do.  I’m sure we’ve all found a lost object.  Once I was on the train to NYC, and I was sitting in a seat when I felt something bulging out of the seat.  I looked down and I found a wallet in my seat.  It was filled with cash and credit cards and pictures with the owner’s name and address inside.  So when I arrived at Penn Station in NY, I went to the UPS store in the concourse, and I sent it back to the owner overnight with a little note inside telling him I was returning his wallet with my name and phone number.  The next day he called me to thank me and offered to pay for the shipping, but I said I was glad to do it, as I would hope someone would do the same for me.

He said “Well I work for a large defense contractor, and if you ever need a nuclear submarine, just let me know!”

I guess I could’ve recited to him our verse from Deuteronomy about the return of lost objects!     But for us there is so much more involved in this teaching.  After telling us to return a person’s lost ox or sheep or garment or “anything that your fellow loses and you find…” there is one of the most important verses in all of Torah in three little Hebrew words, “Lo toochal L’hit-a-lem.”  Sometimes translated as “You must not remain indifferent.”  But the real meaning is so much more profound, “L’hit-alem” really means “You must not hide yourself.”

In other words, do not make yourself absent from a situation.  Do not block out a problem that is confronting you.  Don’t turn your head and try to ignore the fact that you saw something or someone who needs your help.

Or in the vernacular of today, do not walk down the sidewalk staring at your phone, oblivious to all that is going on around you, not seeing, not caring.  Or as the Holiness Code teaches us, “Do not stand idly by while your neighbor bleeds.”  [Lev. 19:16].

To paraphrase one of our great sages of today, Rabbi Donniel Hartman, president of the Shalom Hartman Institute in Jerusalem said, “We are all created B’tzelem Elohim, in God’s image.  But to be created in God’s image is not a description of who we are, it is an expectation.  It is something to aspire to. “   And mitzvot, commandments, these ethical teachings are a pathway,  a guide for us to act like we are created in God’s image.  To act like a mensch, which is a human being of high integrity, of honor, and deep moral character.  And to quote a wise rabbi who said in her Rosh Hashanah morning sermon last week, I’m paraphrasing here:  “In a place where there are no mensches, strive to be a mensch.” [Mishnah Pirke Avot 2:5].

Rabbi Hartman said, “to be a mensch is defined by your ability to SEE PEOPLE, and not to remain indifferent when you see their needs.”

On Yom Kippur we reflect on the idea that we are judged by our actions.  Our actions shape who we are.

“Lo toochal L’hit-alem” Do not disappear, do not hide yourself.  Be a mensch. All this from the Jewish moral virtue of “Hashavat Aveidah,” “The return of lost objects.”

I believe this verse is all the more important on Yom Kippur, this day on which we focus on “teshuvah” “repentance.”  As Rabbi Lauren Berkun taught, the word “teshuvah” comes from the same Hebrew word meaning “to return” just as “Hashavat Aveidah,”  the “return of lost objects.”  On Yom Kippur the lost objects of our focus are “the return of your lost self, the return of your lost soul to its rightful place.  The return of a family member’s sense of dignity and honor, the return of a neighbor’s sense of self-worth, the return of a friend’s sense of trust.” [Berkun].

“Lo toochal L’hit-alem”   Do not hide yourself from the life going on all around you.

All of us who live in these beautifully gentrified neighborhoods may be convinced that no one or nothing of value existed before we arrived.  We leave so little trace as we pass through life.  And it takes a real effort to sift through the dust of memory to discover the traces left by those who have come before us.

Today at our Yizkor Memorial service, let us search for the lost objects of our loves ones’ lives, the traces of their character, so that we may learn from all that was good in their lives, and make their memory into the very fabric of our lives.

And by discovering the purpose of their lives, we may discover the purpose of our lives:  “Lo toochal L’hit-alem” do not hide yourself.  Reach out to another human being with love.  And strive to be worthy of our greatest gift, that we are created in God’s image.

AMEN.

MATERIAL GATHERED FROM:

Deuteronomy 22:1-3.
Talmud Baba Metzia 2a on “Hashavat Aveidah.”
Rabbi Donniel Hartman, Sermon on being a mensch.  Shalom Hartman Institute, Jerusalem, 2026.
“Lost Property and Lost Souls,” sermon by Rabbi Lauren Eichler Berkun, Jewish Theological Seminary, New York, 2001.
Leviticus 19:16.
Pirke Avot 2:5.

 

We approach the end of the Yom Kippur service and these High Holy Days. This is the sixty-sixth year that I deliver a message on this Day of Atonement. Again, I remember: these years have seen many wars throughout the world, an attack directly against this country bringing down the world trade center, extraordinary development of technology, the ordination of female rabbis, and a host of other personal and national tragedies and blessings that we mourn and celebrate.  So, as I reflect on this life’s experience and attempt to see the present and the future through the lens of these many years, the Torah portion and the Haftarah portion help to provide profound meaning to that search.

We have read the nineteenth chapter of the book of Leviticus, known as the holiness code. It should be seen as a clear statement of who we are as the people of Israel. Atem Kedoshim, you are holy because I the lord your God am holy. The word kadosh means to be set aside for a purpose. The holiness code tells us that purpose.

You shall leave a portion of your field for the poor and for the ger, stranger. You shall be charitable to those who are in need and those who have not achieved citizenship in your community. You shall not steal and you shall not deceive – you shall not lie to one another and you shall not swear falsely. You shall not insult the deaf or put a stumbling block before the blind. You shall not exploit your neighbor. You shall not do injustice in judgement. You shall not seek vengeance or bear a grudge. A ger, a stranger who dwells among you shall be like a citizen and you shall love that person as yourself, because you were strangers in the land of Egypt. Holiness is not just a feeling – it is action. It is refusing to exploit someone else’s weakness.

That is a synopsis of the holiness code. We read it because we believe we are bound to live by it. We also are the messengers to the world. These are the values by which all people should live.

Then we read the book of Jonah. God sends Jonah on a mission. He tells him to go to the city of Nineveh, a city where the people have forgotten the holiness code. It is a brutal place. Jonah is given the task of warning the people of impending doom if they do not change. Jonah does not want to be that savior. He tries to escape on a ship to Tarshish, but God creates a terrible storm. The sailors are confused, but they come to understand that Jonah is the cause of the devastating waves around them. They throw him overboard, a giant fish swallows Jonah and he survives for three days, eventually to be expelled onto shore. He must go to Nineveh. He does so and warns the people, but he does not want them to be saved. Jonah wants a world in which there are clear boundaries between those who are good and those who are evil. He does not believe in forgiveness. At the end of the book, the message is clear – be a messenger and change those who violate the values demanded of us. When they repent, welcome them into the world of caring and compassion and justice.

At no time during these many years of delivering a Yom Kippur message have I felt more sympathy for Jonah. He was angry that evil would be rewarded, that those who have lived their lives promoting only themselves would be forgiven. It was a task he did not want.

And yet – the prophets all have the same message – that we, the descendants of Abraham must speak out. Abraham challenged god at Sodom and Gemorrah – would god destroy the innocent with the guilty. Would this god act unjustly? Jacob wrestled with a being and his name became Israel – to struggle with God. We struggle because we see the evil in the world and we know that we have an obligation to be a messenger, but we like Jonah hesitate because those who are evil are not worth the trouble.

My message after these many years remains the same –we must confront those whose words, whose actions, whose lives represent a rejection of everything that the holiness code teaches. We see every day cruelty, dishonesty, corruption, revenge, the abuse of power, the destruction of our environment, lawlessness, theft, treating the stranger as someone sub-human, denying women the right to choose and all people the right define who they are, seeking to create a world where the few will control the many-a world where individual freedom and democracy is destroyed. Jonah was cynical – he did not believe that those who were evil would say al cheyt – for the sin we have committed. Jonah also was guilty. If he could not change them then he was obligated to make certain that they did not change him and to speak to those who were good that they would prevent that evil from destroying Nineveh and the world. We must not be guilty of having to say al cheyt for committing the sin of silence, or the sin of inaction. When Abraham walked with his son Isaac to the sacrificial altar, he saw hamakom from afar. The word makom means place, but it has been used in commentary to mean god. He saw holiness. Abraham believed there still was justice and compassion and honesty and welcoming the stranger and goodness in this world. He made certain at Sodom that it prevailed. This is our moment at Sodom. Let us too make certain that the evil that threatens this nation to which we arrived in 1654 and the nation born of our dreams in 1948, and that threatens life everywhere shall be abolished from this earth.

I have always loved Robert Frost’s poem The Road Not Taken.

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I —
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference

Let us all take that road where our voices are heard and our actions bear witness to the values we represent, that road where we never will need to say al cheyt for the sin of silence and inaction, that road to a better world, that road where we see hamakom, the goodness that we believe must prevail, that road that gives

Shana Tova!

It is wonderful to look out and see so many of you here.

There is something very special about being together—in this beautiful sanctuary –built almost 100 years ago! — on these holy days, with people of so many different ages and stages all taking time to stop, reflect, and to begin again.

I am especially honored to be standing here as your Congregation President.

I want to begin with a story.

Some years ago, someone decided to introduce me to another member of Rodeph Shalom. Apparently, the reasoning was: the two of us were both psychologists, so surely, we would have a lot in common. Well… not exactly.

