Yom Kippur Sermon, Saturday, October 12, 2024
By Rabbi Mark Glickman

I have news for you – news that some of you may receive with sadness, and others with great glee: This is the final major sermon I will deliver during this year’s Days of Awe. So far, I have encouraged you to let yourself weep this year, because there’s so much for us to cry about together and as individuals. I’ve called upon you to understand and remain engaged with people who disagree with you about Israel and the current wars it’s fighting with its neighbours. And I’ve called upon you to be curious always because curiosity is so very important.

As a congregation, you have sat through approximately 8,000 words of Glickman sermons during these Days of Awe, and I congratulate you for your stamina.

And I’ll confess, as I prepared to speak this morning, I faced a question that many of my colleagues and I face as we prepare for Yom Kippur morning: What’s left to say? I feel so talked out – so emptied out on this fast day. Is it possible that I’ve just run out of words?

I sat before the computer as I asked those questions during recent days, and the cursor on the blank page in front of me blinked and blinked and blinked, as if to say, Glickman, you’re done, you’ve already said it all, just give it up and let them get to that closing song a little earlier. (Spoiler alert: That’s not gonna happen.)

Of course, mine haven’t been the only words you’ve heard during these Awesome Days. You’ve also heard countless words from other congregants and from the treasure of our Yom Kippur liturgy. We’ve prayed for forgiveness. We’ve faced up to our shortcomings. We’ve acknowledged how limited our power really is in the presence of an awesome God.

And this year, we’ve reflected on these themes amidst the din of a world exploding. There is horrible, violent international conflict raging; there is growing hate here in Calgary and throughout the west; there has been controversy – bitter controversy – here in our own synagogue. There are tensions and struggles in our own families and with some of our closest friends. This has been a loud year – a year of bombs, screaming, and cacophonous discord that makes it difficult to hear anything good.

Weeping, speaking and listening, curiosity, our own imperfections, atonement, the limitations of our power over much of anything. We’ve looked at it all. What more is there to say?

I’ve spent hours thinking about that lately, and eventually, I came to a conclusion: I think I have said what I’ve wanted to say this year. But as I sit with you amid the dizzying vortex of all these lessons and realities, I find that all these themes seem to be swirling around one central idea – a value that comes out of so much of what we have been thinking about these days. The theme is one that our liturgy has mentioned in passing, but it’s so present in so much of what we’ve been focusing on this year, that I’d like to lift it up and highlight it now in this final Days of Awe sermon for this year. The theme all comes down to one word: humility.

The world, our people, our families, and our lives, would all be better if we could all learn to show a little more humility.

I think that’s what I’ve been trying to say during all of these sermons throughout these Days of Awe. And, more important, I think that’s what our liturgy is trying to tell us, and what our Torah is trying to tell us, and, while it may not be very humble for me to say this, I’ll suggest that this might even be what God is trying to tell us at this time, too. We need to be humble.

Especially at times such as these, humility doesn’t tend to come very easily to us. When we feel attacked, we want to show strength. When we see something wrong taking place, we want to fight against the injustice. When we’re angry, we want to lash out. All of these responses are natural and very human responses, and indeed they are important. There are indeed bad things happening in the world, and as a people committed to justice, we need to speak out – loudly sometimes – and fight for what we know is right.

But the problem is that speaking out and fighting can often lead to conceit. Speaking out and fighting, you see, is something you do when you know you’re right and the other guy is wrong. But there are moments – you’ve had them, and I’ve had them too – when we’ve gotten into some sort of argument or discussion sure that we are in the right, only to later realize that we weren’t. Think about your political views now compared to what they were during previous stages in your life. My guess is that you’ve changed, that you’ve grown, that the certainties of years past have given way to other ideas as you’ve matured.

I’ve felt that happen even over the course of the past year. Right after the October 7 attacks, I, like many of us, screamed out at the brutality of what had just happened. And I was right to do so. I knew that Israel would have to fight back against Hamas, and I wasn’t really in the mood to engage in discussions that would call any of my certainties into question.

But then the war started. And then it dragged on. And then the bodies of hostages started turning up. And Palestinian civilians were killed. And Israeli soldiers were killed. And I saw Israel, a country I love, terrorized by the continued attacks. And whereas right after October 7 I wanted to scream, I increasingly found myself wanting to cry. And I found myself wanting to think. And I found myself needing wisdom and comfort. Our community hosted speakers, and some just kept on screaming. And Israel’s enemies here in Calgary keep screaming at us. And as the din grows louder, I find myself wanting to say, ” Everyone, please quiet down. Let’s talk. Let’s listen. Let’s learn from each other, and let’s cry together.”

Weeping, curiosity, atonement. Is it not the case that humility is where these three values and others meet?

Judaism has long called upon us to be humble in all that we do. We see it in today’s Torah portion. It’s set at Mount Sinai, and the Torah could have said, ” You are standing today before Adonai your God.” But it didn’t say that. Instead, it says, “You are standing today, all of you, before Adonai your God – your tribal heads, elders, men, women, and children, water drawers and woodchoppers.” Judaism – pursuing our destiny and making the world right – isn’t just about you. It’s partly about you, of course, but the Jewish experience is something that we share. Rich and poor, powerful and meek, clever and simple, old and young, we all stood before God at Sinai. It is an experience that wouldn’t have been possible without all of us there.

It’s not just about you. It’s about us all. It’s about all of us, and we need to make room for other people, other views, other perspectives. The rabbis say that humility is one of the primary ways that we can achieve the truth of the Torah. We are commanded not only to pray but to pray with koved rosh, heaviness of head. Don’t go into your encounters with the Divine so proud and strong, be humble, and then your prayers will be answered. Jacob and Esau, the rabbis teach, were only able to reunite and mend their broken relationship because of Jacob’s humility. Later, in the Talmud, the rabbis teach that, as a rule, when Hillel and his rival Shammai argue, Hillel’s view is the one that holds. Why? Because Hillel was the humbler of the two sages. And the sages went on to say that it was this very humility – the humility of Hillel – that brought our entire people under the wings of God’s presence.

Even God is humble, our tradition teaches. Before God created the world, Rabbi Isaac Luria taught, that God’s presence filled everything – everything that existed was God. As a result, to create the world, God had to contract. God became smaller so that the rest of us and the rest of the world could come into existence.

I’ll say that again: God became smaller so that the rest of us and the rest of the world could come into existence.

Later, when God created humanity, the Torah has God saying “Let us make man in our image.” Our sages wondered who God was speaking to, and one answer they suggested was that God was consulting with the angels. Even God, as great as God is, took the time to consult with others before taking the big step of creating our world.

And on Pesach, Passover, what are we supposed to avoid? Chametz – leavened stuff. We avoid it, of course, because our ancestors didn’t have time to let their bread rise when they left Egypt, but we also avoid it, the rabbis teach, because leavened stuff represents sin. After all, most of our misdeeds, they teach, happen when we, like bread, get puffed up – too big for ourselves and too big for the good of the world.

I could cite many more texts, but you get the point. The welfare of the world depends on our ability to keep ourselves in check. We must be humble.

