RH Day 2 Sermon

RH 5786. “Israel, Gaza, War: Enough Tears”

I don’t want to give this sermon. I offer these words sincerely, but under “duress” on some level. I mean that both earnestly and tongue-in-cheek. The tongue-in-cheek part is that a good number of you have nearly demanded I address this issue in at least one High Holiday sermon. 

The earnest part is that duress hovers over this issue. There is duress for those truly amidst it, suffering through it, mourning as a result of it, dying because of it. And there is a different sort of duress upon those of us who rise and sleep with this topic penetrating our consciousness.  

Today I will address Israel. And Zionism. And Gaza. And the ongoing war. And the hopes for peace. And the tragedy of the death of innocents. And the necessity for the elimination of enemies and of evil.  I aim to do it in such a way that gives you a sense of who and where I am on this issue.  And in a way that binds and coheres rather than cleaves and divides. 

Because as I think long-term about the Jewish state, the Jewish people and the Jewish nation, I am more frightened by the death of עם ישראל/am yisrael than I am about the death of any individual member of it. Do not get me wrong. Each death, including the one we suffered in our family about which I spoke last year, is an incalculable horror. 

But people do die, and are killed, in the name of things that are grand and enduring, such as statehood, and sovereignty and identity. But to lose so many people, and ultimately lose the Jewish people? For our disagreements to result in the atomization, the disintegration of who we are as a nation? If so, we will have more than yielded to our enemies’ wish that we disappear. We will have done our enemies’ work for them.

I want to begin with tears. This sermon began in tears.

In June I sent an email to the shul. In that message I made associations between Israel’s war with Iran and my simultaneous visit to Hiroshima. I rhapsodized about an intrepid tourist visiting Gaza, or Tehran, in fifty or eighty years, who might meet local people who would express wonder at the healthy, thriving civilization that only emerged because a nihilistic, radical, hateful culture was vanquished. 

Some of the world’s greatest modern societies rose like phoenixes only after unremitting war left the evil enemy defeated, surrendered, forced to accept their loss. Maybe, just maybe, the wars of our day will lead to the liberation of truly enslaved peoples, and the revelation of civilizations waiting to come into being.

One congregant wrote to me with righteous fury in response to that email. The strong but respectful email took me to task for my historical observations and associations. The writer felt I was exonerating the terrible things that Israel is doing in this war. She felt great pain, as a Jew and Zionist, at what she had observed in Israel’s decision-making after Oct. 7, at what she perceived as kowtowing to radical voices in the Knesset, and at the terrible suffering of innocents in Gaza. 

I wrote back that whether or not my associations would prove prophetic, they were fair analogies to draw. I made it clear, of course, that I abhor that any civilian in this or any conflict must suffer and die. I do indeed pray and hope for the welfare of innocents in Gaza. Then I invited her to my office to talk — פנים אל פנים/panim el panim — face to face.

We spoke for an hour. We both listened intently to one another, assuming the other was making reasonable sense, and was coming from a place of moral decency. I am not sure how much either of us convinced the other in our analysis of the quagmire. But that wasn’t the goal. 

We saw one another as essentially on the same side. The same side of goodness. Of support for Israel’s right to be and thrive. Of hoping for the quickest end to this awful war. The same side of the sick feeling regarding the death of any innocent, the suffering of any child, even if we disagreed as to the etiology of that suffering and the ultimate placement of blame. And, together, we shed tears. It was cathartic. 

We have kept in touch about these heady topics. Sharing with one another articles and podcasts that gently and respectfully may open one another up to perspectives we otherwise would not confront. Our time together felt more holy than it felt productive. More restoring of a norm that has people engage, with feeling and with care, on fraught topics, rather than rail at each other on social media. Our encounter was a reminder that you can love people you disagree with.  

This one encounter, with a big assist from TBA president Jacqui Jacobs, inspired me towards having 30 such conversations, on back to back days in August, from morning minyan to evening minyan. 

Those two days were exhausting. Physically and emotionally. You are, we are, holding on to much sorrow and pain as we behold Israel in 2025.