We came from very different theoretical backgrounds, and we had very different life experiences. At our meeting, we started talking about a sermon we had recently heard. She thought it was insightful. I thought it flew in the face of virtually everything I knew about cognition and memory. We could have decided right then and there that this relationship wasn’t going anywhere. Instead, we did something that turned out to be much more important. We listened to each other — really listened. I didn’t persuade her. She didn’t persuade me. We simply shared what we thought—and listened to why the other person thought differently. And somehow, out of that disagreement, came a friendship. Today, she is one of my very best friends.

Over the years, we have had plenty of difficult conversations. We still don’t always agree. But we share Shabbat. We celebrate Jewish holidays together. We learn together. We play together. We engage in moral action together. And through all of this, we have discovered something important: you don’t have to agree with someone to be deeply connected to them. It is easy to feel connected to people who agree with us.  Those relationships are comfortable. We value them.

But how many spaces are there in our lives where we can feel safe enough to truly disagree with someone else?

Where we can we say, “I don’t see it the way you do, but I want to understand why you see it that way.”

Our Jewish tradition has understood this for a very long time. Open a page of Talmud and you will find brilliant people disagreeing with other brilliant people. Sometimes passionately. It’s part of our tradition.

At RS, we share fundamental Jewish values and we still can arrive at very different conclusions about what those values require of us and that is one of the things I love most about Rodeph Shalom.

I’ve been a member since 1985, when Stuart and I were married here. Our two sons celebrated their B’nai Mitzvah and Confirmations here. When our children were young, I saw some things I thought we could improve in our Sunday School. Before long, I found myself chairing the Sunday School Committee. Soon after, I became Vice President for Education. I studied what it meant to be a Reform Jew with Rabbi Fuchs. I spent three years studying Torah with Rabbi Kuhn. And somewhere along the way, I realized that I wasn’t simply a member of Rodeph Shalom anymore. I had become part of it, and it had become a part of me.

I am deeply grateful to so many of you. You who have given so generously of your time and energy and to all of you who have supported RS financially –whether your gifts were large or small, they all have made a difference. Synagogues are places where we bring our souls.  We come here with joy, questions, hopes, sometimes disappointments and yes, sadness. While the synagogue can’t make everyone happy, [I’ve been Congregation President long enough to know that!], we can help people feel heard.

So as we enter this New Year, my request to all of you is simple: Reach out. Listen to someone you don’t normally talk to. Join an engagement group. Come to a program. Volunteer. Come to Shabbat Services. Study Torah. Or simply sit next to someone you don’t know and introduce yourself. You never know. You might disagree about something — and that might be the beginning of a profound connection.

As we enter this New Year, I hope each of you will find your place here at Rodeph Shalom and I hope you will help someone else find theirs.

Thanks to all of you for being here—for showing up, for caring, for contributing, for listening, and for being part of this community.

May this be a year of connection and may we all be written and sealed in the Book of Life for a sweet, healthy, meaningful, and peaceful New Year.

Shana Tova!

Last month, I left a piece of my heart in New York where my husband Len and I dropped off our daughter for her first semester in drama school.  The rigorous admissions journey was exciting for her, if grueling for her father.  To audition on multiple campuses, Len took her on what I called her “national tour.”  What followed was the real challenge: the waiting!  She realizes that if she goes into acting professionally, such limbo will be her perpetual existence.  She will need to tolerate the uncertainty, not allow the unknown future to spoil her present, she will even need to embrace the ambiguity.  And yet, as she reflects, isn’t that the existence of all our lives?!  Those of us who are not waiting on auditions may find it easier to live under the illusion of certainty, but audition or not, we face uncertainty, an unknowable future, ambiguity.  And on Yom Kippur, our sacred day of reflection and intention, there is no concealing it.

At the start of this evening’s service, barely settled into our seats, we rose for the haunting prayer of Kol Nidre. Both its beauty and its anguish meant to crack open our hearts, its words compel us to question everything we think we know.  We hear: “All vows, resolves and commitments, let them be discarded, forgiven…” Or perhaps an alternative translation: “Words matter, promises are important, yet still so much is out of our hands; so you do what you can do.”  Kol Nidre, then, compels us to with humility, face the truth of uncertainty.

In this time of global chaos, polarization, mistrust, antisemitism, authoritarianism, climate crisis, isolation– but  really, in any season of our lives—when we feel the ground beneath us shake, pessimism and paralysis can conspire to consume us.

How many of us catastrophize about the future?  Inspired by her Judaism, professor of strategic design Lisa Kay Solomon teaches Stanford students to imagine how they can shape the unknowable future by considering: what are the variables that are fixed, and what are the variables that are flexible—open to our influence.  Solomon would invite us to consider: How would you complete the sentence: “the future is…”  Try it out, just completing it with one word.  The future is…  anyone say: Bright? Bleak? Limitless? Ours? Hopeless?  Understandable if we are feeling doomed.  And yet… Instead of reacting to a future we don’t want to be a part of, can we transform the weight of discomfort into a state of possibility?  Can we transform a sense of helplessness into a sense of agency where we shape a hopeful future of compassion, community, connection?

For one of our congregants life’s uncertainty became more obvious with a job loss.  Feeling baffled, worried, and a little lost when laid off from a tech company as a young father, at first all he can see are the risks of the wilderness of unemployment.  He starts to network and finds he enjoys reconnecting with people.  In downtime he serves his community, volunteering for his child’s school, for the synagogue, and for a local election, discovering purpose in the experiences.  The man at once feels the stress of not knowing his next steps, and also the promise of possibility, and understands it is in the space of ambiguity, where spiritual journey happens; reflection on the past and intention for the future–reflection and intention — teshuvah.

As the man considers every option from becoming a stay-at-home parent to going back to school, he reflects that the job loss offers him an opportunity to make a mid-life shift that he might not have afforded himself.  What would it take for all of us to welcome uncertainty, invite such periods of contemplation and spiritual growth, set aside our assumptions about what is next, put all options on the table?

Most of us need help in reaching such a state of fruitful ambiguity. The very discomfort about uncertainty that wires humans, to prepare for the tiger lurking behind the tree, but obscures from us the fruit on that tree, might lead us to seek a world of predictability, simplicity.  Yet, that is not reality.

Jewish text conditions us to tolerate complexity. The first chapters of the Book of Genesis tell the story of creation.  Actually? the stories of creation. Society often folds the narratives together into one, but our origin myth is a pair of 2 distinct stories. Consider the question of human nature.  In the first story, after creating humans God says- we are very good.  Whereas, in the second story, in the middle of the Garden of Eden, God plants a tree of knowledge of good and evil…whether we are good, still yet to be determined.  So, to what extent are we humans good? And to what extent, do we struggle between good and evil?  We are still figuring that out–wrestling with interpretations.  From both creation stories we glean essential values, but there is no one neat and tidy conclusion about the world, about people, or about God–we do not claim to know.

Rejecting fundamentalism, our text demands a tolerance for discord, expanding our capacity for complexity.  I like to think of Torah Study as communal “ambiguity-training.” Torah Study conditions us to endure uncertainty, to take comfort in walking through the unknown together, to flourish in that shared space of ambiguity, to ground ourselves in our tradition’s teachings, so that we gain clarity about our values and find potential for fruitful ambiguity, as we embrace an unknowable future.

I have the honor of accompanying you through some of the most intense seasons in your lives. For many, health struggles mean extended periods when all you can do is take one day at a time, one day of treatment, of healing, of prayer, at a time… of overcoming ailments thought incurable, living with chronic illness, or facing the malady, that may not be treatable. So often, I am blown away by the volition you find, when so much is out of your hands. Illness, or even end of life, becomes precious time to do things that matter — to sit with friends, to receive meals and love from the community, to make amends or forgive, so that nothing is left unsaid, to make plans or leave an ethical will–a document of your values for those you leave behind.  You look this time of uncertainty square in the face, and turn it into a time of intimacy and holiness.

Ten days before her death, inspired by her Jewish values, writer Amy Krouse Rosenthal published a column in the NY Times Modern Love series, called: “You May Want to Marry My Husband.”  Dying of cancer and close to the end, in between morphine micro-naps Amy penned her version of a singles profile for her husband. She sought to help him find his next love story for the future she would not be able to share with him. Awaiting her untimely death and not knowing what the future would hold for the family she left behind, Amy reclaimed some power.  Not only did she tell the world how wonderful her husband was, attracting potential future mates, Amy made clear to her husband and their children that she gave her blessing for him to live his life fully after her death.  So much is fixed, inevitable, out of our hands; so then the question of our lives is, what will we do with, all that is not fixed, but is flexible, possible, open to our influence? Can we find empowerment, even as we live with uncertainty?

Yom Kippur’s response?  A great shofar will cry and a still small voice will be heard. Who shall live and who shall die. Who will rest and who will wander. We do not claim to know.  The Unetaneh Tokef prayer that we will recite tomorrow morning reminds us: the ground has always been shaky.  When we ask: Who shall live and who shall die. Who will rest and who will wander…Unetane Tokef, proclaims: Do something. Repentance, prayer, and righteousness.  The essence of the High Holy Days, and of all of Jewish life– teshuvah, tfilah, tzedakah. There’s always something we can do. Even in a harsh, uncertain, complex, anxious, incomprehensible reality, we have agency.

Jewish text conditions us to tolerate complexity.  A story from the Talmud.  During the Roman siege of ancient Jerusalem, the city was controlled by Jewish zealots who forced the war to continue even as the Jewish community suffered violence, starvation, and defeat. By this point of the war, the destruction of the ancient Temple was inevitable and there was no possibility for Jewish life within the walls of the city.  Still, the zealots refused to surrender. The rabbis of the time, longing to save Judaism, started to imagine a Jewish life that might be possible outside of Jerusalem.