Please, I beg you, keep this in mind in the year ahead. Show as much humility as you can. Remember that everyone and everything has something to offer, and something to teach. So, when you argue, argue not to win, but to learn. Listen before talking. Ask lots of questions. Find the truth that your interlocutors can teach you. Give them the benefit of the doubt. And when they make you angry, don’t get angry at them, get curious, instead.

Please, in the year ahead, show as much humility as you can. Like God, step back and withdraw sometimes rather than always making yourself big. For the greatest people are those who leave room for others, rather than pushing them out of the way.

Please, in the year ahead, show as much humility as you can. Don’t always ask what’s best for you as an individual. Ask instead how you can contribute to the greater good. We need you to do that.

Please, in the year ahead, show as much humility as you can. Remember that even when you’re great, you’re also imperfect. That’s why we’re here today – to acknowledge and atone for those areas in which we’ve fallen short. Al cheit shechatanu l’fanecha ...for the sins we have committed before you. You might be good, but you can always be better.

Please, in the year ahead, show as much humility as you can. Try not to yell so much, for there is already too much yelling in the world, and when you yell, you just make yourself hoarse, and the rest of us are deaf, and then we can’t communicate at all. Sometimes, it’s the quietly spoken word that comes across best. Sometimes a whisper can drown out a scream. And sometimes, listening can be even more powerful than that.

I’m not suggesting, of course, that you become a doormat. No, instead, my suggestion is just the opposite. Find the true power of transformation in the art of shrinking. Sometimes when you shrink, you help other people grow, and their growth in the end helps you grow, too.

And please don’t respond by saying what I often hear people say after some of my sermons, ‘”Yes, Rabbi, that’s telling them.” I am speaking to them, of course, but I’m also speaking to you. And, of course, as in all my sermons, I’m also speaking to myself.

I dream of a world with more humility – of a world where we can work together for the shared good rather than only for ourselves; of a world where we listen before we attack; of a world where we try to find the good in others, even and especially the people who make us angry; of a world where each of us honours everyone else by acknowledging that their truths, their stories, and their experiences matter just as much if not more than our own.

Imagining that world helps me breathe easier. A world like this can come to be. Our humility will make it a more peaceful world. Quieter. Calmer. More respectful.

Tears, atonement, listening, curiosity. Al chet shechatanu l’fanecha. O God, we are not perfect. We have sinned. We have grown too large. Let us step down a bit, contract a bit, listen a bit more and be a little bit more kind. For it is in the sacred act of humility that true salvation can be found.

Shanah Tovah.

Kol Nidre Sermon, Friday, October 11, 2024
By Rabbi Glickman

Let me tell you about an evening you had not too long ago. It was that night when you got together with a friend of yours for dinner. When you first saw your friend, he greeted you warmly, you sat down at the table, you asked him how he was doing, he rolled his eyes, and he told you about a hassle he had had at the pharmacy that day. He then told you about how things were going at work, about what his kids were up to, about his family’s recent trip to Quebec, and about some trips to Quebec his parents took him on when he was a kid, and about an argument he had with an American friend who insisted upon calling that province “Kwi-beck,” and about how that American friend didn’t even know the meanings of simple and obvious words like toque and parkade. You laughed, and your friend told you that he was going to the Folkfest in a couple of months, that he was working on getting Taylor Swift tickets in LA for his daughter, and that if you hadn’t yet seen the TV show The Bear, you absolutely needed to go home and watch it starting tonight. He told you a good joke or two, glanced at his watch, and apologized because he had to go. You split the check, and both headed to your cars.

Driving away, you realized that it was a pleasant enough evening, but there was something missing. You couldn’t quite put your finger on what it was, but whatever it was, it left you feeling kind of exhausted. Depleted, even. What was it? Your friend was certainly pleasant, and his stories were mildly entertaining, it was nice to hear about what was going on in his life.

So, what was it that had you feeling so empty when dinner is supposed to leave you feeling so full.

Then, you realized what it was. During the entire meal – all 93 minutes of it – your friend didn’t ask you a single question about yourself. Instead, he spent the entire time holding forth about himself. He was entertaining enough, and he certainly didn’t act in any way that was unkind or even unpleasant. It’s just that…he didn’t seem very interested in you. You never would have wanted to be the only center of focus in that conversation, but a little give-and-take would have been nice. And after an hour and a half, one-sided discussions like that can get kind of tiring.

Of course, unlike in the story as I told it, maybe your friend was a woman rather than a man because women can fall into this trap just as easily as men can. Or maybe I got the genders right, only I told it backwards, and you were the one who carried on at such length.

Whatever the details, I think you’ll agree that the kind of conversation I just described is a common one in our world, and it probably always has been. When we’re the ones drawing such exclusive attention to ourselves, maybe it’s because we feel a need for affirmation, and we think that a good, amusing zinger of a story or an anecdote will make us more entertaining and likeable. To an extent, that’s sometimes true, of course. But sometimes, when one of those zingers follows another and another and another, the stories can get exhausting.

It seems to me that our world could benefit from an increased dose of curiosity these days.

Conversations at their best provide the participants with opportunities to learn about one another, but so often we converse not to truly engage with others, but only to give those other people the honor of knowing us, with the give and take of meaningful interaction falling away in favour of serial sharing rather than true conversation. So often, instead of engaging in real dialogue with others, we talk, and then we simply wait our turn until we can talk again. In the media, particularly in politics, TV interviewers often fail to show genuine curiosity, too, with their interviews becoming not occasions to learn the stories and motivations of their subjects, but simply opportunities to find that “gotcha moment,” catching their subject in some sort of embarrassing or trouble-making gaffe.

But my guess is that you’ve also experienced the opposite. There have been times when you’ve really engaged in conversation with another individual or group – when there’s been true give-and-take, when you’ve listened to one another, making sure you understood one another’s perspectives, and they’ve done the same for you. I would also hazard a guess that you know some people who are genuinely curious about you: who ask you questions, real questions – not just “Where are you from?” and “What do you do?” but questions that help them get to know you as a person. “What do you think about this situation in the news?” “What is it that you find meaningful and enjoyable about your job?” “How have you been doing lately? And please don’t just say ‘Fine, thank you,’ because I really want to know.” And if your experience is anything like mine, there is something you love about spending time with these people, because people like these – simply by expressing interest in who you are as a person – are affirming, vitalizing, and energizing beyond words. Compare how you feel after having spent an hour with one of these genuinely interested people with how you feel after having spent an hour or two with the self-absorbed friend I described a few minutes ago – my guess is that those feelings are as different as night and day.

So, my message to you tonight is one that you probably already know, but it’s one that bears repeating because we forget it. Curiosity – especially curiosity about other people – especially curiosity about other people with whom we interact – is one of the most important human traits of all.

