To Bring Holiness Into The World: Seasonal Holiday Wishes.19

To Bring Holiness Into The World

Seasonal Holiday Wishes

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

Recently a clever child in our religious school asked me, “Why do we need God?” It’s definitely a question that in my book qualifies as a “rabbi stumper,” and I rewarded the child with the promised pizza party as well as with an appropriate certificate. 

At first I thought it was a simple enough question. In my 70 years I have learned from both personal experience and from many excellent teachers. The first answer I came up with then was, “We need God to be there for us when our parents no longer can be.” 

The child seemed satisfied, and yet I was not.  The question remained active in my mind for many days, and I kept coming up with more and more answers.

It turns out that human beings may actually be wired to believe in supernatural beings. How else explain the superstitions that add color to our behavior, no matter how rational we think are, or our need for God during stressful times (as illustrated by the adage, “there is no atheist in a foxhole”).  Studies in human neurology and psychology seem to indicate that there is a neurological basis for religious behavior. For one thing, we rely for our survival on group strength as much as on individual effort; the larger the group, the more secure we feel. Nothing acts as powerfully to bind diverse individuals into groups and nations as does religion.  

Further, these studies show that spiritual or religious practice such as prayer, meditation or rituals enable us to think more clearly and to feel our emotions more intensely! Belief in God makes us smarter and more compassionate—again, qualities that help us remain valuable members of society.

But belief in God gives us much more that that. 

Religion gives us a training regimen for knowing the difference between right and wrong. Ever since Abraham, we have looked to God to provide and exemplify the highest standards for right and wrong, for holy and evil. 

Religion gives meaning and purpose to our life, and even to our death.

Prayer provides comfort and guidance when we feel lost, anxious, worried or confused.

God gives us strength when we are weary or fearful

God provides us with companionship when we are lonely. 

But beyond all that, God gives us hope. 

Hope is one of the most powerful tools in our survival kits. Without hope, we might as well just lie down and never get up. It is hope that keeps us going despite the difficulties and challenges that we face every day. It is God’s light—hope—that shows us the path when we are surrounded by darkness, when we “walk in the valley of the shadow of death.” 

This is why all humanity seeks light at this darkest season of the year. Each of us may find it through unique and different means—but all paths involve, in one way or another, faith and hope.

We need God because God is the ultimate source of hope, and it is faith that keeps our connection with this awesome force alive. 

Some of us don’t see our holiday practices as particularly religious. And yet, whether they involve lighting a hanukkiah (the menorah, the nine-branch Hanukkah candelabra) or trimming a Christmas tree, our traditions are formed by religion and are designed to set alight within us the power of faith, love and hope.            

As we gather with family and friends to partake of the joy of this season, may we find what we truly are looking for: the strength to keep up our daily tasks; the meaning and purpose which give our days and nights path and direction; and not least, hope. Hope—for a time when fear, hunger, sickness or need will no longer exist in the world.

On this Christmas Eve and Day, on this third night and day of Hanukkah, may we all sense the light and holiness of God that shine brightly within each of us. 

And let us surely not forget to share the love that exists within our hearts with those who live every day without love, without joy, and without hope. That is how we increase the light for all the world at this season of darkness. 

Happy Hanukkah and Merry Christmas to all, and best wishes for joyous holidays to those who light yet other candles of faith and hope.

© 2019 by Boaz D. Heilman

            

Are Jews A Nation? Vayishlach.19

Are Jews A Nation?

Sermon for Shabbat Vayishlach

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

Dec. 14, 2019

Observers and commentators claim that in recent months and years, politics have become more divisive than ever. However, I am not sure that this perception holds true when held to the light of history. The only time that politics have not been divisive is under tyrannies and dictatorships. And even then, the fissures remain, waiting to blow up at the first opportunity.

Still, maybe because of the proliferation of social media today, and perhaps because we live during what might possibly be described as the freest of times and places, divisiveness prevails, with each side vying to proclaim its stance and opinion in the loudest possible voice.  

The latest contentious issue that has come up world-wide is Israel and anti-Semitism. This has become so prominent that the recent national election in Britain was seen not as a referendum on Brexit—which is how it began—but on Corbyn and the anti-Semitism that is so rampant in the Labour Party, which he represents and currently leads.

The ancient disease we know as anti-Semitism has taken many forms throughout its history.  At times cultural, religious, political, or racial, it now seems to revolve around the legitimacy of the Jewish State—Israel.

The violent forms this ancient hatred has taken are known to us all. The Shoah is new and surprising only to those who have never studied history. And yet, for several decades, anti-Semitism, perhaps out of shock at the sheer extent and magnitude of the Holocaust, has lain almost dormant, relegated to the elements of society we have called the lunatic fringe. Recently, however, this societal boundary has been shattered, and we are witnessing a new rise of the vicious hatred, both from the left and right wings of politics. The one thing that unites people as diverse and opposed to one another in every possible way as white nationalist David Duke and the spokesperson of the Democratic Party’s extreme left wing, Rep. Ilhan Omar, is hatred of the Jews. Israel may be the lightning rod, but the violence is clearly directed at all Jews.

On college campuses throughout America today, Jewish students are finding themselves targets of hatred and violence even if they aren’t politically minded, simply because they are Jewish and therefore somehow tainted. 

For various reasons, our Jewish youth never learned to fend for themselves. First to protest discrimination directed at other groups, first to take a stand against social injustice and all manner of cultural and environmental dangers, we have been strangely reluctant to stage sit-ins and demonstrations on our own behalf. The Jewish Defense League, formed in 1968 by the late, murdered, Rabbi Meir Kahane in response to a mounting wave of crimes directed primarily against Jews, has been called a terror organization both by the Southern Poverty Law Center and by the FBI. It is still reviled by a majority of Jews all over the world.  Jewish response of violence against violence is somehow seen as taboo, proscribed, anathema to Judaism itself. 