And those two days were illuminating, energizing and inspiring.  You are, we are, a nation of lofty ideals, a people unafraid to express love for a land, and an idea, while expressing consternation at the government of the Jewish state. I heard a passion and deep commitment to many forms of Zionism. And I heard shame. People whose Zionist devotions I trust and admire confessing that they were losing hope that Israel’s moral might could be recaptured from the morass of an exceedingly ugly war. 

When pressed, I heard you say that you do not need your rabbi to mimic your assessment of or nomenclature regarding current events, or your overall hopes about how the intractable conflict between Jews and Arabs in the middle east should be resolved. But I heard you say you needed to experience enough trickling through our emails and our programming, emanating from this bimah, refracted through the language of our prayers, for you to know that you have a home here. That you are within the tent. 

Listen–every tent, no matter how wide its pegs, has boundaries. Otherwise it has no coherence. But it is important for me to say here, and to use my leadership to ensure, that you do not have to agree with my take on Israel or Zionism to have a true embracing home at TBA.  That we can go to different conferences. Read different pundits. Choose to, or not to, be at any given protest. 

That we can embrace and celebrate a kaleidoscope of Zionisms at TBA. One that is loudly critical of any sitting Israeli government and one that eschews any public critique of Israel, from the Diaspora. One for whom AIPAC’s efforts are praised as essential for Israel’s defense. And one for whom JStreet on the left, and ZOA on the right, are more comfortable Zionist homes. All of those, and many more, must remain inside our wide tent. I feel deeply committed to that. All of those stances were represented in the meetings I had back in August. 

Here is just a sampling of what people shared with me in those meetings: 

One person analogized Israel’s place in the world to coming to terms with a grievous cancer diagnosis. It is bad. The decline may be inevitable. We need to accept reality as it is. 

Another young member expressed challenge and dismay when trying to reconcile liberalism with Zionism, particularly as this war continues. 

Some told me they were convinced that contemporary antisemitism is a direct result of the war in Gaza. End the war, and antisemitism will retreat. Others expressed the opposite direction: antisemitism is relentless and never-dying. The hatred of us should not be blamed on us. 

Many parents told me of their struggle with children who have strayed from Zionism, who feel shame regarding Israel. How to maintain שלום בית/shalom bayit/peace here, in the home, when the generations are so far apart on how to achieve שלום/shalom/peace over there? 

A college student told me she feels like a yo-yo with no home base, no safe place to land. This student has written 17K words in a journaling exercise to try to work through what it is like to be a Pressman-trained, proudly liberal and proudly but also questioning Zionist on a US campus. She feels split, thinking of Israeli cousins who would call her disloyal for reading Palestinian thinkers and thinking of a left-wing aunt who would scold her for even studying Zionism.

One TBA leader critiqued a recent sermon I had given that came off as too vague and soft in its critique of certain Israeli positions in the war. “We are not in a context of normal historical political divisions,” he said. “There are obscenities in the Israeli government that must be called out.” 

And another veered in the opposite direction, mentioning how troubling it was to witness American Jews questioning the basic validity of the democratically elected government of Israel. This person expressed a certain allergy to the “As-a-Jew-ism” that has erupted recently, usually followed by harsh words for the singular Jewish state.

Several Pressman parents told me that chatter on WhatsApp groups was that my invitation to these meetings suggested that we were about to move away from our close relationship with Israel. They came to tell me that they would be distressed if that were the case, for our bond with Israel and our Zionism are crucial aspects of our community that draw them and their children to us. 

Another Pressman parent told me about an uncle in the north of Israel who died from stress due to the war. He talked about how TBA and our Israeli flags and our prayers for Israel give him a protected space, protected from the viciousness of anti-Israel rhetoric and activity “out there.” This parent is very anti-Bibi. He does not have a nice word to say about the Prime Minister. And yet he is moved to tears every time he drops off his child at Pressman, hears the Hatikvah sung, sees young Jews walking with pride and confidence and security. 

And another person, who saw the sign-up sheet too late to grab a slot, wrote:  It brings me great comfort to know that when I walk through those doors there is a consensus that Israel is on our minds. Regardless of politics and opinions. Singing Hatikvah with others lifts my heart, saves it from despair. 

This is just a small taste. I am so grateful for this candor, this sharing, this variety, this generosity of spirit, the intimacy created one-on-one. As promised, I will try to do something like this about once a quarter, to dedicate an entire day to sitting with you. And listening. And maybe shedding some tears.