Judaism has taught the value of curiosity for centuries. Our tradition, of course, values wisdom as one of the greatest of all human traits. Soldiers, kings, and philanthropists – they’re all important at times in Judaism. But for many centuries, we Jews have attributed the primacy of place in our culture to the chacham – the wise person, the sage, the scholar. Being wise is the most important trait of all. And how do you get wise? The Talmud teaches us explicitly: V’eizehu chacham? Halomeid mikol adam. “Who is truly wise?” the Talmud asks. “The one who learns from all people.”

Think about that. Every person has something to teach us. And if we have any aspirations of true wisdom, it’s important that we learn their lessons. It’s so tempting to just tell others our own stories sometimes, and sometimes our stories can be fun or even helpful to the people with whom we share them. But as you hold forth, it might be a good idea to remember that that person you’re telling them to has inside them truths that you need to learn. And the longer you hold forth, the longer it will be until you can learn from them.

Instead of just talking at them, instead of just telling your stories, maybe it would behoove you to express some interest in the stories that they have to tell, in the wisdom that have to teach. That wisdom might not always be readily evident – some people do a really good job of hiding it – but it’s there, and it’s waiting for you to uncover it.

That’s why I love studying Torah with you. Those of you who don’t come to Saturday morning services at Temple… you should come to Saturday morning services at Temple.  And that’s because not only do we have meaningful worship experiences every week, but also because each week, we study Torah together. Theoretically, I guess, since I’m the rabbi, I’m supposed to be the one doing the teaching. But usually, I find myself doing far more learning than teaching in these Torah discussions. I’ve been in this business for more than 34 years now. I’ve studied every one of these weekly Torah portion hundreds of times, I think. And every week, the people with whom I worship and study right here in this room teach me things that I hadn’t known or hadn’t seen before. Mikol m’lamdai hiskalti, the Psalmist remarks – from all of my students I have learned. Learning your wisdom has been one of the greatest blessings of my rabbinate.

But I’m not the only one who has such learning opportunities. The people sitting around you – indeed everyone you know – have so much to teach. What a shame it would be to let their lessons go unlearned.

One group of people with whom I like to do this outside of Temple are Uber drivers. There I am on those rides, spending several minutes or more with a person I’ve never met, and it’s usually a person whose background and life story are very different from my own (there aren’t too many 61-year-old rabbis working as Uber drivers). From Uber drivers, I’ve learned what it’s like to grow up on a canola farm in Southern Alberta, and what the significance can be for an African American to attend a historically black college or university in the United States. I’ve learned about Sikh practices in Punjab, and heard tales of surviving the horrors of genocide in Rwanda. I’ve learned why people move to Calgary from all over the world, and been inspired by fascinating life stories of all kinds. It can drive Caron crazy, and sometimes she needs to rein me in because admittedly I can get a little too …enthusiastic in my questioning from time to time. But still, asking people to tell you their stories can yield awesome and transformative results. And the more you do it, the more transformed as a person you can become.

“Why did God create the world?” the rabbis asked. “Because God loves stories.” And if human stories are good enough for God, then I humbly suggest they can be good enough for us, too.

To the rabbis, the ultimate source of wisdom is the Torah. God created the Torah, they taught, with fifty gates – fifty entry-points through which we can get to its truths. To the rabbis, the wisest man ever was Moshe Rabbeinu – Moses our teacher. He could access the Torah more effectively than any of us. And how many gates of the Torah were open to Moses? Forty-nine were. Moses was great enough to get at a lot of the truth, but even a person as wise as he was couldn’t get at it all. To learn fully, even someone as wise as Moses needs help. And that’s where other people come in. Only together, can we learn all that we need to know.

But this, my friends, is only half the story. Because it’s not just that listening to others can help us. Taking an active interest in other people, and asking to hear their stories, is one of the greatest gifts we can give them. You know this. When someone takes an interest in you; it feels affirming; it makes you feel seen, it elevates you.

I have a friend named Matthew who I love spending time with. And one of the many reasons I love spending time with Matthew is that he’s a great interviewer. Matthew, you see, was trained as a journalist, and even though he’s not working in that field now, he is still such a … journalist. In fact, Matthew cut his journalistic teeth as a reporter for small-town newspapers in the rural American hinterland. There, he’d go to a City Planning Commission meeting, and listen to an hourlong discussion about whether to put a left-turn lane into the intersection between Rt. 42 and Elm St., and then he’d have to write an interesting article about it. Matthew became an expert in talking to people about why these things mattered to them. He got them to tell their stories, to share what it was that made them tick. And now, all these years later, it’s a skill he still has. He asks questions, and he does so in a way that reminds people how interesting they are, and how fascinating their stories can be.

Our congregation is a member of the Calgary Alliance for the Common Good, an organization in our city that is committed to just this – listening to people’s stories, finding out what matters to them, and acting upon it.  And in the process, they’ve enriched the life of our city – back in the old days, they advocated for the expansion of the Green Line, for support to Calgarians with mental health needs, and for net-zero carbon emissions, and much more. They listen to people’s stories, they translate those stories into policy agendas, and they gather together in grass roots efforts to advocate for those agendas – often successfully. Such can be the power of simply listening to one another’s stories.

But you know how important listening to other people’s stories can be because you know what it’s like when people take an interest in you. One of the greatest gifts that you can give another individual is the simple gift of taking an interest in them as human beings. Ask questions. Have them teach you what you don’t know. Probe them for their thoughts. And through it all, make it genuine. Because when you do that, you help humanize them, and you lift them up.

And if you doubt the value of it, all I’ll say is that those Uber drivers have given me a rating of 4.94 out of five. Beat that!

We all can be so self-centred at times. It’s understandable because holding it all together can be difficult, and when things get hard, we tend to turn toward our own, individual needs. But our tradition invites us to be more than that and to engage in what Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel described as acts of self-transcendence – to look beyond ourselves and into the eyes of others.

It’s so simple and so powerful. Just ask people about their lives. Ask for their opinions. Ask for their perspectives. It can help you. It can transform them. And the fact that it can make for a pretty good Uber rating doesn’t hurt, either.

True curiosity, and genuine interest in other people and what they can teach you, can benefit you, affirm them, and, when practiced widely enough, help bring us to genuine redemption.

Shanah Tovah.

Rosh Hashanah Morning Sermon, October 3, 2024
By Rabbi Mark Glickman

In case you didn’t know, Temple B’nai Tikvah is a very diverse community. And while we often have a tendency to connect most readily with people who are similar to ourselves, chances are that even right now, within a few feet of you sit people who are really different from you – different ages, genders, careers, sexual orientations, tastes in clothing and music, countries of birth, family situations…and, yes, a few of them might even have different political views than yours. Some of these people you know, some of them you don’t, and many of them you think you know, but really don’t.

To the extent that we don’t know one another as well as we could, today I’d like to take one small step in remedying this. I’d like to introduce you to two members of our congregation whom I think you all should get to know as well as you can. Getting to know one another, as you know, is one of the most important things we can do to strengthen our Temple community.