Take, for example, the holiday of Hanukkah, which we are about to celebrate.  Hanukkah started out as a celebration of a major military victory against the Greek Empire, but somehow ended up as minor holiday in the Jewish calendar, celebrating not our strength and survival against all odds, but rather as a fairy-tale about a small can of oil that somehow lasted for eight nights instead of just one. Relegated to the Apocrypha—books that for one reason or another never made it into the Hebrew Bible—are the heroism and self-sacrifice shown by the Judaeans in their desperate war against their oppressors. Forgotten is the story of the beautiful widow, Judith, who used her beauty to lure the Greek general Holofernes into her tent, only to behead him while he was drunk and sleeping. Such stories are considered distasteful, not fit for children and other sensitive souls.

We have a similar reaction to violence in this week’s Torah portion, Vayishlach (Gen. 32:4—36:43).  We are fond of telling the story of Jacob’s wrestling with a strange being through the night; we are proud to recall how the angel finally blesses Jacob as dawn breaks, calling him Israel, a survivor of fierce battles with people as well as divine beings. But the story of Dinah, only a few verses later, is one we cringe at. It is Jacob himself who recoils with repugnance at the extreme violence shown by his sons Shimon and Levi against the people of Shechem. It was, after all, indiscriminate, collective punishment for the crime of one person—the prince of the town, who had raped their sister, Dinah. When reproached by their father for their bloody actions, the brothers respond, “Should he have treated our sister like a prostitute?” 

Ever since then, Judaism has forbidden collective punishment. Our model is Abraham, not Levi or Shimon; our standard of justice is the one set by God after Noah’s Flood: only the guilty are to be punished.  The extreme self-restraint this standard demands of us has resulted in the tragic deaths of many of the defenders of Israel today, the soldiers of the Israel Defense Force, who take extreme caution NOT to harm innocent civilians, even if it means putting their own lives at risk.

But it wasn’t only the violation of Dinah that Shimon and Levi protested. It was the delegitimization of the entire tribe of Jacob. 

And this is what we are seeing throughout the world today. The delegitimization of the entire People of Israel. 

So what should our response be? The issue of open or concealed carry [of weapons]  is a contentious issue among many congregations. And in one vote after another, it is defeated. We live in a lawful society—we must rely on the law. That is the consensus, and I agree with it.

But what if the law is insufficient? The rising tide of anti-Semitic violence is an alarming trend, with no end yet in sight. BDS, the anti-Zionist movement sweeping across colleges all over the United States, has resulted in discrimination and physical assault, and also shows no sign of abating.

That is what the President’s recent executive order on anti-Semitism addresses, and yet the issue is as upsetting and disturbing to some as if he had suggested that we actually take arms to protect ourselves.

The order that President Trump signed on Wednesday defines Jews as a nationality. The purpose of this wording is to enable the use of Title VI of the Civil Rights Act of 1964 to protect Jewish students from boycott, harassment and physical assault. As it reads, Title VI states: “No person in the United States shall, on the ground of race, color or national origin, be excluded from participation in, be denied the benefits of, or be subjected to discrimination under any program receiving Federal financial assistance.”[1] Religion is not part of this statement. Anti-Semitism, defined as hatred of Judaism as a religion, is thus not addressed by the very law meant to protect American citizens from prejudice and discrimination.

If Jewish students—be they Zionist or a-political, religious or secular—on American colleges and universities that receive federal funding are to be protected by the law just like any other group or minority, it seems that defining them as a nationality is a viable way of doing just that.

But that raises all sorts of objections, not least among us American Jews, and in particular Reform Jews.

Since its earliest days, the Reform Movement has shied away from defining Judaism as a nationality. Israel, Jerusalem, along with any mention of Messianic hopes for a return to Israel, were eliminated from our prayer books. Fearful of the anti-Semitic libel of dual-nationalism and slurs of being disloyal and untrustworthy, Reform Jews have insisted on seeing ourselves—and on being seen by others—as loyal citizens of our home countries first, and as Jews second. Jews went out their way to prove their loyalty, including running for public office and enlisting in national armies. The President’s attempt to define Jews as a nation has awakened deep-seated fears within us, and our initial and instinctive response is one of horror.

A second line of opposition to this executive order comes from those—Jews and non-Jews—who oppose Trump’s presidency a priori.  This group sees Trump as willing to do anything and say anything for a vote. They will quote Trump’s statements about White Nationalists as being good people; they will also point to his reference to Jewish Americans in real estate as being “brutal killers” and “not nice people.” There can be no doubt that Trump is a highly divisive factor in American politics, and anyone opposed to him will oppose any political move he makes.

A third group still has criticized the President’s order as putting a chill on any attempt to criticize the State of Israel. Yet, since even before it became a State, Israel has been criticized for any number of reasons, and chances are that this will not change any time soon, either among ourselves or among our many detractors.  At the same time, however, there is no doubt in my mind that today’s anti-Zionism is yet another form of anti-Semitism. It is the denial of Israel’s very legitimacy; it is the denial of Judaism’s legitimate claim to the nation and state that gave it birth, and that historically, physically and spiritually has been the home of the Jewish People for more than three and a half thousand years.

Like Jacob’s daughter, Dinah, Israel is once again being violated, treated by those who wish to see it gone as an illegitimate daughter—or worse—of western colonialism. 

Yet, though we Jews will not allow ourselves to behave as did Shimon and Levi in olden days, we do have a right to exist in freedom, along with a good measure of well-deserved pride for our accomplishments and many contributions to civilization. The consensus among American Jews is that open or concealed carry is not the way. Practically all synagogues, temples and other Jewish organizations have had to hire outside protection (at our own expense). So what else is left? Shall we, in Jacob’s sons’ words, be treated as a prostitute? 

I think not.

We Jews have every right to demand—and to receive—equal protection under the law as any other citizen of the United States. Freedom of speech cannot be, and must never be, used as defense for incitement, for calls to violence, intimidation, or delegitimization of Jews anywhere.  And if defining Jews as a nationality will give us access to the protection guaranteed  by Article VI of the Civil Rights Law of 1964, then I say, without any equivocation, I am fine with that.

