From the Bimah: Jewish Lessons for Life Temple Emanuel in Newton

It is 4:52 PM.  Our flight took off at 4:35 PM.  Eder has finished drinking his milk.  He’s done reading books.  He is not tired.  He does not want to sit still.  In seventeen minutes, he has already played with and discarded every toy in the diaper bag.  Now he’s screeching.  Solomon and I are passing him back and forth, trying in vain to appease him.  The good news is there are only four hours and twenty-two minutes to go.

The woman seated in front of us turns around.  “You know, I think he’s hungry,” she says, “have you tried giving him some milk?”  Before I can answer, the woman next to me chimes in, “the problem is you fed him too soon. You should have waited.  Poor thing, his ears must be terribly painful. Put the pacifier in his mouth at least.”  There’s a tap on my shoulder.  A grandmother behind me disagrees.  “I think he has gas.  Did you try moving his legs—sometimes that helps to ease their tummies.”  Not to be left out, the woman across the aisle leans over.  “Did you pack any socks for him?  He’s cold—look at his bare feet!”  I look at my phone.  4:54 PM. There are only four hours and twenty to go.  There is nothing quite like flying the friendly skies with an eleven-month-old.

4:57 PM the seat belt sign finally turns off.  Solomon stands up and takes Eder to practice walking up and down the aisle.  The grandmothers swoon. He’s such a good dad.  Look at him, bent over, walking with the baby.  Awww, he’s so cute.  And so lucky to have a such a good dad.  I take out my iPad and begin furiously typing this sermon.

For me, the flight was a stark depiction of something I’ve experienced often since becoming a mother.  Before Eder was born, I was never blamed for someone else’s bad mood.  Honestly, there have been plenty of times I’ve been in public with people who were grumpy or upset, even times when my congenial husband was not the cheeriest.  But at those times, no one would ever suggest that Solomon might be gassy or that I had packed him the wrong clothes.  But now, there is this sense if Eder is upset, it must be something that I either did or didn’t do that made him feel that way.  I didn’t know this, but there is a right way and a wrong way to mother.  The rule of thumb is whatever you’re doing is wrong.

At Sisterhood's wonderful donor event this past Sunday, a woman shared with me that she had had a large extended family in Europe before the Shoah. The family members who said in the 1930s it will all blow over, don't be alarmist, all perished in the Shoah. She said her parents were paranoid. They said it won't blow over. The alarm is real. They got out before it was too late. She said I am only here because my parents were paranoid, and they were right.

There is an edge in the air. There is anxiety in the air. There is a lot of talk about the 1930s in Germany as a lens for today. How do we think about that? In a recent Israel at War podcast, Donniel Hartman and Yossi Klein Halevi dismiss this lens as hysterical; that there is no basis for such a comparison; and that the Jewish community ought not to be talking this way as it amps up anxiety in a way that is unwarranted. Are they right?

Consider the liturgy for this solemn day.

I believe there is zero chance that there will ever be an Auschwitz in America. I have zero worry that there will ever be concentration camps here.

That said, that is the wrong question, that is fighting the last war, the wrong war, and that does not help me sleep at night. We are fighting a new war, a different war, but it is war, and it consists of three questions.

One, does Israel have a right to exist, or was its founding a historic mistake which must be rectified?

Two, does Israel have a right to defend its citizens from attack, or is the IDF per se all war criminals?

Three, is Hamas a terrorist organization that murders innocent men, women, children, and babies, or is it a liberation movement, and all of its violence is justified to free Palestine?

The protesters at the college campuses, and the faculty defending their right to their hateful protests, answer the questions: Israel has no right to exist; the IDF are war criminals; Hamas are agents of liberation. Zionism is a dirty word. Zionists are beyond the pale morally. That is why even on October 7, and the days thereafter before Israel's war on Gaza began, they refused to condemn Hamas. They see Hamas as agents of liberation, conquering an Israel that must die so that Palestine can be free from the river to the sea.

I do not know how numerous they are in the population. But they are loud. They are noisy. They punch way above their weight. And they vote.

Might American politics change, in deference to this tectonic shift in thinking? If the Majority Leader of the Senate were AOC, instead of Charles Schumer, would Israel get the support it needs in times of war? If the Speaker of the House were Ayanna Pressley or Ilan Omer, instead of Mike Johnson, would Israel get the support it needs in times of war?

The old war is Auschwitz. The new war is no Israel because the politics in America on Israel have changed so dangerously and so precipitously that America would not support Israel in its darkest hour.

In the old war, the people who survived fled. In this new war, we have to stay and fight for Israel. We need to get active in local government. We need to join the library committee so that this atrocity now showing never happens again. We need to make sure that people who support Israel's right to exist and to defend itself are elected, and that those who support Hamas as freedom fighters are defeated at the ballot box. We have so much important work to do.

When was the last time you changed your mind on a matter of deep principle? You felt one way on an important issue, and then you flipped and came down on the other side? If that has happened to you, what inspired your change of thinking? What changed your mind?  