Rabbi Yochonon ben Zakkai concocted a plan. Knowing that the Romans and the zealots allowed dead bodies to be carried out of the city at night for burial, Rabbi Yochonon and his students conspired to fake his death. They placed Rabbi Yochonon in a coffin, and in a funeral processional he was smuggled out of the city.  Once free of the battle, Rabbi Yochonon ben Zakkai settled in the north in Yavneh where he established a Jewish community and Torah academy that preserved Jewish life, and transformed it into the beginnings of the Judaism we know today. The story is tragic for Jerusalem. Still, in the worst of circumstances, with no good choices and no clear solutions, the community, resolute in its vision to bring Judaism to the next generation finds a way to be the ancestors their descendants need them to be.  In a coffin, brushing up with death in a way our Yom Kippur rituals lead us, our ancestors build a future for an unknown world.

Yom Kippur offers rituals of death – wearing white, fasting, emptying the ark of its Torah scrolls as if it becomes a coffin for all of us –we brush up against death, so that we do not forsake life.  We cannot deny all that is real – the volatility, complexity, ambiguity.  We claim it – and we claim life. We find comfort in the ways our tradition conditions us to endure ambiguity together, even to devote the time of uncertainty to spiritual growth. Together, we find agency amid the ambiguity, for teshuvah, tfilah, tzedakah. There is always something we can do.

The Jewish calendar prescribes the time for reflection and intention is now.  And the Jewish calendar teaches, at the conclusion of Yom Kippur, what is the very next thing we do?  The moment Yom Kippur ends we put the first nail into the sukkah, acting out the connections, between reflection and resolve.

We build the sukkah; it is in a fragile hut, exposed to the elements but together with community –it is there, where we find the comfort of connection, and we celebrate abundance and joy.  Amid uncertainty? Agency.  Yom Kippur cannot exist without Sukkot.  Today we reflect.  Then moments later in our imperfect, unsettling world, together, we build.

Ten days ago, on Rosh Hashanah, we celebrated the birthday of the world. We read the story of creation where God said, “Let there be light. And there was light.” God created the world through speech.

Recognizing the power of our words, our sages warned against using speech to harm. We just chanted, “Ashamnu. Bagadnu. Gazalnu. We have trespassed, we have betrayed, we have stolen.” And then… “Dibarnu dofi, we have spoken harshly.” If speech has the power to create a world, it also has the power to destroy, and our sages warn us time and again about using that power carelessly.

In the Ashamnu, our alphabetical list of ways we missed the mark this year, dibarnu dofi, we have spoken harshly, is one of the most interesting and perplexing. The first word, dibarnu, is simple – we spoke. The second word, dofi, is a bit trickier. It is a hapax legumina – a term for a word that only occurs once in the Tanakh/the Hebrew Bible and is thus not always easy to translate. The medieval commentator, Ibn Ezra links dofi to the root hadaf, to push or shove. According to the sages, dibarnu dofi is speech that pushes a person away. In these simple two words, our tradition is asking each of us to consider: How can I be more thoughtful in my speech and use words that bring others into conversation rather than push them away?

We’re celebrating another birthday this year. America is 250 years old. Not quite the 5787 or so years of the world, but an important moment to mark nonetheless. America came into being through words too. American Independence began with a document, the Declaration of Independence, argued over line by line, signed, and read aloud. And that arguing never really stopped. This country has been in one long argument over its own words since the ink dried on the Declaration, a positive feature of our American project rather than a flaw of it.

The Pew Research Center has been asking Americans for years how they see people in the other political party. In 2016, forty-seven percent of Republicans and thirty-five percent of Democrats said the other side was, in a word, immoral. Just six years later in 2022, those numbers had climbed to seventy-two percent of Republicans and sixty-three percent of Democrats who thought the other party was immoral. 

And yet, when Pew asked respondents in 2022 if they’re still hopeful about the country’s future, close to seventy percent of Americans said yes! We are more convinced than ever that the people who disagree with us are evil. And yet, still, somehow, hopeful. 

That’s the good news. We still have hope. We need hope – it’s what fuels our acts of justice. It’s what motivates us to get up in the morning and keep working for a better world. But hope alone isn’t enough. We need a plan for how to get from where we are to where that hope is pointing.

And it starts with something as small as the words from our confessional prayer, dibarnu dofi, how we open our mouths. The question that the Pew polls ultimately put to all of us is: How do we disagree honestly and respectfully, about things that matter, without giving up our convictions or our relationships?

Let’s start with a tomato. Is a tomato a fruit or a vegetable? A tomato is a fruit. Botanically, this isn’t up for debate. It grows from the flowered part of the plant; it has seeds; by every definition a botanist works with, it’s a fruit. A tomato is also a vegetable. Ask any chef. It doesn’t belong in a fruit salad. By every definition a kitchen works with, it’s a vegetable.

Neither one is wrong. They’re using the word from inside two different systems built for two different purposes, and the argument only becomes dibarnu dofi if you insist there’s one right answer.

Something similar happens constantly in how we talk politics with each other. Two people can use the exact same word – freedom, safety, justice, family – and mean two genuinely different things by it, each one reasoning honestly from inside a different framework for understanding the world. Some of our worst arguments start before anyone’s actually disagreed about anything.

Maybe you can relate to having a misunderstanding with someone over words spoken harshly or not heard in the most generous way. Maybe you have someone in your life you aren’t speaking to because you both haven’t figured out a way to stay in the same room. 

I was at a funeral last spring where two sides of the family stood on opposite ends of the grave, close enough to see each other yet not close enough to speak. Two brothers, in their seventies now. It started at a Thanksgiving table eleven years ago, when one of them said the other’s vote that November had hurt people he love. He meant it as an argument about a specific policy, something about healthcare, something he’d read that week and couldn’t stop thinking about. His brother heard something else entirely: you think I’m a bad person.

This is what happens when a disagreement over a policy gets heard as a verdict on a person’s character, and nobody goes back afterward to ask, “Wait, is that actually what you meant?” There was a door open at that table for about thirty seconds. One honest question could have defused the entire situation. Instead, two brothers spent eleven years building a wall.

Some of you were here for Rosh Hashanah, when I spoke about Priya Parker’s last book, The Art of Gathering, on what it takes to bring people together in meaningful ways. She has a new book out this month, called The Art of Fighting, and it’s the natural next step from The Art of Gathering because when people come together in meaningful ways, healthy disagreement can be a sign that the gathering worked. She argues that avoiding conflict is detrimental to a community’s existence. She writes about watching group after group mistake the absence of visible disagreement for health, when really it usually means people have stopped bothering to say what they actually think. The healthiest groups, in her telling, are the ones who’ve built enough trust to disagree, in the open, and still maintain their relationships.

A synagogue is one of the last places built for exactly this. Most of our country has sorted itself into silos, moved to the neighborhood with like-minded views, followed the feed that they already agree with. Understanding someone across a real line of difference has gotten optional almost everywhere else. It isn’t optional here. In this very sanctuary are people who will vote differently this fall, who disagree about plenty and still show up, week after week, to stand next to each other, to serve together at Breaking Bread on Broad, to argue over our sacred text at Torah study. We need this, not just in our congregation, but across our country because to understand others across lines of difference deepens community and counters polarization and mistrust. We need healthy argument for a healthy country and a healthy democracy! 

A team of researchers at Duke and BYU wanted to see if technology could help us argue in a more productive way. Researchers put fifteen hundred Americans into online paired conversations, strangers, matched specifically with someone who disagreed with them, on gun policy. Half of them got an AI assistant with one job. Before they hit send, it would offer them another way to phrase what they’d just typed. Not a softer opinion. Not a compromise position. Just a different delivery.

Here’s the kind of thing it caught. Someone types, “Anyone who thinks assault weapons should be legal doesn’t care if kids die.” The assistant hands back an option. “I feel strongly that keeping weapons like that out of circulation would save kids’ lives. I know you see it differently, and I’d like to understand why.”

The conviction hasn’t moved an inch in that rewrite. The person still believes exactly what they believed thirty seconds earlier. What changed is whether the person on the other end has a door to walk through, or a wall to walk into.

In the study, people took the suggested rewrite about two out of every three times it was offered. And the people receiving those messages came away feeling more heard and more respected by strangers who still disagreed with them about guns just as much as they had at the start. Nobody’s position moved. What moved was whether two people who see the world differently could stay in the same room. The sin of dibarnu dofi is not disagreement. The sin is in how we open our mouths when we disagree.

This November, I’ll share this bimah with two friends of mine, Imam Idris Abdul-Zahir and Pastor Kevin Brown, in a conversation moderated by CNN’s Dana Bash. We are genuinely friends, the three of us, not just playing the part for an event poster. Our relationship has been built over years, from camel rides together in Abu Dhabi to standing in solidarity at each other’s houses of worship after antisemitic and Islamophobic attacks.

The truth is that although we are friends, Pastor Kevin, Imam Idris, and I don’t agree on everything. Israel and Gaza included. I’ve spoken before about how the three of us haven’t always had the right words for what we were trying to say to each other, especially when it comes to Israel. I’ve fallen victim to dibarnu dofi/speaking harshly in sharing my passion for Israel. What I treasure, though, about our relationship is that we are not committing to agreement. We are committed to listening to each other. To learning from each other. We are committed to using our voices productively and thoughtfully and, most of all, staying at the table.