The question of whether Jews are a nation or merely adherents to a religion has vexed the world for centuries, and still defies clear answer. Judaism is commonly defined as a culture, a way of life, a religion—but also as a nationality. Our name comes from the tribe and land of our origin: Judah. Our history, our fundamental texts, our culture, our entire heritage, are anchored in our homeland, today called Israel. The State of Israel may be a relatively new political entity, but history, tradition and archeology prove the Jewish People’s legitimate claim to our land. Today, Jews may live in every land, come in all varieties of skin color, practice our faith and culture in every possible form and manner. But at the end of the day we are still one people. We can’t sing Am Yisrael Chai—the People of Israel lives—and not recognize that we are indeed a people. To deny our nationhood is to deny our very existence, past, present and future. No one has the right to take that away from us. At this point in our history, we have earned every right to define and defend ourselves. Am Yisrael Chai—the People of Israel—miraculously, still lives, and it is us.

May God give us with strength, may God bless us all with peace.  

© 2019 by Boaz D. Heilman

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[1] https://www.govinfo.gov/content/pkg/USCODE-2008-title42/html/USCODE-2008-title42-chap21-subchapV.htm

My Yiddishe Mama and the Jewish Mother: Chayei Sarah.19

My Yiddishe Mama and the Jewish Mother: Sarah’s Tent Revisited

D’var Torah for Parashat Chayei Sarah

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

As I turn 70, on the 57^th Anniversary of my Bar Mitzvah, B”H

An important part of our prayer service, said three times daily, is called Avot, “Fathers.” A few years ago, the Reform Movement added Immahot—“Mothers”—to the title, to emphasize the relevance of mothers in the birth and preservation of the Jewish people.  After all, it wasn’t only through the natural laws of procreation that the Jewish People came about; it was also to no small extent because of the cultural and social—not to mention gastronomical—guidance provided by Jewish mothers.

And so, as part of that prayer, we list alongside the names of our three Patriarchs, Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, also the names of the four Matriarchs of the Jewish People—Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel and Leah. 

And yet, despite the honorary mention given these great women, I am not sure that many of us actually know what they did to deserve being included, other than providing progeny to the Patriarchs. The important role actually played by the four Matriarchs has faded from our memories. Moreover, in the past few decades, a familiar stereotype, that of the Jewish Mother, has served to downplay and even mock this role, diminishing it even further.

Maybe it’s sexism, a general malaise of modern society; or perhaps there’s more to this stereotype than meets the eye. 

To anyone who’s even somewhat familiar with the Bible, we know that there are few enough references to women during Biblical times—and even fewer during Rabbinic times, the period when the Talmud and Midrash were composed. There are, however, some notable exceptions: Miriam, Moses’s sister, who played an instrumental part in saving Moses’s life and in leading the people; Deborah, who led the Israelites to a decisive military victory over the Canaanites; Esther, who saved the Jews of Persia; and Hannah, who appears in the Book of Maccabees as the mother willing to sacrifice herself and her seven sons rather than even pretend to worship the pagan god Zeus.

It is the heroic aspect of Jewish mothers that this tradition celebrates. Sarah, who fiercely guarded her son Isaac from the influence—and possibly abuse—of Ishmael; Rebecca, who did not hesitate to manipulate Isaac into bestowing his blessing not on Esau, but rather on Jacob; Rachel and Leah, who were engaged in ardent competition for Jacob’s love, each eager to provide progeny, to increase the size of their tribe, to give birth to a great and mighty nation.

So how did this tradition of heroism turn into a caricature?  The portly, ill-dressed, loud, nagging, manipulative, controlling person that we meet in Philip Roth’s Portnoy’s Complaint and Goodbye, Columbus; in almost every Woody Allen movie; as well as on television—whether as Rhoda Morgenstern’s mother, Kyle’s mother on South Park, or Howard Wolowitz’s mother in The Big Bang Theory? She may be loveable, but irritating; funny, but exasperating. She may be well-intentioned, but she is also the last person we want to walk in the door and announce her imposing presence.

Somewhere there, between the 1920’s and the 1950’s, “My Yiddishe Mama,” the tearful ode to motherhood that was sung by nearly everyone, from Sophy Tucker and Connie Francis to Neil Sedaka, Tom Jones and Ray Charles, turned into the comedic nightmare of the Jewish Mother, a control-freak who wields food and guilt as her weapons. 

There might be some anti-Semitic elements to the caricature, certainly misogynistic facets as well. But there are also some distinct differences. For one thing, this Jewish stereotype—so prevalent in our culture that it has its own Wikipedia entry—has been, and continues to be, spread and circulated mostly by Jews.

But God forbid we should be accused of hating our mothers! No, it isn’t that at all! The Jewish Mother stereotype isn’t about any specific mother. It’s actually much bigger than that. It’s really about Jewish ethnicity; it’s about Jewish tradition and its supposed chokehold, particularly on American Jews of the second half of the 20^thcentury.

So what happened? How and why did this transformation take place? 

One can ask a similar question about Jews in America. The great wave of Jewish immigrants that arrived in America from Eastern Europe in the early part of the 20^th century was mostly impoverished and ignorant. Countless sacrifices were made by the first few generations to ensure not only our survival, but also our advancement. What Jewish parents told their children was never, “If it was good enough for us, it’s good enough for you.” Instead, it was always, “We are undergoing tremendous hardship, willing to make every sacrifice, so that you can have a better life.”

And I know that to be true. The early 1950’s in Israel were a time of great hardship and need. Food—even the most basic staples—was being rationed among the population. I remember having to share a hard-boiled egg with my brother every few days—while my parents never had one. That was all you got. I will probably never know the many other sacrifices my parents made for us during that period.