First, meet Robert. Robert is 65-years-old and grew up in Montreal. Coming of age in the 60s and 70s, Robert is very much a Boomer – even though he was born a decade-and-a-half after World War II ended, the reality of that war and its aftermath defined the contours of his young life in a host of different ways. Growing up, he heard stories about what happened during the war. He remembers his grandparents’ eyes welling up as they told stories of friends and family members who didn’t make it out. And he remembers that some of the grownups around him – Abe the barber, Mrs. Rosenthal who ran the corner grocery store, and some of his parents’ friends – had these strange numbers tattooed on their arms. It wasn’t until he grew older that he understood why. Throughout it all, Robert became aware of this huge world that had come to an end just before he came onto the scene. He enjoyed some vestiges of that lost world – the food, the music, the humour, and some stories – but still, he saw that sitting on the timeline of history just before he was born was a huge black hole of loss and suffering.

Robert’s parents – and indeed the Jewish world as a whole – instilled in Robert with good reason an awareness that the world is not a safe place for Jews. And it wasn’t just the Holocaust that proved it. Contemporary reality bore that out, too. When Robert was in school, he learned that Jews in the Soviet Union weren’t free like he was and that what caused their oppression was the fact that they were Jewish. Also, there were country clubs his family couldn’t join even if they could have afforded it, simply because his family was Jewish. Robert remembers watching the 1972 Munich Olympics when he was 13, and following with horror the story of the murdered Israeli athletes, yet another testimony to the fact that the world was an unsafe place for the Jewish people.

And yet, throughout it all, there was something that brought hope to the Jews in Robert’s world – the existence of the State of Israel. If the Holocaust was the big black hole just behind Robert on the timeline of Jewish history, Israel represented the light ahead. To Robert and his contemporaries, Israel was a country built in many ways out of the ashes of European Jewry. To them, Israel was a country that, for once, wouldn’t allow its Jews to be subjected to the whims of history; instead, it would have an army. It would defend itself, defend the Jewish people, and be a safe haven for any Jewish community in peril. Yes, the world was a dangerous place for Jews, but Israel represented the promise of safety and security not only for its own citizens but for Jews everywhere.

There was a little blue box on the kitchen counter where Robert’s family put coins to support rebuilding and reforesting the land. He learned about Israel at his temple’s religious school. Every year on Yom Haatzmaut – Israeli Independence Day – the congregation had a huge celebration. They played Israeli music, ate felafel, and danced Israeli folk dances – it was great.

As a kid, Robert learned that he had some cousins who lived in Jerusalem, and one summer, they came for a visit. He was amazed – his cousins went to school on Sundays in Israel, but on Yom Kippur, everything closed down. His cousins spoke fluent Hebrew, and called their parents Imma and Abba – Robert loved it.

In high school, Robert was able to spend a summer in Israel – he saw the historic sites of this magical ancient land, and he met the people who lived there. He knew that his new Israeli friends would all go into the army to defend it within a few years, and that scared him. But Israel was a sunny place, with green, growing fields, and a robust, modern Jewish society. He didn’t live there, but he loved it.

Robert wasn’t naïve enough to think that it was all simple, of course. He knew that Israel was also a country riven with strife and danger of all kinds – both internal and external. But for Robert, the existence of the state of Israel represented Jewish safety, the Jewish future, and the unique possibility for a Jewish life that was strong and vibrant. Jewish victimhood and modern antisemitism were problems – Israel was a huge part of the solution.

When Robert became an adult, he continued to feel that close connection with Israel. He travelled there with his family; he donated to Israel-related charities; he followed news stories about Israel with keen interest whenever they appeared.

Whenever there was a war in Israel, or whenever there was a terrorist attack, Robert’s heart broke. Israel wasn’t just any country, it was his country, even if he didn’t live there. To Robert, an attack on Israel was an attack on him – his own future, his own people, his own family.

And last year, in the wake of the October 7 attacks, Robert’s first response was clear – kill the bastards! He didn’t want innocent Gazans to suffer, of course, but he had no such compunction about the Hamas terrorists. Hamas had brutally murdered more than 1200 innocent Israelis, its thugs had raped Israeli women, and killed Israeli children, and triumphantly posted videos of these atrocities online. They needed to be destroyed at any cost, and the hostages needed to be freed. And if innocent Gazans needed to die in the process, well, that blood was in the hands of Hamas, not in the hands of Israel, for Israel needed to defend itself.

Robert has calmed down a little bit since then. He’s become uneasy about the extent of the killing in Gaza, and deeply concerned about the escalating violence in the north. Still, when he sees his fellow Canadians – especially his fellow Canadian Jews – opposing the very right of Israel to go to war at this time of peril, it cuts him to the quick. To Robert, questioning Israel’s right to defend itself is an attack not only on his people but also on his own safety in this dangerous world. How could anyone say such things? And how, especially, could any Jews?

***

Not everyone in our congregation shares Robert’s worldview, of course – some of us see things differently. That’s why, this morning, I’d also like you to meet Jessica.

Jessica is thirty years old, she grew up in Toronto, and she moved here to Calgary as a university student in 2012. When she was coming of age in the 90s and early-aughts, Judaism was something very different for her than it had been for Robert when he was growing up. Jessica grew up during a time when Nazi atrocities and Soviet oppression were the stuff not of direct Jewish experience, but of history books. Yes, like Robert, Jessica learned about the Holocaust, but it had become more of a distant memory for her and her contemporaries than it had been for Robert. Jessica learned a lot about Israel, too. She attended a Reform Jewish summer camp, and every year some of her counselors were young Israelis who came over as sh’lichim – emissaries – to run Israel programming. Like Robert, Jessica also went to Israel, but by the time she came along, she didn’t have to pay for the trip – she went on a Birthright Israel program for free. When she got there, the country that she saw was not a scrappy, imperilled young country on the rise, it was an established, prosperous democracy – sometimes attacked, often conflicted, but on the whole, doing pretty well.

In fact, there was a great deal about Jessica’s Jewish upbringing that differed from Robert’s. You see, many of Robert’s teachers had presented Robert and his classmates with a Jewish “diet” of topics such as the Holocaust, Israel, and Soviet Jewry. Robert studied Torah and holidays and other Jewish topics, too, but the overwhelming emphasis of Judaism as Robert learned it was on particularistic Jewish concerns – the challenge of Jewish survival, the obligations we have to our people, and the things that make us different.

Those are all important lessons, of course, but as time went on, they failed to keep many of Robert’s peers engaged. This Judaism was too particularistic for them, and its lack of universal values didn’t provide them the transcendent meaning they needed.

So, the Jews of Robert’s generation who stayed fed their children – Jessica and her contemporaries – a very different Jewish diet. When Jessica was growing up, the main focus of her Jewish learning was its universal values. She learned that Judaism teaches that each human being is created b’tzelem Elohim, in the image of God. She learned about pikuach nefesh – the Jewish mandate to save a human at almost any cost. She learned that, as Jews, we are called to perform tikkun olam – repair our broken world however we can. To the Reform Jews of Jessica’s generation, in other words, Judaism was first and foremost about creating a kinder world, about respecting the ultimate sanctity of every human life, and about appreciating people as people regardless of race, creed, or ethnicity. For Jessica, the central challenge of being Jewish in Canada wasn’t about the need to guarantee Jewish survival. It was about these powerful universalistic Jewish values, instead.