Recently, Pastor Kevin sent me a clip about Israel; it was an anti-Zionist Israeli academic talking about the dangers of Zionism as a response to the trauma of the Holocaust. Pastor Kevin agreed with much of the clip, and he knew right away it probably wouldn’t land the same way with me. He could have sent it as a gotcha, “See – even Israelis see the dangers of Zionism!” But he didn’t. Instead, he wrote, “Not asking to be provocative but for education. How does this land with you? What is offensive? What would you disagree with and find overly simplified or dangerous to Jewish existence?”

He didn’t ask me to agree with him. He led with curiosity, which is hard to do when you’re already sure you know what the other person is going to say. He asked where the message landed wrong, and he showed real concern for our Jewish community’s well-being.

Underneath that question was a choice he had already made. Our relationship mattered more to him than winning the argument. Being right about Israel and Gaza was never going to be worth more to Pastor Kevin than staying in relationship with me. And none of that required him to give up his own convictions. 

Pastor Kevin taught me something about humility as well. He agreed with the message he had sent. And he still made room for my thoughts. That is what it looks like to hold a position and still believe you have something left to learn.

This November, just eight days after the election, when the temptation to gloat or to despair will be at its highest, and staying at the table with people who prayed and voted differently will be hardest and most necessary, we will come together with people with whom we disagree. It may be hard, but the alternative is much more frightening. The alternative is a siloed country, where authoritarianism, which seeks to divide us, gets to control the narrative. 

You will vote this fall. However you vote, know that a table is already being built. In this congregation, in this city, across lines of faith and partisanship. And it is worth showing up to that table for the future of our democracy.

The world was spoken into being 5787 years ago. And our country was spoken into being 250 years ago. How that conversation continues is up to us. Dibarnu dofi. We have spoken harshly. Let this be a year of relationship over being right; a year of curiosity over judgment. Let this be the year we speak the truth we believe, honestly, without shying away from the hard conversations, without watering it down, and without backing down. Let it also be the year we choose our words with enough care that they open a door instead of building a wall. 

Ken yhi ratzon/May this be God’s will.

Gmar chatimah tovah.

Shanah Tovah… and Shabbat Shalom! We’re celebrating the New Year and Shabbat on the same night. So let me tell you a story about a man named Yosef.

Yosef was a cobbler, which meant his hands were always cracked, his back always sore, and his wallet always close to empty. But every single Friday, no matter what, he filled his home with delicious food and wonderful people. Neighbors, friends, whoever needed a seat. Not so different from our Pre-Oneg Fest earlier this evening. Great food, sure, but really it was the room itself. People catching up, kids running between tables, the feeling of community. That’s exactly what Yosef was after, every week of his life.

He’d walk through the market on Friday mornings, stopping at every stall, asking each vendor the same question: do you have anything special today? I have an important guest coming. And when people asked him who this important guest was, he’d say, Shabbat. A little wine. A little bread. Whatever fish looked best, even if it cost more than he had. His neighbors gave him a nickname: Yosef Mokir Shabbes. Yosef, who treasures Shabbat.

Near Yosef, in a fortress at the edge of town, lived a man named Baltasar. Baltasar had thirteen boxes of gold coins locked away in his cellar. Frugal was a generous word for it. He counted his coins the way other people count sheep, every night before bed, and never spent a penny he didn’t have to.

One night Baltasar had a dream. His thirteen boxes of gold sprouted little feet and marched out of his fortress, down the street, into Yosef’s shop. Baltasar woke up screaming. He was so shaken that he consulted the astrologers in town, who told him his fortune was destined for Yosef. All of it.

So Baltasar sold everything, every last bit of property, and bought a single, enormous jewel with the money. He sewed it into the lining of his hat and never took it off, so he could always keep his eye on it.

One afternoon, Baltasar was crossing a bridge over the river, and a gust of wind caught his hat and knocked it into the water. He watched his entire fortune go under. A fish swam by and swallowed the jewel whole.

The next day was Friday, and when some fishermen hauled in their catch, they found one enormous fish among it. It was too big and too late in the day to sell in the market, so someone suggested taking it to Yosef, since Yosef always bought something special, no matter what it cost him.

So they brought it to Yosef, and of course, Yosef bought the fish. He took it home, opened it up to clean it for his Shabbat table, and there, inside the belly of the fish, was the jewel.

In the Talmudic telling of this story, the rabbis end by saying: Kol hamalveh laShabbat, Shabbat pora’at lo. What we give to Shabbat, Shabbat gives back.

This isn’t really a story about a curse, or a prophecy, or a very unlucky fish. It’s a story about two men and what they value.

Baltasar spent his whole life trying to protect a fortune from a future he couldn’t control. Yosef spent every single week on something he had no guarantee would ever come back to him.

But it did come back to him, and not just in the form of a jewel inside a fish. What we give to Shabbat, Shabbat gives back, in a more joyful, more connected, more meaningful life.

I think about a family I worked with a few years ago. Two working parents, three kids, a calendar so full that dinner most nights happened in shifts, whoever was home first eating standing up at the counter. They decided, almost on a whim, to try one Friday night with candles and no phones. That one turned into most weeks. A couple of years later, the parents told me the thing they remembered wasn’t the food or the prayers. It was their teenager, who barely spoke to anyone most nights, started actually talking at that table, because for once nobody was rushing anywhere and nobody was checking anything. That’s the return the rabbis are envisioning when they say, “What we give to Shabbat, Shabbat gives back.”

I hear so many more examples from our congregation. The empty-nester couple who recently moved to Center City and made new friends at Shabbat dinner. The unemployed professional who, despite having so many setbacks, found in Shabbat services a sense of gratitude for what they still had: health, family, a roof over their head. What we give to Shabbat, Shabbat gives back.

When couples sit down with me before their wedding, I give them a version of the Newlywed Game, where each partner answers the same set of questions separately. Then the fun comes when we sit together and compare the answers. Where do I always start? Budgeting. One question asks each partner to guess how much the other spends monthly on items like clothes, transportation, subscriptions, and eating out.

Someone always looks a little surprised, not just because their partner spends thirty dollars on sushi for lunch every day, but because it hasn’t occurred to them that budgeting is something you’d talk about in premarital counseling in the first place. They expected love, or communication, or in-laws. But I tell them what our own finance committee here at Rodeph Shalom likes to say: a budget is a reflection of our values. It is a moral document. 

A well-built marriage is one where two people name what they value, out loud, and then organize their lives around it, both money and time. That’s not just wedding advice. It’s exactly what Yosef did every single Friday; he knew what he valued, and he built his week around it. What would it look like if we did the same – if we put real value in honoring Shabbat, what would we have to do, and how would it affect our lives?

Close your eyes for a second and actually picture it. Not Shabbat in the abstract. Your Shabbat. What would it look like if we were able to prioritize it?

Maybe you’re single, and it looks like finally saying yes to that standing invitation. Maybe you’re early in your career, and it looks like friends who’ve decided Friday night at home beats another happy hour. Maybe you’re dealing with tots, and it’s all about the sensory experiences like eating challah and drinking that sweet grape juice. Maybe you’re new to all of this, still learning what these words mean, and it looks like just showing up and seeing what happens. There’s no one right way to do Shabbat.

Our young adults host Sha-BBQs, because apparently smoking meat and Shabbat go together better than you’d think. I run into congregants at Santucci’s all the time after services. Our young families gather for playdates after Tot Shabbat on Saturday mornings, because, as it turns out, toddlers and their parents need community just as much as anyone else.

A few years ago, our staff read Priya Parker’s The Art of Gathering and discussed it together. Priya Parker, who’s spent years studying what makes gatherings actually work, teaches that a category isn’t a purpose. Knowing you’re hosting “dinner” tells you nothing about what that dinner is for.

That’s the difference between a meal and a Shabbat table. It’s intentionality: deciding what a particular Friday night is actually for, then letting the candles, the blessings, the same time every week hold that intention in place. Without it, Shabbat is just another dinner that happened to fall on a Friday.

Shabbat is countercultural. Saturday morning soccer games get scheduled without a second thought. Email doesn’t know what day it is. Protecting a Friday night here means going against a culture that treats constant availability as a virtue and rest as something you earn.

Everyone in this room who has managed even one Shabbat dinner, one Friday night with the phones away, or who has come to services regularly, even if you’re late, has done something genuinely countercultural.

Yosef’s extreme love of Shabbat is beautiful, but it’s not realistic for most of us. He’s spending money he doesn’t even have on a fish, week after week. What about savings? What about his kids’ education?! Shabbat doesn’t have to get everything from us. It just has to get something, a real line in the budget of money or time, not whatever’s left over.

The Torah gives us two different verbs for keeping Shabbat. Shamor, guard it. And zachor, remember it. Most of what gets written about Shabbat observance is built around shamor, around the guarding, the list of everything you’re not supposed to do. You’ve probably heard the term, Shomer Shabbes – someone who guards Shabbat by not using electricity or driving in a car. But there’s a whole other side: zocher Shabbat. One who remembers Shabbat. Defined not by the restrictions, but by what actually gets remembered and celebrated.

Here at RS, we host Pizza Shabbat for families with young kids, just as much a celebration of Shabbat as any quiet dinner for two or a table of unrelated friends. Picture that room. Sticky hands, sauce on somebody’s shirt, a song about a Shabbat dinosaur, candles lit, blessings said, and a whole room of people remembering Shabbat together and creating community.

Yosef didn’t need a mansion or thirteen boxes of gold. He needed one good fish and the will to spend on it. What we give to Shabbat, Shabbat gives back.

Tonight begins the season of cheshbon hanefesh, our accounting of the soul, where we take the time to examine how our budgets reflect our values.