But then things changed. Jews in America became successful and entered the middle class. To fit in, we learned to speak English without an accent and changed our haircuts and the clothes we wore. Religious school turned from five days a week to maybe two, replaced by sports and other middle-class pastimes. In our religious practice, we turned from Orthodox to Conservative, and then to Reform. From Eastern European Jews we became American Jews, and then Jewish Americans. We moved to the suburbs, where we made real for us the American dream that we could now share with all of our neighbors: A house of our own, with a green lawn and a white picket fence, and an Oldsmobile or Chevy in the driveway.

But even with that transformation, something still stood in our way. Ivy League schools had a quota on how many Jewish students they would accept. Prep schools accepted none. And  country clubs, where the leisured class mingled, remained closed to us. 

Because we were Jewish.

It took several more decades for Jews to realize that we had equal rights. But until then, many of us felt ashamed of our background. And whom did we have to blame? Why, of course, our mothers. They were the ones who insisted on lighting Shabbos candles, on keeping kosher, on getting the family together, come what may, for those special holiday meals for which they went all out.

That’s when our first Matriarch—Sarah—turned from protective, to threatening; when Rebecca turned from manipulative to meddling; when Rachel and Leah turned from self-sacrificing to guilt-tripping. In rejecting the hold our tradition had on us, we turned the tragic into the comedic, the typical into the stereotypical. 

And as the traditional family unit broke down even further, we blamed our mothers even for that. We took the guilt we felt inside us, and placed it on our tradition instead.

And our fathers? They too became caricatures: henpecked, weak, ineffectual, weary of their wives’ nagging—think Tevya in Fiddler On The Roof and you get the picture.

But with our role models gone, whom could we turn to in order to understand our own role? If entire generations can be grouped, as we have done to baby-boomers, millennials and the x-generation, then American Jews of the 20^th century could be characterized as the lost generation. Orphans with no home to call their own, with no tradition to fall back on, floundering between a past we rejected and a future without purpose or goal. What, then makes us Jewish?

The situation isn’t very different from the picture we find in this week’s Torah portion, Chayei Sarah (“the Life of Sarah,” Genesis 23:1—25:18). With Sarah dead and following his near-sacrifice experience on top of Mt. Moriah, Isaac, our second Patriarch, is lost in the wilderness of Paran. Afraid or unwilling to come home, he wanders about, seeking meaning and direction for his existence. 

It will be Rebecca, arriving from the east on camelback, who will give him these. Rebecca offers Isaac more than just love. She shows him the way home. Together they come back to Sarah’s tent, left empty since Sarah’s death. Together, they will rekindle the nearly extinguished promise of the Jewish People. Together, with steadfast and unfaltering faith, they will withstand all the challenges that will come up—from within the family as well as from outside enemies. It is through Isaac and Rebecca that the tradition of heroism of our mothers and fathers will continue.

To me, the symbol of this heroism will always be my grandmother, Paula, of blessed memory. During the Second World War, my grandparents found their way to Hungary, which at the time was not yet occupied by the Nazis. In my grandmother’s kitchen, a pot of hot soup was always on the stove, providing food for the countless refugees who came by every day. “Paula,” the neighbors would say, “you can’t go on feeding everybody; you have to think of your children!” But my grandmother’s response was always the same: “They are all my children.” And that, my friends, is what Jewish mothers really are all about.

May we all learn from the example set by all our heroic mothers and fathers, grandfathers and grandmothers, who let no one and nothing stand in their way in raising us to be good people. May we learn from those who came before us how to fill our tents with the knowledge and understanding of what it means to be Jewish in the 21^st century. And may our tents always be blessed by the God of Abraham and Sarah, of Isaac and Rebecca, of Jacob and Rachel and Leah, throughout our generations.  Amen.

© 2019 by Boaz D. Heilman

Installation Remarks

Installation Remarks

Congregation B’nai Torah, Westminster, Colorado

Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

Nov. 9, 2019

Honored guests, public officials and fellow clergy, friends, members of Congregation B’nai Torah: It is a special and unique honor for me to be present at this auspicious gathering. I thank you for your warmth, for your trust and faith in welcoming me to lead, teach and learn from this sacred congregation.

The theme chosen for this celebration is Mah Tovu Ohalecha Ya’akov, “how goodly are your tents O Jacob.” This phrase is first found in the Torah’s fourth book, Numbers, chapter 24. As the story tells it, the renowned seer Balaam has been called upon by the Moabite King Balak to curse the tribes of Israel that have gathered at his border. Balaam asks to be led to the highest mountain, from where he can view the entire Israelite encampment. Three times does he attempt to speak words of scorn and ridicule; three times does God force him instead to say words of praise and admiration.  “How goodly are your tents, O Jacob, your dwellings O Israel,” he finally exclaims, much to the consternation of the Moabite king.

These words have come a long way since those early days of our people’s history. The ancient Rabbis, sages who lived in the first few centuries of our common era, interpreted the word “tents” as a symbol for Jewish houses of prayer, our synagogues, and incorporated this verse into the opening prayer of our morning service, intended to welcome all who come to the House of God to pray, to worship and to study.

At the same time, however, the Rabbis offered yet another explanation for Balaam’s observation: Standing high up on the mountains, viewing the tents—literally, the dwelling places that our early ancestors had set up on the plains below—Balaam noticed the way in which these tents had been pitched. They were placed—explain the Rabbis—in such a way that no tent’s doorway faced another’s. We may have lived in close quarters, but we all respected each other’s privacy; we upheld the dignity, uniqueness and individuality of each of our neighbors, without looking in on them, without spying on them, so as not to cause envy, resentment or jealousy. “How wonderful are your dwellings, O Israel,” Balaam calls out in wonder. What wonderful ideals to live by, to uphold and to observe!

Some of the world’s most exalted words and sermons have come from mountaintops. And indeed, the view from up there can be truly magnificent. I have always loved roaming and hiking in the mountains, be they the Carmel Mountains in Haifa, in my homeland of Israel; the White Mountains of New Hampshire; and now, the Front Range—and perhaps, later, even some of the taller peaks—of the Rocky Mountains. The sounds of traffic, the city, the everyday noises we people constantly make, all disappear up there, replaced by the rush of the wind or the song of the birds. Looking down at the winding road far below, or at city streets extending in beautiful geometric designs, it’s easy to feel inspired, to see only the beauty, peace and harmony of life.