Jessica, too, was horrified, too, by what she saw on October 7, but what happened on October 8 and afterwards was equally horrifying, if not more so. In the aftermath of the Hamas attacks, she saw Israel bombing Gazan cities into oblivion, and killing thousands of civilians in the process. Jessica knew that the perpetrators of the October 7 atrocities were the terrorists of Hamas, but she also knew that Israel’s past treatment of the Palestinian people played a role in setting the violent, conflicted context in which those attacks played out.

And yes, Israel needs to defend itself, however much she tried to see things otherwise, Jessica couldn’t reconcile the images of destroyed hospitals and schools and mosques with everything she had been taught to treasure about being Jewish. Self-defence might be one thing. But this? But how could a people who teach of the sanctity of every human life do this? How could a people who value the shared humanity of all people do this? This is Tikkun Olam?

Jessica couldn’t make it all fit. So, she criticized Israel. She called for a ceasefire. And she spoke out on behalf of Palestinian national aspirations. And even though she didn’t dare say so out loud – certainly not in Jewish circles – she quietly questioned whether she could even call herself a Zionist.

***

Robert and Jessica are both prototypes, of course, and real people usually don’t fit into such neat cubbyholes. There are Roberts who are female, and Jessicas who are male. Some Roberts and Jessicas feel a little differently or not as strongly as the ones I’ve described here. And while there is certainly a generational dimension to these divisions, there are also Roberts who are younger and Jessicas who are older.

But Robert and Jessica are real, and their Jewish identities are different, and they are both members of our congregation. And their views about Judaism and Israel in this post October 7 world of ours differ so greatly from one another that sometimes they can’t even speak with one another about it.

I have spoken with both Robert and Jessica at great length in recent months, and I want you to know that they are both in pain. Robert sees Jessica criticizing a wounded and imperiled Israel, and can’t fathom how she could do such a thing – especially now. And Jessica sees Robert standing by as Jews, in the name of being Jewish, kill thousands of innocent civilians, and wonders what ever happened to the great, universal Jewish values that she holds so dear.

And what’s worse, Robert sees so many Jessicas, and Jessica sees so many Roberts, that both of them feel alone and isolated, wondering how it is that their Jewish community has betrayed its core values and left them behind.

And I want to tell you something else. The Judaism of both Robert and Jessica are expression of authentic and time-honoured Jewish values. Robert’s concern for the unique destiny of his people, for the safety and security of our brothers and sisters in our ancient homeland, and for the strength and stability of the Jewish state is rooted in the very foundational texts of our people, and we’ve defended those concerns for millennia. Jewish survival is a Jewish value, and a really important one.

Similarly, the struggle for human rights that is such a concern for Jessica is also an important Jewish value. And of course, we need both sets of values – both the particular and the universal – to be fully Jewish. If we don’t survive as a people, we can’t bring our message of human dignity to the world, whereas if we are only concerned about survival, then we forget why it is that our existence matters in in the first place.

We’ve known this from antiquity. In the Talmud, Hillel taught, “If I am not for myself, who will be for me, but if I am only for myself, what am I.” Jessica, please remember that Robert represents a crucial dimension of Jewish life. And Robert, please remember that Jessica does, too. And both of you, please remember that, to be complete, Judaism needs your counterpart’s values just as urgently as it needs your own.

Of course, we’re not all Roberts and Jessicas. There’s Florence, for example, who thinks that Israel should flatten Gaza – let all the Palestinians flee or be killed. And then there’s Matt, he’s all for Hamas. He hopes they grow stronger so they can wipe the evil Zionist interlopers and their state off the map. But I haven’t mentioned Florence or Matt to you until now because they don’t belong to our congregation, or if they do, they’ve been too ashamed to come forward. In our congregation, all of us, as far as I know, were traumatized by the horrific events of October 7, and all of us are heartbroken at the deaths of Palestinian children. We’re not Florence and Matt. We’re all trying to do what’s right, and despite our many disagreements, we all want the best for Israel and the Middle East. All of us.

So, Robert, Jessica, you do belong here. You are not alone. There are lots of us who agree with you. It’s just hard sometimes, because the community you’ve chosen to join is a diverse one, so there are going to be people here who disagree with you, and neither of you always does the best job of conveying the full reality of where we’re coming from. So, speak with those other people. Listen to them. Share your views – passionately, if you must. Always remember that the people with whom you disagree have something to learn from you, and maybe you just might be able to learn a thing or two from them, as well.

And if that hasn’t persuaded you to stick around, Robert, remember that if you and your camp leave, the next president of our congregation…is going to be Jessica. And Jessica, if you leave, then that leaves Robert.

And let’s be honest about how this is playing out. Most of the large organizations representing the Canadian Jewish community are driven by people who agree with Robert – and that’s even more so the case here than it is in the United States. And when Jessica speaks up, these organizations often try to sideline her. But Robert, you need to hear something: Jessica and the people who agree with her aren’t going anywhere. I’ve been watching this closely; I’ve been listening to young Jews; I’ve been listening to younger rabbinic colleagues of mine – and I can tell you that Jessica and her allies are growing in number, they are coalescing, they are organizing. In the decades to come, the progressive left on issues regarding Israel and Zionism – devoted to human rights, committed to Palestinian national aspirations, and sometimes critical of Israel’s policies and actions – will increasingly become a force to be dealt with.

In response to this, Robert, you have two choices. You can try to cancel Jessica, or you can try to engage her. You can try closing the doors of our Jewish institutions to her and not make any room for her at synagogues and Federations and other Jewish organizations, or you can talk with her, debate with her, and create a meaningful Jewish dialogue.

The choice is yours, but if she wants to talk and you don’t, then you can’t accuse her of being the only divisive one.

There’s one more thing I want to say about this. I’ve been arguing here that both Jessica and Robert’s views are authentically Jewish. But what’s not Jewish as these debates unfold is the effort to quash dissent. To the contrary, we Jews have always treasured arguments. We have always debated, and the vigorous debates have strengthened us! You see, communities that debate a lot – when they really listen to one another and remain engaged with dissenting views – tend to discourage extremism, and that’s good for everyone. Making room for objectionable views, in other words, doesn’t make us weak, it strengthens us.

I’ll give you one concrete example from recent days. The Calgary Jewish Federation is currently planning an important, community-wide observance of the first anniversary of the October 7 attacks. As the emails about the event started to flow, Jessica somehow started whispering into my ear. “It’s just going to be Israeli flag-waving,” she said, “and they’re not going to mention the reality of suffering on the other side.” Immediately, Robert shouted into my other ear. “It’s an October 7 memorial!” he cried. “We need to stand with Israel.”

In response to both of these voices – my inner Jessica and my inner Robert – I sent an email to the Federation asking whether there might be a way, even as we stand in full solidarity with Israel, to also acknowledge the reality of recent Palestinian suffering, too.”