Some rabbis believe that every sermon has a CTA/Call-to-action, a “so what?”  What stirring in your heart am I hoping for as I share the convulsions in my own? Two come to mind. The first is concrete, filtered through a wonderful Hasidic teaching on the opening lines of Parshat Ki Tetze.

 כי תצא למלחמה על אויביך/Ki tetze lamilhamah al oyvekha. When you go out to wage war against your enemy. The Torah’s language is terse. Why would we ever go out to wage war? Because we have enemies. Enemies we wish we didn’t have, and whom we wish we could vanquish or silence without military might. But sometimes a righteous nation goes out to war.

 ונתנו ה׳ אלקיך בידך/Unetano Adonai Elohekha b’yadekha. God will deliver them into your hand. The Torah prophesies a quick victory.  Yet earlier in Bemidbar, the Torah described war differently: וכי תבואו מלחמה בארצכם/v’khi tavo’u milhamah b’artz’khem— “When you come to war in your land,” and then spoke of sounding trumpets and a more measured, extended, uncertain struggle before deliverance.

Rabbi Avraham Bornstain, the 19th and 20th C founder of the Sokatchover rabbinic dynasty, points out a subtle but powerful difference. In Bemidbar, the verb is plural. כי תבואו/Ki tavo’u. When many  go out. In Devarim it is singular. כי תצא/Ki tetze. When you go, as one. 

The Sokatchover’s teaching is that the war will end sooner, the deliverance will come quicker, if we act כאיש אחד/k’ish ehad — as one person — בלב אחד/b’lev ehad — with one heart — באחדות וריעות/b’ahdut v’reyut— in unity and tender comity. If we become fragmented into many rival bands — mistrusting, denouncing, and despising one another — we will lengthen our suffering. This is a spiritual, communal insight more than a political or military observation.

Note: he is not arguing for the silencing of dissent. Nor am I. Healthy debate and vigorous critique are essential to a democratic nation. I am not cautioning against making one’s voice heard, with passion, to urge one’s leaders towards that which you consider to be a more noble, more compassionate resolution. But God save us if we descend into division, distrust, dislike and even disgust. Our enemies will salivate. Our wait for redemption will be longer. Our war will go on.

So CTA # 1? Do your part in proving the Sokatchover’s message right. Do not fan the flames of discord.  Resist the urge to assume that those who disagree with you about Israel and Gaza are morons or monsters.  You don’t have to have 30 meetings. But have one? 

Single out one person whose narrative on Israel rubs you the wrong way and invite them for coffee. Ask how they arrived at their opinion.  And listen. You might learn something. So might the other. Treat the disagreement as something holy. Consider it, to paraphrase Ezra Klein, the beginning of a conversation, rather than as the end of one.

Can you imagine if activism now included the radical art of listening? What would it look like if the greatest thing you could do for am yisrael was to create more unity, less division? Do your part to retain the coherence of this broad, loving Zionist confederation. Of those who love Israel. And truly hope for peace. And cry for the suffering of the innocent. And who love one another. כי תצא למלחמה/Ki tetze lamilhamah. And then Israel will venture to war just a little bit more united. This is no small thing.

Even as I do not expect our views to be identical, let me share two overarching truths that resonate for me today — as a rabbi, as a Zionist, on Rosh Hashanah. 

The first one: The war, and the fear of annihilation, and the relentless terror that tragically has been a hallmark of Palestinian nationalism have awakened a dark side of Jewish nationalism. Too many are forgetting the midrash chastening the angels for cheering when the Egyptians drowned, as God exclaimed, “They too are my creations.” Too many are permitting themselves to see children as enemies, in some deluded Minority Report logic, punishing the young now for crimes they might commit later. 

I believe this stance to be morally bankrupt. And our tradition has warned us. Proverbs/Mishlei tells us שמח לאיד לא ינקה/Sameah l’eid lo yinakeh. “One who is joyful at another’s downfall will not be clean.” The bright light of Jewish ethics is diminished when we let that kind of rejoicing creep into our polity or our hearts.