But this exalted view can also be misleading. The reality is that down on ground level we do look with envy at other people’s houses, at their bigger and faster cars, at their richer and more famous lifestyles. We do often feel jealous, resentful, even fearful, of one another. And though we pledge allegiance to our one country, one nation, to our one flag, we all-too-often find ourselves divided and at odds with one another, incited to mistrust, and even to hate, not love, our neighbor.  

The news of the past week, of the attempted bombing of a synagogue in Pueblo and of anti-Semitic flyers distributed by neo-Nazis in Boulder, is part of a growing world-wide trend of desecration of synagogues, cemeteries and Holocaust memorials, of swastikas drawn on school buildings, of violence, intimidation and terrorism directed at Jews.

The rasp of hate is growing louder, turning into calls for the destruction of the State of Israel, the only country in the world—recognized by the United Nations and the majority of countries worldwide, a valuable and contributing member of humanity’s league of nations—that has been under attack since well before its establishment, that has been the target of countless wars and terror attacks since its inception.

The threat of a nuclear holocaust is no longer a silent danger, with rogue nations such as North Korea and Iran enriching uranium and developing missiles capable of reaching almost any part of the globe.

Pollution of air, water and earth is causing climate change with disastrous consequences. Entire species of wildlife are in danger of disappearing, while so many of us continue in our reckless pursuit of pleasure and material riches. 

Seen in the glaring light of reality, Balaam’s lofty vision of harmony and peace seems more of a fantasy than reality.

And yet, reality is more complex than that. In Boulder, residents—Jews and non-Jews alike—gathered to remove the hate-filled, anti-Semitic flyers. Temple Emanuel of Pueblo, the second oldest synagogue in Colorado, received countless calls, letters and emails bearing messages of care and support. Following the shooting at the Pittsburgh Tree of Life Synagogue exactly one year ago, a huge outpouring of condolences and sympathy from all corners of this great nation heartened the bereaved people whose anguished memories of the Holocaust were so painfully awakened by this senseless act  of violence.

Your presence here today speaks volumes about our sense of unity and common responsibility. We are here because we know that we truly are one people, despite our differences of color, gender, religion and even political affiliation.  We are here because we share the visions and goals espoused by our prophets and teachers, by the Fathers of our Nation and the Authors of our Constitution. Just over eight score years ago, in accepting the Republican nomination for US Senate from Illinois, Abraham Lincoln made his famous declaration that “A house divided against itself cannot stand.” We are here today to affirm this statement and the sentiments behind it.

We are here, in this common House of Worship—common to people of different faiths, beliefs and denominations—to uphold our ideals, to announce to all those who would see us divided against one another, that we are indeed one people, diverse yet unique, multi-colored as the rainbow yet united in hope, faith and trust. We are here—for one another, with one another—to create and make real a vision expressed so many centuries ago, a prophecy of a world run in harmony and cooperation, guided by rules of dignity, equality and mutual respect. It’s our task, our mission, a responsibility we accepted millennia ago, and to which we dedicate ourselves anew today and every day.  

May we, through the work of our hearts and hands, earn the praise of future generations who will look at us and proclaim, “How goodly are your tents, your dwellings Oh sons and daughters of a great nation and a great God.”

 I thank you all, and I pray, may God’s blessings of health, strength and peace always be found in all our dwellings.  Amen.

© 2019 by Boaz D. Heilman

The Endless Blessing of Light: Bereisheet.19

The Endless Blessing of Light

D’var Torah for Parshat Bereisheet

October 25, 2019

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

A couple of days ago I went to the Monet exhibit at the Denver Museum of Art. To say that it was beautiful, of course, is an understatement. The famous Water Lilies, the Japanese Bridge and many other famous paintings were there, as well as a series of snowscapes painted in Norway, and shimmering scenes from Venice.  What a treat to enjoy and see up-close the intricate brush strokes, the dabs of still-glistening paint—as well as to view these masterpieces from the farther-away perspective that Monet had intended his works to be seen!

When I go to art museum, I get inspired—art teaches us to see the world in a different light. 

But it isn’t only the works on exhibit that inspire me. It’s also the other visitors. 

I am not sure if it was due to the excellent lighting that focused on the paintings, or because of the light that seems to emanate from Monet’s paintings, but as I looked at people’s faces, they seemed to glow too. Light draws light.

Maybe that’s why light was God’s first act of Creation. Light enables us to see, to appreciate, to understand. Light gives us comfort and solace, as well as hope and joy. Light is God’s first gift to us.

On Simchat Torah—the holiday on which we rejoice with the Torah—it is customary to read the last few verses of the last book (Deuteronomy) and immediately proceed to the story of Creation, the first few verses of chapter one in Genesis. This almost-seamless reading reminds us of the continuity of life and of the eternal nature of Time itself.

Time is a construct. It cannot be measured as can, say, space, depth, or weight. We calculate time according to parameters we imagine, based on cosmic events: the position of the Earth relative to the sun, moon and stars. Day follows night and, as we read in Ecclesiastes, “The sun also rises, and the sun goes down, and hastens to the place where it arose” (Eccl. 1:5, NKJV). Time can only be presumed. Intangible, it takes no space. In an ever-expanding universe, time is all relative.

And yet, Time is God’s gift to us. We get a portion—days, weeks, months or years—of this eternal cycle, and we get to fill it with our thoughts and deeds. Our time on this earth is enriched by the other gifts that surround us, and we leave our own contributions after us, as though in an exhibit, to be viewed and re-viewed.

We can make life a blessing for us as well as for everyone else, or not. That is our choice.