Pharaoh and his courtiers changed their minds not once but twice. For a long time, he was not going to let the people go. Then after the tenth plague he changed his mind. Not only can they go, they need to go now. ASAP. And then in the reading for the seventh day, they change their minds again. What did we do? Why did we ever let them go? Let’s get them back, now. Send out our finest soldiers and chariots to take back our slaves. 

When we discussed these biblical texts at services, a number of people volunteered that they had indeed changed their minds on important issues. It was always a personal relationship that prompted the change. 

I was against LGBTQ plus inclusion, but then a family member came out; now I am for it. 

I did not understand trans. It was not my issue. Then my grandchild announced that they are transitioning. Now I really care about this issue. 

Fifty years ago I was against women’s equal participation in Jewish ritual. Then my daughters had their Bat Mitzvah. And of course my granddaughters. I can’t remember why I was ever against it. 

These narratives suggest that it is personal relationships that drive changing our minds. People we know and love can cause us to think again. 

What about ideas? Have you ever changed your mind because of the power of an idea? Has anyone ever sent you an article, a podcast, a book, a video link, an op-ed, and your response was: I was wrong after all. Does that happen, ever? 

What do our sources suggest? Do ideas ever change our minds? Or is it only people and relationships that change our minds? What does all this suggest about the minds we need to change now, and how do we go about doing it?

Yizkor sermons tend to be challenging for rabbis because we give a lot of them.  We say Yizkor four times a year.  If you do the math year after year, that is a lot of Yizkor sermons, and what is there new to say?  What is there to say that we haven’t said before?  That you haven’t heard before?

I wish we had that problem again this year.  Unfortunately we don’t.  This is a Yizkor with an entirely fresh angle.  The last time we said Yizkor was October 7.  I don’t need to tell you that the months since October 7 have been, and continue to be, the most harrowing for the Jewish people, since the Shoah. What is the impact of this hard new chapter on our private Yizkor mediations now?

I want to ask you to imagine for a moment that you are one of the Israelites fleeing Egypt. And let’s be granular. I want you to imagine that you’ve been a slave for decades. That your life is dictated by the whims of a cruel pharaoh, that your days are spent lugging huge stones, that you’ve been separated from your family, kept apart so that you can work harder. I want you to imagine that after decades of hard work, you are tired. Your bones creak. Your muscles are sore. When Moshe tells you that God has heard you, that he’s going to get you out, you can’t even process that possibility. You can’t even catch your breath.

You might have stayed in Egypt, and simply enjoyed a few days off, but during this past week, Egypt has become more miserable than ever. You’ve endured water shortages, frogs, lice, hordes of wild animals, disease, hail, darkness, and widespread destruction. There aren’t enough resources to stay. And so, even though walking is the last thing you want to do, you’re marching with 3 million Israelites, following some cloud towards a “Promised Land.”

After what seems like forever, walking day and night following God’s mysterious pillar of clouds and fire, you make it to the Sea of Reeds only to hear Pharaoh’s army following behind. Wearily you race ahead, walking through the water on dry land. In terror you watch as Pharaoh’s armies give chase, and then with relief you see the waters crash down on them.

You’re safe. You’re exhausted. You’re relieved. What do you do?

Abe and Sarah have been happily married for more than 60 years. They share children, grandchildren, great grandchildren.  One fine day, Sarah says,  Abe: I’d like a banana sundae.  Would you please go to JP Licks?  Of course! It would be my privilege! What kind of banana sundae do you want?  Abe, write it down.  A banana sundae has a lot going on.  Would you please get me three flavors: chocolate chip, Oreo, and cake batter. Then whipped cream. Lots of hot fudge. With a cherry on top.  Abe, write it down.   I don’t need to write it down.  I’ve got it.  Off he goes. Thirty minutes later, he comes back, smiling and triumphant.   Sarah, I got you just what you wanted! A dozen hot, fresh bagels. And delicious plain cream cheese, which you always love. Abe, I told you to write it down. I told you you’d forget.  I don’t want plain cream cheese.  I want cream cheese with scallions.

This is an old joke that my father in love used to tell, but the older I get, the more I realize that this joke is no joke.  This joke has a deep pathos.  The pathos that Abe is not the person he used to be. The pathos that Sarah is not the person she used to be.  The pathos that their decline does not have an answer or a happy ending.  The pathos that their children, grandchildren  and caregivers are increasingly going to be called upon to help get them through their days safely.  The pathos that their life is going to be changing in ways that they would not have chosen and cannot control.

Abe and Sarah’s 60-year love story has complexity to it.  A lot of joy. A lot of love. A lot of rich shared history. A lot of what matters most in the world.  And a lot of pain and loss.  How do we think about the totality of their story—and of ours?  How do we make sense of not only the happy parts but also the rough patches?

This morning we are trying to make sense of two things that have their own cycle, their own rhythm, their own ups and downs—and that at first blush do not seem connected but in fact deeply are.  The first is Through the Decades membership in Temple Emanuel for folks who once celebrated their Bar or Bat Mitzvah here, as an adult or as a teen, and are still connected to our community.  The second is the outburst of hatred on college campuses directed against Israel and the Jewish people.