And here is the second truth: Out there it is scary for Jews and for Zionists. At TBA, it must be safe. People ask why we are not praying for the victims of Gaza every time we pray for the hostages. As if praying primarily for Israeli hostages and soldiers excludes empathy for Palestinians! We love, care and grieve concentrically. And particularism is not tribalism.  Loving your wife, your husband, your children more than other human beings is not a p’gam, a stain, against you. It is not a moral blight. It is a moral obligation. 

I did a vidui/end-of-life ritual for a TBA member recently. It was hard and holy. Again, I wept.  I wept not only because of death as an abstraction, because of the death of a person. But because she was my person — she belonged to our community. That particular grief did not mean I wished harm on others. It meant I loved. We must allow ourselves that particularity while holding universal compassion in our hearts.

We need and deserve a protected womb where our narrative, our pain, our blood, our desire for peace is centered. 

On campuses, our students are told the Israeli flag is a Nazi flag. In our building, we will consider it a proud emblem of our people. In the legacy media, and from Hollywood, people will get all the amplified, twisted, inverted and perverted statistics and nomenclature that society can produce, applying the sick math that suggests that it would be more fair if more Jews were killed for every Palestinian, as if any moral person would have argued the same for Allied forces as they fought the Nazis. 

Here, we will weep and pray and come together with no asterisks. And we will do so secure in our notion that praying for the well being of Israeli hostages and Israeli soldiers and Israeli civilians does not mean a referendum on the current government of Israel. It does not express a wish that any Palestinian civilian die, nor anything but horror when they do. It does not suggest we relish a brutal war. It just suggests that there ought to be one place in our religious and spiritual and national lives that we can walk in, head held high. And be a little less on guard, in here, than so many of us are, out there. 

We cannot solve Gaza from this bimah. We cannot redraw the map of the middle east. Unless we are citizens and fly to Israel on election day, we cannot choose the government of Israel. Many of us feel so powerless about a topic about which our feelings and commitments are so powerful. What is in our power? I mentioned one concrete step above: talk to one person who disagrees with you.  

Here is a more abstract one. Do not give in to despair.  R’ Nahman of Bratslav taught אסור להתייאש/assur l’yitya’esh. It is forbidden to give up. He spiritually criminalizes despair.  The same exhortation each of us should send through the ether to every hostage still in fetters: do not give up. The same charge we would give to every young soldier trying to defeat a vicious enemy while sparing innocent life to every extent possible: do not surrender your soul or your hope. I offer it to you: it is simply unacceptable, as a Jew, to stop believing in miracles. Do not give up.

The Talmudic tractate Bava Metzia is filled with references to the noun extracted from that verb: יאוש. Ye’ush is the moment when a person despairs of ever finding something that was lost.  If you can determine that the person likely suffered ye’ush, you can keep their lost object. If someone drops a single dollar bill, with no identifying signs, in a busy place, the one who finds it can reasonably assume that the original owner has יאוש/ye’ush They have given up hope of ever locating it. You keep the dollar. 

There are circumstances, of course, in which יאוש/ye’ush is inevitable. But I am moved by how hard the rabbis work to try to limit the cases in which we assume a person suffered יאוש/ye’ush. And the ramifications of that limitation are real. The more you limit the cases where we assume יאוש/ye’ush, giving up, the more you widen the number of cases in which a person keeping something that was found is guilty of stealing. These are ethical and halakhic high stakes. And still, the Talmud keeps describing why a person might resist יאוש/ye’ush, might resist giving up hope.

I think the rabbis were speaking not just of dropped coins and lost garments. Their legalese about lost objects is more than jurisprudence. It is a moral and spiritual philosophy. Reflecting the quintessential Jewish character trait, forged through the crucible of far too much travail and suffering. 

Perhaps they were presaging R’ Nahman of Bratslov. אסור להתיאש/assur l’hitya’esh. Don’t give up. Cling to the hope that the hostages will return. 

Cling to the hope that civilian life in Gaza will be spared. 

Cling to the hope that our soldiers will return to their jobs and families. 

Cling to the hope that the Israeli government will be led with ethical reasonableness, restoring the sheen of the Zionist vision. 

Cling to the hope that our communities will learn again how to disagree and still love. 

Cling to the hope that, perhaps this year, there will be peace. In Israel. In Gaza. In Tehran. Everywhere. 

So may it be God’s will. So may our actions and intentions help ensure it will be God’s will.

Enough tears. שנה טובה/Shanah Tovah.