I sent that email off, but a few days later, that inner Robert started bending my ear again. “You know,” he said, “October 7 was a day of Israeli loss and suffering, not Palestinian. The bombs only started falling on Gaza after October 7. Maybe we should keep October 7 about Israeli suffering, and find other opportunities to acknowledge the Palestinian deaths.” So, I sent another email amending my earlier request.

As you can see, I’m still working through this, and still trying to get it right. But the point is that, to the extent that there’s any value whatsoever in my pleas to the Federation, it’s because I’ve got both Jessica and Robert whispering into my ears. When both of them are present and both of them are vocal then I become a better rabbi, and even more important, a better Jew. When both are present and both are vocal, we all become better Jews and we all become better people.

Jessica, Robert, we need you and we need what you bring to the table. Because when you’re both here, our community grows stronger

My friends, this past year has represented the hardest time to be a Jew in living memory for most of us. It’s a time of conflict, and conflict is so hard and so exhausting. But let’s stay at it together. Let’s speak our truths and be humble enough to learn from those with whom we disagree. Let’s listen to Robert, listen to Jessica, listen to each and every one of us in this sacred community. Doing so only makes us stronger as we strive to answer our sacred call as a community.

Shanah Tovah.

Erev Rosh Hashanah Sermon, October 2, 2024
By Rabbi Mark Glickman

Over the years, I, like many of us, have been blessed to have learned from many great teachers– scholars, professors, rabbinic mentors, family role models, and many more. But a couple of months ago, there was a moment when a man who I never would have expected to have become a teacher of mine became one, and he did so in a way I will never forget.

He was a young man – maybe in his late twenties – and I met him through my stepmother. As many of you know, my stepmother, Sharon, died about two months ago, having spent a few years suffering through the ravages of dementia. (At the time of her death, she had been our stepmother for almost 40 years). The challenges Sharon would face became evident shortly after my father’s death in 2020, and her story, or at least some parts of it, will be familiar to many of you who have watched your own loved ones endure this horrible disease: The difficulties she started to have paying the bills and completing her errands; the questions she would repeat over and over again during our telephone conversations; her denial that there was any cause for concern; her continued denial even after receiving her diagnosis; her reluctance to accept help from hired caretakers; her falls; her refusal to move into a facility where she would be safe and properly attended to.

Finally, after it became evident that Sharon really couldn’t remain in her home any longer, we succeeded in finding her a room in a wonderful memory care facility near where she lived in Southern California. We got her there in the nick of time – within a month of her move, she had almost totally lost her ability to speak, and grew increasingly dependent on the staff for her daily care.

And the staff was magnificent. Not only did they competently take care of Sharon’s daily needs, but they did so with unflagging cheer and compassion. They were also good to us, always keeping us in the family aware of any changes or concerns we needed to know about.

My brothers, my sister-in-law, Caron, and I began calling ourselves “Team Sharon.” After she entered the facility, we would call Sharon as often as we could. At first, we called on her cell phone, but soon she could no longer operate her cell, and, to talk to her, we had to call the memory care unit and ask the staff to hold the phone to her ear for what quickly became increasingly one-sided conversations.

Often, the person who picked up the phone in the unit was a caretaker named Eduardo. He was always cheerful and helpful, and even though I hadn’t met him in person, I found myself growing increasingly grateful to him for the vibrant, positive energy that he always seemed to exude as he went about caring for Sharon. “Sharon,” I would hear him say in the background, “it’s Mark on the phone. He’s called to say hello to you….Go ahead, Mark, you can talk now.” At that point, I would proceed to conduct my monologue for a few moments, tell Sharon I loved her, and eventually hang up the phone.

Then, on a Thursday or Friday in late July, we got the call. Sharon had stopped eating and drinking; the legal orders she had put into place during healthier times allowed for no heroic measures to keep her going; they were doing all they could to keep her comfortable. By Sunday, my brother Larry and sister-in-law Lynn had travelled from Chicago to be at her side. They sat with her all week, and Sharon held on, desperately clinging to life as the rest of the family awaited the next phone call. By the following Saturday, Caron and I were at her side, too. Sharon was non-responsive, her breathing was laboured, we sat with her and offered her the only gift we could – the simple gift of our presence beside her.

Through it all, Eduardo continued to be a ray of light, giving Sharon her medication, adjusting her position in bed, and seeing what he could do to make our bedside vigil more comfortable as we sat with Sharon through those difficult days.

We were with her for hours when we first arrived that Saturday, and also for most of the day on Sunday, too. Then, at one point late Sunday afternoon, my brother Larry and I were sitting just outside the room, while Caron and my sister-in-law Lynn sat at Sharon’s bedside. Caron suddenly came out and said, “Guys, you’d better come in.”

Sharon had stopped breathing. We stood beside her in silence for a moment, then we held her hands and said the Shema on her behalf. Then, our silence continued.

Within moments, Eduardo was in the room, calmly and efficiently doing what he needed to do. He noted the time; he adjusted Sharon’s position in bed; he detached some equipment from Sharon’s lifeless body.

And then, suddenly, Eduardo stopped, turned toward the wall, and broke into tears. “I’m sorry,” he said after a few moments, turning back to us and wiping his face dry, “I try to be professional, but I grow so attached to these people sometimes.” It was only then that the rest of us broke into tears, too.

This wonderful man, this paragon of care and compassion, did so much more than his job description demanded of him. He built a connection – a real connection, a personal connection – with my stepmother even as her own connections with the world slowly unravelled. And then, after her long struggle, when her life came to an end, he wept.

How sad it is that he felt the need to apologize to us for his tears; his tears and all that they represented were yet one more invaluable gift that he gave to our family. His tears unlocked our own tears; his tears were a reminder at that moment of the awesome, indescribable value of a human life; his tears, at the moment of my stepmother’s death, reminded us of her invaluable worth as an individual.

We’ve grieved Sharon’s death since then – it was so very sad. And now that we’re several weeks out, in addition to my sadness over Sharon’s death, I’m also left with the unshakable conviction that the world needs more Eduardos. The world needs more people who are willing to weep. In fact, the more closely I look at our world, the more I realize that that world needs more tears.

This is Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, and in contrast to the revelry of the secular New Year, it is a time for reflection. And so, I invite you tonight to look back on the year that just was. If you’re like most of us, then I’m sure there were plenty of joys – times when you laughed, celebrations, and moments of achievement and deep, deep satisfaction.

But this has been a hard year for many of us in so many ways, and I hope you take this Rosh Hashanah to reflect upon the moments of difficulty, too. Some of you, like me, may have lost dear family members this year or continued to grieve losses of the past. You may have faced strained or broken relationships, suffered professional difficulties and illness, and sometimes just felt a sense of despair or sadness for no apparent reason whatsoever.

For us Jews, this has been one of the most difficult years in living memory. There was that horrible day last fall that saw the brutal murder of so many of our brothers and sisters in Israel, and the horrible if unavoidable war that came in its wake. Even here in Calgary, we have faced broken and strained relationships, blatant antisemitism, anger at our fellow Jews who disagree with us, and feelings of solitude when it feels like so few of our fellow Jews see things the way we do. We feel abandoned; we feel betrayed; we wish things would get better, and we despair when we see that they aren’t.