The Torah readings on Simchat Torah emphasize this truth. The last portion of the Torah is called V’zot Ha-bracha, “This is the blessing.” An exalted poem of praise and hope, its verses comprise Moses’s last message to the People of Israel. Tribe by tribe, Moses recalls to the People our past heritage and reminds us of our future duties and responsibilities. As we review our history, however, it isn’t only about our successes; there are failures as well.  However, Moses reminds us that past mistakes don’t necessarily doom us. Our redemption emanates from our ability to learn from our mistakes, to overcome challenges and failings, to rise up and move forward again. Moses’s final teaching to his People is that we must appreciate and be grateful for the many gifts we have within us and around us, and to activate our potential with each and every living breath we take. At the end of his journey that is Moses’s blessing, his final bequest to us.

No matter how difficult life is—and oh, it can be so hard for so many!—it is a blessing in itself. Not only for the potential for beauty and goodness embedded within each moment, within each of us, but also for what we can do, for what we can leave behind for future generations.

And then, following the moving scene of Moses’s death, with hardly a moment’s pause, we roll the Torah right back to its beginning and start again: In the beginning, God brought Light into existence.

We end with a blessing, and we start anew with a blessing. 

At the museum, watching people’s faces as they moved from one painting to another, I was struck by the light that seemed to emanate from within them (a reflection? Or perhaps something was kindled within them that made them glow from inside?). But more than that: On many faces there was a smile, an ambiguous beam that could bespeak joy, or surprise, or the light of discovery and understanding.  Monet’s gift to humanity can be summarized as much more than his radiant paintings. Monet teaches us to see the world around us in a different way. Through his eyes, we see the intensity of colors, the swirling motion all around us, the flow of a breeze and the ever-changing nature of light itself.

Similarly, the Torah teaches us to see Life and Time as a blessing. Not only as the gifts that our physical being embodies and contains, but also as a painting: a framed moment that contains within it the ongoing flow of God’s eternity, God’s energy, God’s own existence within us. 

In God’s eternal time, there is no beginning, there is no end. Like light, it is a blessing that changes, evolves and flows. It courses endlessly through our veins.

© 2019 by Boaz Heilman

A New Beginning: Simchat Torah.19

Simchat Torah: A New Beginning

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

In a sense, Simchat Torah is the culmination of the High Holy Day season.

Simchat Torah—the holiday of rejoicing with the Torah—marks the occasion on which we conclude the annual cycle of the reading of the Torah, followed immediately by beginning it all over again.  

The ancient Rabbis have described the Torah as “the blueprint of Creation,” hence the connection of the holiday to Rosh Hashana, which Judaism marks as the anniversary of the world’s creation. There are—aren’t there always?—two interpretations for this teaching. One is that God consulted with the Torah even before starting the work of Creation, implying that the Torah existed even prior to Creation itself.

But there is another explanation: the Torah didn’t serve as a blueprint for God, as God is the source and fount of all knowledge and wisdom and certainly does not need to consult any reference book, especially one that God authored and dictated. Rather, it is a blueprint for us, human beings, as we continue the work of Creation, which of course God ceased at the end of the sixth day.

The Torah is the central pillar of Jewish thinking—and of all Western Civilization. It accounts not only for much of the theological thinking of the western world but is also the basis of much of our modern legal justice system.  

The Torah adds the elements of hope, purpose and meaning to our understanding of our existence in the world.

But above all that, by its teaching that there is only one God, the Torah has given us the magnificent concept of equality. If there were many gods, there would be violent competition between them for supremacy (as we see in many of the world’s mythologies), and the conclusion would inevitably be that might is always right. If, on the other hand, there were no God at all, each of us would look at ourselves and think that we might be gods ourselves. Each of us would assume that he/she is smarter, more capable, more talented and powerful than anyone else, and therefore more deserving of honor and praise, even of worship.

But the principle that only God reigns supreme means that we are all actually equal in God’s eyes. Though each of us has different and unique talents and abilities, that doesn’t make any one of us “better.” In God’s heavenly court, we are all judged by what we did during our lifetime, by how we contributed to society and the world, not by what gifts we might have inherited or gained during our days on earth. 

In God’s eyes, our worth is calculated by the good deeds—the mitzvot—that we fulfill.

For God’s own, mysterious, reasons, the world was left incomplete. Human beings, created at the very end of the Sixth Day, were then charged with two tasks: the safekeeping of the world and its inhabitants, and completing the sacred task of Creation. It is this that gives our existence meaning, hope and purpose. Our lives are not pointless and irrelevant. Every one of our actions is a step forward into the yet-unfinished Seventh Day.

And that is why we rejoice on the holiday of Simchat Torah. We not only have a sacred trust and mission, but also a method—a blueprint for the work we must engage in. The Torah is there not to serve God, but rather to help us understand how to accomplish what God intended for us. We don’t ever need to feel lost or confused. The Torah is a map into the unknown, and as such it is a great gift to all humanity.

The work of Creation is never ending. That is why as soon as we finish reading the last few words of the Torah, we immediately start again at the very Beginning. There is a lesson for every moment of our life, a message that unfolds and deepens with every passing day and year.  The more we study, the more we discover about ourselves and the world around us.

As with all learning, as with all life, there is no beginning, and there is no end—it is one cycle, never ending. All paths intertwine, cross and weave, and all ultimately lead up to the source of all knowledge and wisdom, our one God.

© 2019 by Boaz Heilman

The Narrow Bridge: Sukkot.19

Sukkot—The Narrow Bridge

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

October 18, 2019

The Hassidic master Rabbi Nachman of Breslau taught: The entire world is but a narrow bridge, and the most important thing is not to be afraid.

But bridges have always been sources of anxiety. Will they hold? Or will we—God forbid!—plunge into the swirling waters and void beneath? We pay tolls to those who will ferry us across, or taxes to the state—which, hopefully, has inspected the bridge and found it sound and travel-worthy.

Bridges are awe inspiring, great architectural and engineering feats. Functional and beautiful at once, even from a distance they can take our breath away.

Some bridges are almost impossible to cross: Take those glass bottom bridges in China. Though many tourists brave them, some find themselves overtaken with terror and fall to their knees, unable to take another step forward or back.