So here’s some accounting I’ll leave you with. If you give Shabbat a real place in your life this year, you will get something back. You will be less anxious, because for one day a week the emails and the notifications and the endless scroll of everyone else’s highlight reel will not be allowed in the room.  You will find yourself less hungry for the next purchase, the next upgrade, the next thing you were sure would finally make you feel like enough. You will be more grateful, because gratitude is what happens naturally when you stop and actually look at the life you already have instead of racing past it toward the next thing. And you will be more connected to the people at your table and, if you let yourself notice it, to something larger than your own week.

Because this isn’t just about what Shabbat gives you. When you give to Shabbat, Shabbat gives back to our entire community. When you invite someone to your Shabbat table, you inspire them to celebrate Shabbat. When you come to services on Shabbat, you add your voice to our communal song. When you celebrate Shabbat in community, you are a part of a people who have done this together from generation to generation. 

Ahad Ha’am, one of the great Jewish thinkers of the last century, put it this way: more than the Jewish people have kept Shabbat, Shabbat has kept the Jewish people. Every Friday night singing together in the sanctuary, every Pizza Shabbat, every Friday night candle lit anywhere in this world, isn’t just a private choice. It’s part of the same thread that’s held our people together for thousands of years, across every place we’ve lived.

So tonight, on this New Year, on this Shabbat, ask yourself what you want to give. Not just for the sake of your own happier, fuller, more connected life, though that reward is real. But for the sake of everyone who lit a candle before you, and everyone who will light one after you. Yosef didn’t know any of that when he bought his fish. He just knew what he valued. 

This year, may we be called mokir shabbes – a community that treasures Shabbat.

Shanah Tovah. And Shabbat Shalom.

To respond to the most common question I’ve heard this week:  No.  Artificial Intelligence/AI did not write my sermons. I’ve heard it said, that one definition of technology is: whatever came into existence, after you were a kid.  Who remembers learning a B’nai Mitzvah Torah portion on a cassette tape? (What’s a cassette tape?!)  So, how are we feeling about the AI technology that has come into existence lately?

At several college graduations across the country this spring, when the commencement speakers mentioned AI, some students booed.  Why?  Clearly, graduates fear that AI will replace them in the job market.  I wonder: are they also reflecting that AI has hindered their own learning–that when students outsource their writing to AI, they are also outsourcing their thinking?  I wonder: are those students reflecting on how their AI use brings them into an artificial relationship–a relationship they are missing from actual human beings?

Jewish tradition offers wisdom for the many dilemmas–ethical, spiritual, moral, environmental, and human dilemmas—I hear in those graduates’ booing… wisdom many of us yearn for in the face of a technology inclined to favor: productivity over humanization, fluency over friction, information over wisdom, anonymity over voice, knowledge over compassion, prediction over originality, cohesion over truth.

And, our tradition compels us to ask what I believe is the fundamental question underneath all of those AI dilemmas…Indeed, it is the same fundamental question of the Days of Awe, and of Judaism: What is our purpose?…As individuals, as a Jewish community, as humanity.

Here’s what I mean.

A teenager who attends a Philadelphia art school shared that for the school play each department contributes its expertise, with instrumentalists in the pit, media engineers on the lights. As a visual art student, she and her classmates were waiting for the teachers to enlist them to design the promotional poster.  But one morning she awoke to see on her social media that the school principal had already generated the poster, using AI.  She felt heartbroken to witness her role as an artist being replaced, and by the very institution whose purpose it is to empower her.

Contrast that story with one from our Rodeph Shalom office. This fall to honor the 250^th birthday of America and our voice as a religious minority, we will spotlight democracy and solidarity. Amid the surge of antisemitism we are collaborating with multifaith clergy on a panel here on our bimah, moderated by CNN’s Dana Bash. Our communications manager used AI to generate a promotional graphic. I’m thrilled with her product, and her use of AI.

So, what’s the difference?  Institutional purpose. The art school neglected its purpose; its mission is to develop artists–that’s not the mission of our congregation.  Consider: how can you apply the distinction to your workplace, or to your relationships?

The contrast demonstrates this standard; in any particular case we can ask ourselves: Would leveraging AI replace a person in a role that is core to our mission?  In order to answer that question, we need to get clear on our mission.  In a workplace, in an institution, and of ultimate gravity on Rosh Hashanah, we need to get clear, on the mission of… us. Our core mission as human beings, and more specifically, as Jews–and those who count themselves as part of our extended Jewish family — our core mission reveals the roles, that cannot be outsourced.  And while society continues to struggle with the potential of AI regulation; in our own lives we have the power to regulate, to discern.  And Jewish wisdom can guide us.

What is our core mission? Mitzvot! Our sacred actions, are our core mission, and require us, without substitution. When we fulfill mitzvot–from loving the immigrant at Breaking Bread on Broad this week, to welcoming guests at the door this morning, to reading Torah a few minutes ago–when we fulfill mitzvot, we are not just accomplishing a task.  Our purpose is in the doing, not only in the having it done. The mitzvah—the doing—is a mitzvah because it takes place in the context of the covenant of our People–the sacred commitment we share with God, with Torah, and with each other.

What is more: a mitzvah requires intent. Take the mitzvah of shofar. If this morning you were out on the sidewalk and you happened to overhear a shofar blast (as one does), does it count as fulfilling the mitzvah of hearing shofar on Rosh Hashanah?  Our sages say, no, because you did not intend to fulfill the mitzvah of being awakened to teshuvah by the sound of shofar. Intent matters.

So, can AI do a mitzvah?

Every month when our crew of congregants cooks and delivers Mitzvah Meals, I get to call those of you who are returning home from the hospital.

One recent call:

Me: Hi Joe, I hope you’re starting to feel better. Can our Mitzvah Meal crew deliver a freshly-cooked meal?

Joe: Oh, you can save it for someone who needs the food, more than I do.

Me: Actually, there’s plenty. And, you know… it’s not just about the food. We want to be able to visit, and bring some love.

Joe: Sounds great. And, could I help cook next time?

Well, turns out Joe heals quickly and does not want to wait the month. He learns that a neighbor will be returning home from the hospital and Joe starts to plan a dinner to bring over. The neighbor’s recovery includes some dietary restrictions — low salt and gluten-free??   AI to the rescue; ChatGPT generates a recipe. So… is this ChatGPT’s mitzvah also? No–AI assists Joe’s mitzvah, but cannot replace the person who is doing the mitzvah to care for the sick.  Now, to complicate the picture: before Joe can even shop for the groceries, he is called to leave town right away for work. He arranges for a fresh meal to be delivered to his neighbor, with…the Uber Eats robot, that we’ve seen traversing the sidewalks. So is this now the robot’s mitzvah?  No– It’s still Joe doing the mitzvah, to care for the sick. Having no intention or place in the covenant, the robot cannot replace Joe.

AI cannot do a mitzvah.

A student beginning our annual Introduction to Judaism course, is curious: how many books are in the Torah?  She enters the question into Gemini, discovers there are five books in the Torah, and continues to learn about Judaism, using AI.  But after the course is underway, she comes to understand: Torah Study between her and the chatbot does not reach the ideal for fulfilling the mitzvah of engaging in the words of Torah.  Why not?  Jewish wisdom guides us to study in community or with a partner, a chevruta. Our text teaches: Acquire for yourself a teacher; find yourself a friend.  It’s not just about the learning, it’s about the relationships that accompany and grow from, the learning. We study with someone who can ask vulnerable questions, stretch our thinking–it’s intimate—and our tradition urges us to understand: intimacy is meant for human relationship. For, when we start to see ourselves in the text we wrestle together with deep questions about our lives–how are we showing up for loved ones?  How can we reduce our anger, jealously, impatience?  How can we notice the presence of God, or holiness, in our day?

AI is a resource in solo learning but if I try to replace my community or chevruta with it, I lose out on an experience of relationship.  AI is designed to fool me into forgetting that.  Its tendency is to be easier than a human relationship–no friction, no slowing down for the awkward or tense human interaction; just cohesion.  And sycophancy.  I’m editing my Bulletin column, I enter a phrase into AI, and before it lists suggestions it responds: “That’s a powerful phrase you have written!” It feels, moved by my eloquence! But wait, it does not feel! I am drawn into an artificial human interaction, in an experience that ought to be reserved, for actual human interaction.

Here, Jewish wisdom teaches me: tap into mindfulness, take a breath.  Resist turning to AI for the dopamine hit of connection.  When I have something to edit, like a Rosh Hashanah sermon, I can load the draft into AI or I can reach out to a friend who knows my voice, understands my spiritual struggles, and shares their own, and as a result of our conversation I can draw closer to another human being.

In a world plagued by loneliness, we cannot afford to be tempted into fake company.  In a world where people are less likely to go out, to take the risk of asking a date to dinner, or a friend for a walk, less likely to step into their own community, and are more likely to take the risk, of seeking comfort from an online, one-way, simulated, relationship… we cannot allow AI, to fill our cup, to affirm our sense of self-worth, to prompt us to feel seen.  In the face of isolation, it’s the mitzvah of what we too may call AI –that is, Actual Intimacy, that is worth seeking.

The ancient rabbis could not have imagined Artificial Intelligence–heck, I can hardly imagine it – still, their teaching of our core mission “Acquire for yourself a teacher, find yourself a friend” illuminates our AI use today.

The sages also teach: In a place where there is no humanity, be human.  Jewish tradition has always understood: to be human, matters.