Suffering is an unavoidable element of the human condition, I suppose, but the knowledge of that fact is of little comfort as we experience it. And experience it we have this year, and we’ve seen people we love to experience it, too.

Through it all, we try to keep a stiff upper lip. We try to persuade those around us that we’re OK, even when we’re not. We try to hold back the tears.

But sometimes we can’t hold them back, because sometimes our feelings won’t let us. Tears are so very human. From the moment we are born and feel that first pang of hunger we shed them. We shed them as children when we skin our knees or grow angry or frustrated. Teenagers shed them at moments of lost love, or rejection, or despair in sorting out the difficult complexities of life. Whatever our age, our tears come when we feel intense emotions of any kind. The depth of love, and the loss of those we cherish; the birth of a child, and watching our children suffer.

Tears are always honest, always genuine expressions of the intensity of our feelings. Good actors can cry on cue, of course, but the way they do it is usually by conjuring up an experience they’ve had that brought out their tears in the first place. Even actors don’t fake tears – they relive powerful offstage experiences and make real tears flow as they act.

We human beings have feelings, and to experience them fully, we need to let ourselves cry more than we do. So often, we try to convey strength to the people around us. We try to convey that we’ve got it all together, that we’re bearing up against life’s challenges, and that we’re fine…just fine. To cry would show us to be vulnerable, to be imperfect…to be human. We don’t owe it to the world to always be sharing our emotions, of course, but I find it sad that we’re so often frightened to be honest about our humanity. I wonder what the world would be like if, either in private or with other people, we became more comfortable shedding tears

Our Jewish tradition has been aware of the importance of crying for many centuries. In fact, the Torah is full of tears – you can almost see them dripping off the scroll as we go through it. Lot and his wife, fleeing their home in the barren, desert city of Sodom, were told not to look back. Lot’s wife turned back anyway, and the text tells us that God turned her into a pillar of salt. Perhaps, suggests poet Merle Feld, she simply became a dried-out tear, forever frozen in place, an eternal expression of sadness and grief.

The Torah tells us that our ancestors were enslaved for many years before God freed them, and what eventually got God’s attention wasn’t anything particular about the bondage itself, but rather that the Israelites finally cried out in their suffering. Only when they cried, did redemption come.

And later, our rabbis taught that after the destruction of the Temple, the gates of prayer were locked. If you wanted to pray to God after that calamity, the Rabbi Elazar teaches in the Talmud, your prayers wouldn’t necessarily reach God. However, even then, Rabbi Elazar teaches, the gates of tears remained open.

If you cry before God, then God hears your prayers.

In fact, over and over again, our classical literature repeats this theme. The gates of tears are always open before God. We try to hold it together; we try to suppress our tears because their intensity and honestness can frighten us. But if we really want to connect with the divine, we need to let them flow. When we cry, a heavenly gate opens, and God welcomes us into the divine embrace.

It was Eduardo who got me thinking about all this, but the more think about it, the more I realize how sad it is that there are so many people who put so much energy into not letting ourselves do what Eduardo did. In fact, sadly, even Eduardo himself felt the need to apologize for his tears that day.

My friends, you don’t need to cry in public, but as we’ve seen this year among others, life inevitably brings pain at times, and holding back your tears can deny the reality of that pain, and ultimately serves no one. Cry alone; share your tears with a friend if you want – if you’d like, you can share them with me; come here, sit in services, and let your tears flow if that will help. I see some of you do that, and when you cry, I think I see it bring you comfort and release. I’m glad that this is a place where you can weep.

The psalmist, I think, said it best in the 126^th Psalm – Shir Hama’alot, a Song of Ascents: “Those who sow in tears,” the psalmist wrote, “will reap in joy.” There are moments of pain that we all encounter. We could hold our tears back, the psalm seems to be telling us. But when we let them flow, they water the ground at our feet, and one day, our tears themselves will allow us to reap the fruit that grows before us. “Those who sow in tears…will reap in joy.” Joy itself, sometimes demands tears in order to sprout forth.

Eduardo gave us such a gift that day. In his tears, we saw his compassion. In his tears, we saw his love for our stepmother. In his tears, we found the ability to shed tears ourselves. May each of us in the year ahead, have joy and satisfaction, and may we each find a way to shed the tears we need to shed to enable us to achieve those great goals.

Shanah Tovah

Hatikvah: A Shabbat Service in Solidarity with Israel, October 13, 2023
By Rabbi Mark Glickman

When Caron and I were in Israel last February, we went with a couple dozen of my colleagues to a small cluster of communities near the Gaza border called Sha’ar Hanegev. Our hosts there welcomed us at the local community center, showed us into a meeting room, and, over tea and cakes, we had the chance to meet with this man:

Ofir Libstein, the mayor of Sha’ar Hanegev. Mr. Libstein shared with us something of what life was like for him and his neighbors living in that troubled corner of the world. He spoke about the Palestinians on the other side of the border and acknowledged that, while some people in Gaza certainly wished him harm, he was confident that most of the Palestinians there were just like him – people with husbands, wives, children, and friends, just trying to live their lives as peaceably as they could.

Last Saturday, Hamas terrorists murdered Ofir Libstein in a firefight at Sha’ar Hanegev.

This is a picture of Hayim Katsman, a peace activist whose 2021 dissertation at the University of Washington in the United States was entitled “Religious-Nationalism in Israel/Palestine.” Hayim’s grandfather was Ben Zion Wacholder, a renowned expert in the Dead Sea Scrolls who was a Talmud professor of mine when I was in rabbinical school. Hayim lived at Kibbutz Cholit. He died shielding a neighbor from the terrorists’ bullets. That neighbor later went on to save two children from the attacks, as well, adding to the circle of life saved by the heroic actions of Hayim Katsman that day.

My daughter, Shoshana, loves going to music festivals. She spent a few weeks in Israel earlier this year, but had she been there last Shabbat, she would almost certainly have been at the Supernova music festival, where Hamas murderers killed 263 people.

This touches us all. So many of us have connections like this to the events of the past week.

Saturday, October 7 was the deadliest day in the history of the Jewish people since the Holocaust. These are the pictures of just some of the victims. The terrorists murdered more than 1300 people in Israel last Saturday. But that number – 1300 – hides so much. Because it’s not just that 1300 people were killed, it’s that Ofir Libstein was killed. And Hayim Katsman. And people with names like Nurit Berger. And Hannah Ben Arzi. And the list goes on, and on, and on. They were old, and they were young, they were married and they were single. They had families, they had partners, they had friends. Many were non-Jews, who were living or working in the Jewish state.

“He who destroys a single life,” the Talmud says, “is considered to have destroyed a world.” In Saturday’s violence, 1300 lives came to a sudden end at the hands of terrorist evildoers. We mourn their deaths tonight; we pay tribute to their lives. About 150 others were taken hostage, and we pray for their safe return.