Bridges can be fun tourist attractions. Some, like the Brooklyn Bridge and the Golden Gate Bridge, even become subject of myth and lore.

Bridges can be symbolic, representing journeys and even existence itself. That is what Rabbi Nachman refers to in his wise teaching: Bridges as a symbol for life, spanning over the null and void, a passage from one point in existence to another.

In yet another metaphor, one used so often that it has become cliché, we have come to think of life itself as a journey. A case in point is the Israelites’ forty years of wandering in the Wilderness of Sinai. Some might think of the Exodus as the birth of the Jewish Nation, but it really isn’t. The parting of the Red Sea, for all the imagery it represents, is not a birth, but rather a re-birth. The Sea closes behind us, but unlike newborn babies, the freed slaves carry their memories and traditions with them: As they depart Egypt, the Israelites remember to carry with them the remains of Joseph, Jacob’s son, in fulfillment of the oath Joseph made his brothers take at his deathbed, not to leave him behind when God redeems them from bondage. The stories of the past, along with the promise of future Redemption, are what sustained the Israelites during the 400 years of slavery in Egypt. That is the cultural heritage they took with them.

That promise, that oath, that heritage, accompanied us throughout our history.  It’s a promise we made to ourselves, to our ancestors as well as to our children.

Our journeys were never carefree. Though there were times when, protected by a local governor, duke or king, we lived comfortably and in relative security, yet at various times throughout our history—and no less so today than ever before—we woke up to see hateful messages or symbols, reminding us of our painful history.

Somehow, however, despite the many times when our lives and very existence as a people were threatened (and how close to extinction have we come these many times!), we are still here today. Obstinately, we refuse to disappear. Even when, at times, we stray, still we return to our roots, certain within our heart of hearts, that we are walking on a narrow bridge—yet not without oversight from above.

The holiday of Sukkot embodies this journey. Timed precisely for that time of year when fall makes its presence felt, the Sukkah—that flimsy hut that offers shade from the sun but no protection from rain or snow, that is open to the breezes but tumbles without warning at an expected gust—reminds us of the fragility and uncertainty of life. Our physical journey through the days or years allotted to us out of God’s eternal time is punctuated by the seasons and the holidays. Sukkot is the festival that, more than any other, symbolizes our spiritual journey, from darkness to light, from slavery to freedom, from fear to faith.   

Sukkot is like that narrow bridge that Rabbi Nachman spoke of. Offering us barely enough space for comfort, promising no certain security, it’s all about transitions, those phases in our life that are most tenuous and fragile. 

And this festival also reminds us of God’s presence in our lives. 

In the Torah, Sukkot represents the midpoint between two other major holy days: Passover, a reminder of the Exodus and the beginning of our journey, and Shavuot, which celebrates the giving of the Torah to the Israelites. Sukkot is there to recall the path leading from the one to the other.  It helps us remember not to be afraid, to rely on God’s protection. What the s’chach—the thatched, leafy roof that barely gives us shade from the beating sun—can’t do, God can and does for us.

Fear is a legitimate emotion. It’s an invisible but real line that we dare not cross. It protects us from harm and danger—a good thing to know and have as part of our human makeup. 

But then, so is Faith. How much safer we feel when a strong, guiding hand holds our frail one! Trust strengthens our resolve; it gives us courage. 

Our reliance on God as we traverse time and space, from Egypt to the heights of Sinai and beyond, has sustained us throughout our existence.

And what do we owe in return? How do we say thanks to God?

By celebrating the gift of life itself. By decorating the moment and surrounding ourselves with samples of life’s beauty and bounty. By eating festive meals surrounded by family and friends. By remembering our traditions and inviting even our most ancient ancestors—Ushpizin—to sit with us and accompany us along our journey.

Fear can be a debilitating emotion. But it can be overcome with joy and faith. And that’s what the festival of Sukkot has to teach us. The world may be a scary place; but as a community of faith, we don’t need to be afraid. God is holding our hand as we cross this bridge.

Mo’adim l’simcha! Happy Sukkot!

© 2019 by Boaz Heilman

Defending Israel: Yom Kippur.19

Defending Israel: Sermon for Yom Kippur 5780

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

One of my favorite political cartoons comes from Israel. Drawn by Yaakov Kirschen for the Jerusalem Post, it’s called Dry Bones, a reference to the prophet Ezekiel’s famous Vision of the Valley of Dry Bones. A couple of years ago, this strip featured a husband and wife talking about the current situation in Israel and relating it to Yom Kippur.  The wife opens the conversation:  “Yom Kippur is the day we use to list our sins and shortcomings. The whole world needs a day like that.”  Looking up from his newspaper, the husband replies:  “No they don’t!  They use the entire year… to list our sins and shortcomings.”

It’s an amusing observation, but it’s also true. In the last few years, it’s become fashionable to criticize Israel, to find fault with any number of its policies, both foreign and domestic. Israel bashing is now common not only among terrorist groups, but also in polite, sophisticated and enlightened societies.  In the United Nations alone, more resolutions condemning Israel were passed than against all other nations of the world combined. This includes countries well-known for their “humanitarian” policies, countries such as Iran, Syria, Saudi Arabia, China and Venezuela.  

And so, since for much of the world, every day is Yom Kippur, since critiquing Israel and delegitimizing its very existence has led even many of us to question our loyalty to the Jewish State, I decided that today I am going to give myself and my home country a break. Today, instead of pointing out Israel’s faults and sins, I am going to point out some of the things she actually does right.  Tomorrow it’s back to business as usual. Today, we count our blessings instead, as we take a look at the values that Israel prizes and strives to achieve.

Let’s start with Israel’s wars, among the most maligned and misunderstood of all of Israel’s endeavors. No other country in the world has faced ongoing and continuous threats against its existence as Israel has. Acts of violence and terror began long before 1948, when Israel declared its independence—only to be invaded one day later by seven armies from neighboring Arab countries. Resistance to Jewish settlement in the Land of Israel began when Turkey still controlled the Middle East as part of its Ottoman Empire. The violence increased steadily through the 1920’s and 30’s and hasn’t stopped yet.