Human beings are not easy.  We are flawed, raw, inconsistent, and we are compassionate, original, created in God’s image. Our failings are not glitches. We cannot take ourselves to the help desk; there is no turning us off and on again. There’s choosing right, choosing wrong, loving each other, hurting each other. There’s repair, forgiveness, and not just learning, but growth.  In this life, there is no outsourcing the human stuff –the discomfort, disappointment, disbelief–the sitting with a loved one who is dying and looking into their eyes or holding their hand; the rejoicing with a wedding couple, dancing the hora; the toasting at a retirement party; the caring; the risk-taking; the vulnerability; the shared moments, when someone really gets you.

When our tradition teaches: “In a place where there is no humanity, be human,” I hear it — much as I hear those college graduates who chose to boo at AI—I hear it warning us to regulate, pleading with us to pay attention, to know deep in our souls: Humans are unique. Our relationships are precious. Our purpose is holy. To be human–to experience the grief, forgiveness, curiosity, compromise, joy, gratitude, wonder, to experience the covenant that binds us to each other…to be human is holy.  AI may know the past 2000 years.  But it does not know your next mitzvah.

Source of Holiness: May we get clear, on our sacred purpose, embrace our human bonds — in all of their messiness– as we awaken to the call of shofar, with intention.  L’shanah tovah.

—

Attribution: Drawn from conversations with my technology professional and general source of wisdom husband, Len Lipkin.

Dear Rodeph Shalom Community,

As we prepare to gather for the High Holy Days, our top priorities are ensuring our synagogue is spiritually uplifting, warm, and safe for all that gather at RS.

To ensure smooth entry, we are implementing an updated entry protocol at our Green Street entrance. This year, we are utilizing the advanced screening system alongside our trusted security personnel and the Philadelphia Police Department.

The advanced system is a 100% passive detection system. Unlike traditional metal detectors, it does not emit any radiation or energy fields. Because it is completely passive, it is entirely safe for individuals with pacemakers, medical implants, and pregnant individuals.

To help us minimize wait times outside, please review our new entry steps:

• Arrive 20 minutes before services: Screenings take place entirely outdoors before entering.
• Bag Check: Security will be searching all handbags, backpacks and tallis bags.  If you are carrying one of these with you, please be prepared for security to look inside your bag before walking through our detection system.
• Personal Belongings: Security personnel will never directly touch your personal items including your Tallit (prayer shawl) or Machzor (prayer book). If these items obscure the bag, the guard may ask you to shift them yourself.
• Scanning Protocol: Before walking through the detection system, you will be asked to empty pockets of cell phones, keys and wallets and to remove smart watches/fitness trackers, magnetic name tags, etc. These items will all be put into a basket on the table located next to the detection system.
• Scanning Process: You will walk past the screening pole at a normal pace and gather your belonging after passing through the detection system.
• Additional Scanning: If you set-off any alerts when passing through the detection system, security may ask you to step to the side so that can scan you manually using a security wand.

Thank you for your cooperation and partnership in keeping Rodeph Shalom safe.

Shanah Tovah U’metukah,

Josh Laster, Executive Director and Renee Carl, Director of Operations

I’ll start with a piece of Torah trivia with you. In the second of this week’s double portion, Matot-Masei, one verb appears more than forty times. More than forty. It’s the verb lachanot — to camp.

Vayachanu b’Sukkot. They camped at Sukkot. Vayachanu b’Etham. They camped at Etham. Vayachanu bi-Rephidim. They camped at Rephidim. On and on, stop after stop, as the Torah closes out the book of Numbers by recounting every single place the Israelites pitched their tents on the way from Egypt to the Promised Land.

In other words, the final portion of the book of Numbers is essentially Moses reading a camp recap.

And I don’t think that’s an accident. The Torah is obsessed with camping. We became a people in a machaneh — a camp. Before we had a Temple, before we had a homeland, before we had a single permanent address, we had campsites. Forty years of them. If you want to understand who we are, look at where we camped.

So you’ll forgive me if I take this parashah a little literary and talk tonight about my own time at a machaneh in the Poconos — our Union for Reform Judaism’s Camp Harlam — where I spent two weeks this summer serving on faculty. And like the Torah, when I come home from camp, I want to recount the journey. This summer gave me three moments I can’t stop thinking about.

Here’s the first.

It was my second Shabbat at camp. The entire community — hundreds of campers and staff — was packed into the chadar ochel, the dining hall, for Shabbat dinner. The room was loud in the way only a camp dining hall can be loud. And then, all at once: darkness. The power went out across all of camp.

For a moment, it was scary. Hundreds of kids, a sudden blackout, that one long beat of silence before the murmuring starts. Then the emergency generator kicked on, the lights flickered back, and the staff made an announcement: the power company was working on it, but until the power came back — probably sometime in the middle of the night — there would be no running water anywhere on camp.

You could feel the worry ripple through that room. Every camper, every counselor, doing the same math: no sinks, no showers, no — well, you get the idea.

Thinking about that moment, in Divine coincidence, a verse from this very parashah comes to mind: Vayachanu bi-Rephidim, v’lo haya sham mayim la’am lishtot. “They camped at Rephidim, and there was no water there for the people to drink.” Three thousand years later, in the foothills of the Poconos, we were living the wilderness.

But here’s the thing about camp. Dinner ended, and on a Friday night at Harlam, when dinner ends, it’s time for song session. No one canceled it. No one even considered canceling it.

There were no microphones. There were no screens with the words. There were just two remarkable song leaders, Pria and Joella, standing up in that dimly lit room, and beginning to sing.

And the room changed.

Hundreds of voices, singing from memory, arms around shoulders, the worry of the last hour melting into harmony. The night everyone had feared became a night nobody will forget. I stood in the back of that dining hall and watched two young song leaders transform anxiety into celebration, armed with nothing but their voices and our people’s songs.

Here’s the second moment.

One afternoon I sat with our Gesher unit — the seventeen-year-olds in the counselor-in-training program. Gesher means bridge, and that’s exactly where these teens stand: on the bridge between being campers and becoming the leaders who will raise up the next generation.

We were talking about their lives back home, and the conversation turned to antisemitism. I asked how many of them had experienced it personally. Every hand went up. Every single one.

They told me about the comments on social media. The “jokes” in the school hallway. The things said to their faces by classmates, by teammates, sometimes by people they had considered friends. Seventeen years old, and every one of them already carries a story like that.

Our parashah speaks to this too. Among its final commandments, Masei instructs the Israelites to establish arei miklat — cities of refuge. Places of safety, built on purpose, built by design, because the Torah understood something profound: a community cannot leave the safety of its most vulnerable to chance. Refuge must be constructed. Deliberately. In advance.

That is what Jewish camp is. Camp Harlam did not become a safe haven for Jewish kids by accident. Generations of our movement built it, brick by brick and song by song, so that there would be one place — at least one place — where a Jewish teenager never has to brace for the comment, never has to explain, never has to shrink.

But here is what moved me most about those Gesher teens. They were candid about the hard stuff, and then, without missing a beat, they went right back to planning their next activity, to arguing about which unit has the best cheer, to talking about the campers they couldn’t wait to lead. They have every excuse to be weary of Jewish life. Instead, they chose to spend their entire summer immersed in it, training to pass it on.

A city of refuge, it turns out, has a purpose beyond hiding. It’s where you refuel.

Here’s the third moment.

Every summer, Camp Harlam welcomes a mishlachat — a delegation of young Israeli staff members who bring Israel to the Poconos. This summer I had the chance to sit with them and listen to their stories.

A young woman named Nitzan told us about the weeks after October 7th. She spent them in Eilat, working with families who had been evacuated from the Gaza envelope — from the kibbutzim and towns that bore the worst of that day. She spent her days with children who had lost their homes, and some who had lost far more than that. She sat with them, played with them, helped them feel like children again, in hotel lobbies that had become a wilderness encampment of their own.

And now? Now she spends her summer in Kunkletown, Pennsylvania, teaching American Jewish kids Israeli dance and Hebrew songs. Having held so much grief, she chose to spend this chapter of her life creating joy.

I keep thinking about her name. Nitzan, in Hebrew, means a bud — a blossom. It comes from the biblical book,  Song of Songs: Hanitzanim niru va’aretz, et hazamir higia. “The blossoms have appeared in the land; the time of singing has come.”

A young woman named for the first sign that winter is ending — and that is precisely the work she does. In Eilat, and now at camp: appearing in the land after the coldest winter, announcing that the time of singing can come again.

So what ties these three moments together?

Those of you who have heard me preach about camp before know that everything at Harlam runs on seven middot — seven character traits, drawn from the Jewish spiritual practice of mussar, that teach campers how to become their best selves. There’s acharayut, thinking of others. Nitzachon, perseverance. Rachamim, compassion. Bitachon, confidence. Tiferet, finding inner beauty. Binah, seeking meaning. When a camper embodies one of these traits, a counselor might catch them in the act and award them a bracelet. I’ve stood on this bimah in years past and talked about these bracelets and some of these middot.

I just mentioned six of them. And the seventh — the very first one on camp’s list — is the one that every story I told you tonight has in common.

Simchah. Finding joy.

Pria and Joella, standing in a dark dining hall with no microphones, singing a worried camp into joy. The Gesher teens, who know exactly what the world can say to a Jewish kid, choosing a summer overflowing with Jewish life anyway. Nitzan, who carried the grief of the Gaza envelope in her arms, now teaching ten-year-olds to dance.

Some people hear “Jewish joy” and imagine something naive — a looking-away, a pretending. What I witnessed at camp this summer was the opposite of pretending. These young people know the darkness intimately. They lost the lights, literally and figuratively. And they sang anyway.