We are here tonight to celebrate Shabbat. And we are here to grieve. And we are here to reflect. And we are here because we need one another. And we are here in search of God’s comfort and guidance. When you kill one Jew, you injure the Jewish heart. And we are here to nurse our wounded heart together. It was Israelis who were attacked on Saturday, but, as Yehudah Amichai’s poem we read earlier notes, the diameter of that bomb extends much farther – even to here in Calgary and beyond. How wonderful it is that you are here, because tonight, I need to be with you. Because your community needs to be with you. Tonight, we need each other.

As your rabbi, I think I’m supposed to comfort you at this juncture, but I’m finding that difficult, because right now, I need comforting, too.

Out of the pain and grief of this moment, I would like to share a couple of thoughts.

First, this is a moment that calls for moral clarity on the part of the Jewish people. Israel was attacked by terrorists. Old people and young people were slaughtered, as we’ve noted – men, women, and children. The killers went to their victims’ homes, to their town centers, and to a music festival, and they filmed their multi-pronged pogrom so they could brag about it to the world as it happened and afterward.

There are those who blame Israeli policy for these attacks, arguing that Israel’s occupation of the West Bank and Gaza and its treatment of Palestinians somehow paved the way for the horrors of last Saturday. This argument is utter hogwash. Yes, there has been longstanding conflict between Israelis and. But when you and I are having a dispute, however nasty my own behavior might be, you don’t come to my home and kill my family. Such a response is never called for, it’s never “understandable,” it’s never a result of previous mistreatment. Accusations that Israeli policy brought this on are simply attempts to blame the victims, and to excuse unconscionable acts of terror. It is a perspective that we should refute at every possible opportunity.

There are those in the media who refer to the perpetrators of this violence as freedom fighters, and as people struggling for peace, and on behalf the rights of their people. That terminology is wrong, of course – the perpetrators were terrorists. People who are fighting for national liberation don’t attack concert-goers. People who want peace in their land don’t murder peace activists. Those who want a better world for their people don’t commit brutal acts of terror.

Let’s be clear. Like many of us, I’m opposed to the occupation. Like many, I dream of a state for the Palestinian people just as we Jews have. And I, too, am horrified at some of the ways Israel has treated those who live in Gaza and the West Bank. But none of this – none of it – caused this week’s carnage. This week’s carnage was a reprehensible act of hate perpetrated by people committed to violence and evil. Full stop.

“Yes, but the occupation,” some people say. “Yes, but the corruption of the Netanyahu government. Yes, but ….”

For the murder of infants, there is no “yes but.”

For the slaughter of innocents, there is no “yes but.”

For taking the elderly and the wounded hostage in a war zone, “yes but” has no place.

And now, Israel is left with no choice but to fight Hamas: to eliminate the threat that they pose, to guarantee the safety of innocent Israelis, and to bring the hostages home. God willing, Israel will be able to minimize the loss of innocent lives on the other side of the border. Sadly, tragically, with Hamas using Palestinian citizens and Israeli hostages as human shields, such deaths may be unavoidable.

As Israel engages in this important but necessary struggle, we need to support Israel however we can. So, when you hear friends and coworkers blaming Israel for these attacks, you need to call out those views. And when you read editorials and social media posts echoing these ideas, write back with rejoinders. And when you see Israel blamed for the slaughter of its own, stand strong beside her. And donate generously to Israel, because Israel and her citizens need our help.

Second, let’s remember that although these attacks targeted mostly Jewish Israelis, Jews are far from the only victims of Hamas’s terror. Hamas has caused great suffering on the part of Palestinians, too. Israel ended its occupation of Gaza in 2005, and soon afterward, Hamas took control of the area. It was a moment of such promise when Israel gave Gazans their autonomy. But Hamas squandered foreign aid in a morass of corruption. Hamas thugs quashed their political opponents, often violently. And now, Hamas terrorists have brought upon Gaza’s citizens the full wrath of the Israel Defense Forces. Hamas now has Jewish blood on its hands, and it has Palestinian blood on its hands, too.

Let us hope and pray that, in the heat of war, Israel is able to remember this as it engages in the crucial task of defending itself against terrorism. There are more than two million people living in that little Gaza strip. There is no electricity, and Israel, who maintains external control of the area, has turned off access to food and water. The only way out might have been through Egypt, but Egypt hasn’t opened the door. There are evildoers there, they live among the innocents, and the combination of the evil and the innocent represents a humanitarian disaster in the making.

Can Israel aim its missiles at the bad guys while sparing the good guys? I don’t think so, but hopefully, Israel can minimize the loss of innocent lives. Is there a way for Israel to do what it needs to do without starving people who didn’t have anything to do with the violence? I don’t know, but it’s an important question to ask.

The line between self-defense and bloodthirstiness gets blurry at times such as these, but it’s an important one to draw. Our tradition allows us to kill those who are trying to kill us, and it vehemently prohibits us from killing others. Let’s pray that Israel and its leaders keep to both of those crucial moral requirements as they do what they need to do.

Third, this is Shabbat B’reishit, when we Jews read the opening verses of the Torah. As I was reading the portion this week, my eyes were drawn to the story of Cain and Abel. Cain, according to the Torah, was history’s first murderer – the first person who rose up against their fellow human being and took their life. In this case, it was the life of Cain’s brother, Abel.

In 1981, Israeli poet Dan Pagis wrote about the aftermath of this murder from the perspective of Cain and Abel’s mother, Eve.

The poem is called “Written in Pencil in the Sealed Railway-Car,” and its title indicates that Dan Pagis is projecting the story of Cain, Abel, and their mother Eve into the 1940s, the time of the Holocaust.

WRITTEN IN PENCIL IN THE SEALED RAILWAY-CAR
By Dan Pagis
here in this carload
i am eve
with abel my son
if you see my other son
cain son of man
tell him that i

I invite you to reflect for a few moments on these words. Eve sits in a railway car with the body of her murdered son. Her other son is Cain Son of Man, Kayin ben Adam, Cain Son of Adam. She searches for him, but he is far, far away. And she wants to say something to him, she wants to share what she is thinking and feeling. But when it comes time to put words to what is in her heart, she falls into silence. She writes a message, but she can’t finish the thought.

There are no words.

O God, we too sit with Abel. Abel is Ofir Libstein. Abel is Hayim Katsman. Abel is Nurit Berger, Hannah Ben Artzi, and all of the others. And Cain, the murderer is so far away…beyond touching for the moment, beyond embrace.

Cain, put down that stone! Enough killing! Enough bloodshed. Enough pain. And, God, please tell him that we…please tell him…please say….

O God, we weep tonight for our loss. We weep for the men and for the women and for the children. And we are so afraid. Bring calm to the land, O God. Please bring calm. Still, the hands of the evildoers, shield the innocent and grant Israel strength in protecting its citizens. And please, from the bottom of our hearts, we pray: bring the hostages home and bring them home safely.

Here, tonight, we sit together in solidarity with Israel, firmly committed to the struggle for all that we know to be good and holy.

Adonai oz l’amo yitein. Adonai y’vareich et amo vashalom. May God grant strength to our people, and may God bless our people with peace.

Shabbat. Shalom.