That is why simchah is a middah — a trait to be practiced, strengthened, built. Joy, in Jewish life, is a discipline. We construct it the way the Torah constructs cities of refuge: deliberately, in advance, because we know we will need it. 

Rebbe Nachman of Breslov, a man who knew profound personal darkness, taught: Mitzvah gedolah lihyot b’simchah tamid — it is a great mitzvah to be in joy, always. He didn’t teach that because life was easy. He taught it because life wasn’t.

Joy that survives a night without water is practice for joy that survives far worse. Our kids are getting that practice, every summer, at camp.

I want to leave you tonight with an important reminder. None of what I described happens by accident.

The song leaders, the middot bracelets, the safe haven where a Jewish teen can finally exhale, the Israeli counselor dancing with our kids — all of it exists because generations of Jews before us decided that camp was worth building, and worth sending their children to.

Now it’s our turn. So here is my ask:

If you have children — consider camp. I can tell you as a rabbi, and as a parent, there is no better investment in a joyful, confident Jewish identity than a summer in the machaneh.

If you have grandchildren or nieces and nephews — plant the seed. Gently. Mention it to their parents. A grandparent’s voice carries further than you know, and sometimes a grandparent’s generosity is what makes camp possible.

And to every single one of us: know that Rodeph Shalom has scholarship funds to help send our young people to camp. Cost should never be the reason a Jewish child misses this. Use those funds. Support those funds. Every dollar builds the refuge, and fills it with song.

The Torah ends the book of Numbers by lovingly recounting every place we ever camped, because our tradition has always known: the camping is where we became a people. It still is.

Shabbat Shalom.

162nd Confirmation at Congregation Rodeph Shalom
Sunday, May 17, 2026

D’var Torah by the Confirmands

Zoe Levenstien

Today we read Sh’mot, or Exodus, chapter 20, traditionally read during Shavuot. Not only is Shavuot a triumphant end to the counting of the Omer, more importantly it commemorates the day the Israelites accepted the Ten Commandments at Mount Sinai. You may know a few of these commandments already: “Thou shalt not kill” “Thou shalt not steal” “Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor” – things that seem obvious to any decent person. The word “commandment” evokes something that we must do for somebody else or a higher power. Traditionally, we think of commandments as a one way communication from God to God’s people. Although the Ten Commandments provide the gift of a morally-sound roadmap, it still seems awfully one-sided. Is there another way to think about this monumental moment? I was interested to learn about a midrash that frames the Ten commandments as more of a brit, or a contract. Picture those ancient tablets. How do you envision the arrangement of the commandments? You are probably thinking of commandments 1-5 on one side and 6-10 on the other. But according to Rabbi Ishmael, the tablets have commandments 1-10 repeated on both sides. One copy for God and one copy for us. Like a contract! A contract that means that both parties are obligated to work together. This signals to us that the Ten Commandments are actually about being in an active relationship with God, not just following some archaic rules. 

We recognized that the same active, two-way relationship exists between us and our parents. At first glance, it seems the parents are the only ones bestowing knowledge onto their children and showing them the correct way to live a meaningful life. L’dor V’dor – parents passing on what they had learned from their parents, from generation to generation. As a confirmation class, we really liked this idea of recognizing how much our parents and the wider Rodeph Shalom community has passed down to us, but we also want to acknowledge, that like a Breit or a complex child-parent relationship, we were able to give something as well. 

We have seen this play out in our own lives at Rodeph Shalom.

Elana Maser

Coming to Rodeph Shalom was arguably one of the best things to ever happen to me. After having the random desire to attend Hebrew school in the beginning of the 3rd grade and visiting some of my options, I picked Rodeph Shalom based off its gorgeous sanctuary (even with my mom’s slight push to attend somewhere closer to home) . I am forever grateful for this decision as it truly changed my life for the better. I was immediately welcomed with open arms by all of my teachers and classmates. Every Sunday, I was excited to come to this place where I would see my friends and sing songs with fun gestures in the sanctuary. As I got older and the question of if I should stay or not after bat mitzvah came up, it wasn’t even a question, and this wasn’t just because of the candy room or the bagels every morning. This was because Rodeph Shalom ignited a love within me for Judaism. A love that made me genuinely want to wake up early every Sunday, which is no small feat. 

I can confidently say I would not be the person I am today without Rodeph Shalom and the incredible opportunities it has provided me: not only making me a stronger Jew, but also a leader, friend, and person. I remember in 8th grade attending my first NFTY event with Rodeph Shalom at Camp Harlam. At this event I met so many amazing people from all different areas. We held such meaningful conversations and made such amazing memories that I cried the whole bus ride home and refused to take off my NFTY sweatshirt for 2 days. This event opened me up to the amazing world of Jewish Youth Organizations, in which I quickly became involved. Since then, I have engaged in BBYO, helping re-build the Philadelphia Chapter serving on board for the past 4 years, I have played in the Maccabi games every summer since 2022, I completed the Diller Teen Fellowship as a part of Cohort 8, and I was a Stand With Us Leventhal Intern this past year. None of this would have been possible without the constant support of Rodeph Shalom. Rodeph Shalom has made me fall in love with my Judaism over and over again, constantly introducing me to new perspectives and communities through which I can express it and supporting me throughout my own personal journey. 

In Moses’ final words to his people before they enter the promised land, he leaves them with the phrase “That you may long endure on the land that your God Adonai is assigning to you.” Rodeph Shalom has instilled a passion within me to “long endure” my Judaism in all aspects of my life while simultaneously introducing me to the beauty of my Judaism as it is “assigned to me,” helping me construct my own perspectives and identity. 

I am so lucky and forever grateful that little me made the choice to attend here, as it truly changed my life for the better. Rodeph Shalom has made me love my Judaism. It has introduced me to the Jewish community which I have learned to know and love. And ultimately, it has sparked a passion within me to forever endure my Judaism in the beauty of which it has been assigned to me.

Jeremy Landau

Being at Rodeph Shalom has also been hugely influential for me, and has changed the course of my life. When I started at Berkman Mercaz Limud in 1st grade, I knew that I loved Judaism. I remember racing with another student to see which of us could write our Hebrew names faster—I won. And that love has only deepened with each passing year. I am fascinated by the stories of the Tanakh, where by analyzing each word, I am able to gain a greater understanding of one of our sacred texts. I even have a favorite antediluvian biblical figure—it’s Methuselah. I have a passion for learning about the history of our people, and as a madrich for 5th and 6th grade for the past two years, I have been able to pass down that love to the children of Rodeph Shalom. 

Over the summer, I spent many of my Wednesday mornings volunteering at Breaking Bread on Broad. There, I helped to restock food and hand out produce to struggling neighbors. In doing this, I realized that the synagogue serves as both a house of worship and a place of refuge. Regardless of their affiliation with Judaism, people go to Breaking Bread on Broad for assistance, and we welcome them in with open arms. I saw many of the same guests every week, and while most spoke only Mandarin or Spanish, we were connected by the universal language of food. The language barrier was not a disadvantage, but an opportunity to communicate through hand motions and smiles. Rodeph Shalom’s vision statement is “We Create Profound Connections”—and that’s exactly what we were doing.

Rodeph Shalom is also where I learned about Camp Harlam when I was 7 years old. I went there as a camper for eight years, and I am going back as a counselor this summer for the Rishonim unit, which is made up of first-time campers. Rishonim means “the first ones” in Hebrew. I did that program when I was their age, and as their counselor, I will get to show them everything I love about camp, teaching them things that I learned from my counselors.

At the foot of Mount Sinai, Moses tells the Jewish people that God shows “kindness to the thousandth generation of those who love Me and and keep My commandments.” I want to continue to be a link in the chain of the Jewish people, and help to cultivate that “thousandth generation.” Although I don’t yet fully know what I want to do in my career, I have been thinking a lot about becoming a rabbi, and it is my experience growing up in Congregation Rodeph Shalom and the greater Reform Jewish community that has helped me find this path.

Pria Maderer Lipkin

L’dor v’dor, from generation to generation, goes both ways.  As our Jewish community has influenced us, we also have had an impact on our Jewish community. 

My time as a madricha has looked a little different from my peers. I find holiness, and my personal spirituality, through Jewish music and song. Inspired by musical leaders before me, I wanted to give the next generation access to the same music I grew up on. With that goal in mind, I worked with Jennifer to create this unique position where I was able to teach multiple age groups. As I look out to you all, I feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude for having the privilege and honor to sing with a lot of you. 

As Zoe beautifully spoke about, I resonate with the idea of the Ten Commandments as a contract. One side for me, one for my students. While teaching music, I’ve noticed some of the younger kids adapting some of my little quirks. Me being the drama kid that I am, I finish some songs in a dramatic fashion. When I would do a big fun ending to a song, my Kindergarten and Pre-K students would replicate it. Sometimes, I didn’t even realize I was doing it until they did it back to me. I loved the bit so much that I added the dramatic ending to how I taught the song. Stay tuned and we will try it together in a few minutes. My side of the contract, my love for music, influenced their side, their interaction with that music. This replication extends to my leadership. We start every morning with Modeh Ani, a prayer of gratitude, and as we sing the song, we do morning stretches. One day, early in my songleading here, a student asked to lead alongside me. Without thinking much of it, I welcomed them up and made sure their hands were going the right way (mirroring is a hard concept to understand at 5). Since that day, I have picked two new students each week to do the stretches upfront with me. These kids weren’t only participating each week, they were actively leading their peers. I feel so lucky to have been able to see a glimpse of that leadership in all of you during my short time teaching. I can’t wait to see you all grow into that leadership, in whatever way you find meaningful. 

Delilah Forman 

I have been coming to Rodeph Shalom ever since the first grade. During this time, I have always had a slight pressure put on me that most kids who come here don’t feel. My mother Sharon, one of the third grade teachers, has conveniently worked here as long as I can remember. This made the travels coming here easier, but this is not all that kept my push to keep coming and continue my Jewish education. I fell in love with the community, made amazing friends along the way, and I hope I was able to become that motivation for some of the younger kids now. When I was younger, I looked up to the older kids and madrichim. I thought they were super cool and I wanted to do what they did. 

My time as a madricha has been amazing, spending time with first and second graders really has been such a fun experience. To the second graders in my class, I really hope you continue to stick with Berkman Mercaz Limud. You will meet life long friends and learn to cherish Jewish values, similar to those that I have learned to cherish. I hope to be that motivation to you to continue your time here and maybe continue the passing along of that slight bit of motivation (L’dor vador). 

I’ve learned throughout my time here that being Jewish is really such a big part of my identity. Furthermore, I feel as though Shabbat and High Holiday services also played a large role in the impact I am leaving here at RS. Coincidentally on theme, the celebration of L’cha Dodi, arguably the best part of the service, has stuck out to me the most. It’s funny how when I was thinking back at what I was going to talk about today, I realized how I always end up dancing around, holding hands with younger kids. I hope that my presence here as an older kid leaves a lasting impression to keep them coming not just to services, but to also stay involved with Jewish learning at Rodeph Shalom.

Elle Felderman

As we conclude, in the spirit of L’dor V’dor, we recognize that the connections we build go both ways. To everyone who has impacted us, and who has given us the opportunity to make an impact in return, we are truly grateful. We thank our parents, our families, our clergy, our teachers, and our community for guiding us, supporting us, and inspiring us along the way. We hope to carry these values forward and continue this chain together for generations to come.

I don’t know if you’ve heard that this year we are celebrating the 250^th anniversary of the signing of the Declaration of Independence in Philadelphia at Independence Hall, just around the corner from here.  At the signing of the Declaration, the Liberty Bell was rung, pealing with sounds of joy and jubilation.  The Liberty Bell became the iconic symbol of the United States along with the American Flag and the Statue of Liberty.

Inscribed on the Liberty Bell are words from this week’s Torah Portion “Behar” in the Book of Vayikra, Leviticus 25:10.  :   “K’ratem d’ror ba’aretz l’col yosh-veh-ha”

“Proclaim liberty throughout the land for all the inhabitants thereof.”

A little known fact is that the Assembly of the Province of Pennsylvania ordered the bell in 1751 to commemorate the 50^th anniversary of William Penn’s “Charter of Privileges” which recognized religious liberty in 1701, which was 75 years before the Declaration Of Independence and the birth of our nation.

As Jews, we can feel a great deal of pride that our sacred text has served as an inspiration to the founders of the USA.  Not only for the verse in Leviticus on the Liberty Bell, but for the very foundation of the most important concept in American history:  [from the Declaration of Independence]:  “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness.”  [Can we please agree that the founders meant to say “All human beings are created equal?”  Thank you].

So now, on the 250^th anniversary of those words, let us consider their true meaning and their connection to Judaism

Up until this point in history, laws were considered to come from the monarchy in nations, empires such as Great Britain.  The Anglican Church of England was considered their true religion, and those who dissented were harassed and many left for America, such as the Quakers in Philadelphia, and the Puritans in Boston.  The monarch, vested by the power of the Church of England had the power to make and enforce laws.

The founding of the United States saw a radical change from this concept.  “The founders were rejecting the idea fundamental in the British system, that there were certain hereditary social classes, beginning with royalty and aristocracy that had more rights than other classes.” [Isaacson].

We believe the power to govern must come from the people.  Thus the opening words of the Preamble to our Constitution, “We the People in order to create a more perfect union…”  signifying that the US government derives its power directly from its citizens.

Where did our founders learn this?  As Abraham Lincoln said in his immortal Gettysburg Address: “[The founders] brought forth on this continent a new nation conceived in liberty and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.”  Where does this concept originate?  I believe they were inspired by another foundational verse in our Torah, B’reishit (Genesis) 1:27;  “God created the human being in “B’tzelem Elohim” in the image of God;  in God’s image did God create the human; male and female God created them.  And God blessed them.”

When Thomas Jefferson, Ben Franklin and John Adams wrote the Declaration Of Independence, they wrote the words: “all men are created equal.” And they were inspired and guided by our Torah’s verse “all people are created B’tzelem Elohim – in God’s image.”

Well, what took so long?  The Torah has been around for millennia, but it was not until 1776 that the concept of treating all human beings as equal was placed into the most important document in American history.  What took so long?  Well that’s the topic for another sermon.  But as Jews and as Americans we are grateful that this concept is the very foundation of our nation.  However, we know that while these lofty words are the vision statement of the USA, they were not true in 1776, and we are still grappling with them today.

William Penn’s Charter of Privileges in 1701 was the inspiration for choosing the verse from our Torah Portion to be inscribed on the Liberty Bell.  But Penn’s document declared religious freedom as its basic tenet.  In fact, one of the main reasons people immigrated to America was for religious freedom.  But Penn’s document did not outlaw slavery.  Even so, Quakers in PA were among the leaders of the abolitionist movement, and in 1780 Pennsylvania passed a law providing for gradual emancipation.

Even though Jefferson was the principal author of the DOI he still owned more than 600 enslaved people.  He claimed to hate slavery.  In fact in his original draft of the DOI, he called the slave trade “a cruel war against human nature.”  He called slavery a “moral depravity and a hideous blot.”  But he knew that the DOI and later the Constitution would never have passed if they had outlawed slavery.

The founders did have the moral gravity to know that this would have to change eventually, so the genius of the Constitution is that it contains the means by which to correct errors – through the process of amendments, and the ballot box.  As egregious a sin as was the outrage of slavery, the framers of the Constitution wrote into law ways to end this “hideous blot” from our nation.

Why do people continue to do what they know to be wrong?  This is the quintessential question of Judaism on Yom Kippur (actually on every day of our lives) we go through the process of  “cheshbon ha nefesh”  we take an accounting of our soul.  And we try to go through the process of “tshuva” repentance, atonement, returning to our true selves.  Wiping the slate clean.

This is the true connection between our verse in this week’s Torah Portion and the Liberty Bell, the Declaration Of Independence, the Constitution, and the soul of America.  When we examine our verse, we see that the “Jubilee Year” the 50^th year, we are commanded to sound the Shofar on Yom Kippur within that 50^th year.  And on that year “You shall proclaim “release” throughout the land for all the inhabitants thereof.  It shall be a Jubilee Year.”

The Hebrew word for “Jubilee” here is “Yoveil” which means “rams horn” which we sound on the High Holy Days, the Days of Repentance.  According to Rashi, the great commentator, ”Release” means to proclaim liberty to slaves.

The Quakers who chose this verse to be on the Old Bell in 1751 knew exactly what they were doing.  They were perhaps the strongest opponents of slavery and became the leaders of the abolitionist movement in America.  And they were the ones who changed the name the Old Bell to the Liberty Bell, which they used frequently to symbolize their cause.

Ben Franklin, perhaps the most famous Philadelphian of all time, (with the possible exception of Pat, King of Cheesesteaks!), took up the moral crusade of abolition.  In 1787 Franklin became the President Of the PA Society for the Promoting of Abolition of Slavery.  And in 1790 he presented a formal abolition petition to Congress, saying “mankind are all formed by the same Almighty Being, alike objects of his care, and equally designed for the enjoyment of happiness.”  He said the duty of Congress was to secure “the blessings of liberty to the People of the US without distinction of color.”

Franklin and his petition were roundly denounced by the defenders of slavery, and as we know, it took many more years, and the bloody Civil War before the 13^th Amendment was ratified in 1865, formally abolishing slavery across our nation.

The struggle for liberty did not end there as it continued for many more years.  In 1963, in his “I have a Dream” speech delivered on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. invoked the words from Leviticus on the liberty Bell with his declaration “Let freedom ring,” praying for the day when freedom would ring throughout this land.

King also said, “The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.”  “But it did not bend itself.  It was and remains a constant struggle to make the phrase “all men are created equal” truly inclusive.” [Isaacson]

Too often today, I hear so much pessimism about our country.   People describe the state of our nation as dark and fraught.  But a careful reading of our history, and especially the Jewish inspiration found in our Declaration Of Independence and Constitution,  can only give us hope.  The founders made sure there would always be ways to correct any extreme.  They built a system in which the pendulum would always swing from one point of view to another, until one day, God willing, we will all understand why this great nation was founded 250 years ago, and why it is still necessary.

Lincoln exhorted the assembly at Gettysburg to never be complacent.  “It is rather for us to be dedicated to the great task remaining before us…that we here highly resolve to have a new birth of freedom, and that government of the people, by the people and for the people, shall not perish from the earth.”

AMEN.

MATERIAL GATHERED FROM:

Jewish Roots of American Liberty, Wilfred McClay and Stuart Halpern, Encounter Books, New York, 2025.

Benjamin Franklin, An American Life, Walter Isaacson, Simon & Schuster, New York, 2003.

The Greatest Sentence Ever Written, Walter Isaacson, Simon & Schuster, New York, 2025.

Leviticus 25:9-10.     Rashi Commentary of Lev. 25:10.     Genesis 1:27.    “Gettysburg Address” Abraham Lincoln 1863.