Israel has lost a huge number of its young men and women to these murderous acts. During the Intifadas of 2000-2004, hardly a day passed without deadly attacks on busses, restaurants and marketplaces. In the weeks and months prior to the 2014 Gaza War, Israel was the target of over 7000 rocket and mortar rounds launched by Hamas, the terrorist organization that governs its Arab population with an iron fist and which has never renounced its oath to destroy Israel. 

Throughout this conflict, Israel has defended itself in the most ethical way possible. Despite almost daily confrontations with Hamas, despite ongoing rocket, mortar and IED attacks, Israel continues to supply Gaza with electricity, water and literally tons of humanitarian aid every day.

Despite the way Israel is portrayed by the news media, no other country in the world takes the kind of extraordinary measures to avoid civilian casualties as does the Jewish nation. Leaflets dropped from the air, cell phone calls and “roof knocking” tactics are used to warn civilians of impending attacks. Israel trains all its soldiers in ethical fighting and often places them in deadly danger rather than attack civilian targets—despite the fact that Hamas headquarters are located on purpose in the most populated areas of the Gaza Strip, and despite the fact that most often the rockets are launched from crowded apartment buildings, mosques, schools and even kindergartens. 

In war and peace, Israel struggles to define and maintain its Jewish identity.  To be Jewish doesn’t just mean to recite prayers several times a day.  You must also strive to live by the highest Jewish ideals, even if on occasion you fall short.

One example of this is how Israel deals with the plight of refugees and illegal immigrants, which in recent years has become a huge challenge for the entire world.

In its 71 years of existence, Israel has had to take in more refugees, from more places around the world, than any other country since World War II.  While there are many problems—such as what to do with the thousands of Sudanese who fled persecution in their own country, made the dangerous journey across the Sinai Desert and finally arrived in Israel—only to find that they were unwanted there.  Yet many others, such as the 100,000 Ethiopian Jews who arrived in Israel in the 1980’s and 90’s, and despite many social, political and religious challenges, have managed to integrate and create new, productive lives for themselves in their new homeland.

I admit that when I first saw people of color—I was probably 8 or 9 years old—I must have gawked and stared shamelessly.  I hope I can be forgiven for that, though I still cringe at the memory.  What I knew then was that they came to Israel from Ghana to learn about farming and agriculture.  What I didn’t know is that the program that sponsored them was called Mashav.  Initiated in 1957 by David Ben Gurion and Golda Meir, Mashav is Israel’s agency for international development and cooperation.  Since its launching, Mashav has trained more than 300,000 men and women from 150 countries. In addition to teaching modern farming technology, Mashav sets up water and soil conservation projects in developing countries.  (By the way, it isn’t only third-world countries that benefit from Israel’s experience.  Even as we speak, Israeli water experts are helping the states of Arizona, California, Nevada and Colorado deal with one of the worst droughts in recorded history).

Fifteen years ago, Mashav sent a dairy farmer named Lior Yaron to China.  His job? To bring modern technology to China’s failing dairy farms. Israeli dairy cows, as it turns out, are the most productive in the world, yielding almost twice as much milk as their American counterparts.  China, on the other hand, has had  to ration the milk that its cows produced.  That is, until Farmer Lior arrived.  Within four years, cows in China doubled their production of milk; they have become the wonder of China and actually attract a huge number of visitors from all over Asia.

Poverty and hunger are among the greatest challenges that the developing world is facing today.  All over the world, global warming has caused famines and disease.  Guess who is leading the world in the field of food production in drought conditions?  You guessed it:  Israel, fulfilling the mitzvah of feeding the hungry.

In Africa, for decades now Israel has been teaching and enabling farmers to turn from subsistence to commercial farming. In Kenya, Israel is helping to protect the water of Lake Victoria and is currently expanding its work to water treatment and management.  In Ethiopia, the focus is on drought resilience and dryland agriculture.  And in Ghana, Israel’s help is in the field of citrus production.

Another huge problem that Israel tackles is domestic violence, particularly violence against women.  How big is this problem?  It’s estimated that in the US alone, domestic violence is the third leading cause of family homelessness.  

In some cultures, the murder of women who are perceived as bringing shame to their families is considered acceptable and even honorable. Their crimes? Refusing to enter an arranged marriage, seeking divorce from an abusive partner, or venturing out on the street unchaperoned by a male relative.

Here is where Mashav, Israel’s agency for international development and cooperation, does some of its most important work.  A couple of bus stops from where my parents’ old apartment was, in Haifa, Mashav runs an international education center named after Golda Meir.  This center assists in the training of women engaged in community work, a beautiful phrase that basically means women’s rights and empowerment.  Since its founding in 1961, the Golda Meir Mount Carmel International Training Center has helped train nearly 20,000 women from 150 countries and regions, including—are you ready for this? —the Palestinian Authority and Gaza.

Healing the sick is yet another commandment Israel observes diligently.  You may know already about Teva Pharmaceuticals, about CT scanners, MRI’s, surgical lasers and the pillcam, all developed in Israel.  But did you know that Israel is one of the world’s leaders in stem-cell research?  Or that Israeli scientists are currently working on treatments for MS, Alzheimer’s, and pancreatic cancer? Did you know that there are about one thousand companies in Israel that are involved in healthcare or life-science products?   

In the field of cannabis research, whereas the use of recreational marijuana has not yet been legalized, Israel has definitely become the go-to place for research and advanced information on medical marijuana. Not long ago, US News And World Report referred to Israel as “The Holy Land of medical marijuana.” 

It’s well known that in the last few decades, hi-tech has become one of Israel’s chief exports.  What isn’t so well known is that a large part of this work is actually dispensed for free—in the form of aid that Israel sends to victims of earthquakes, wars, floods, fires, and other natural disasters around the world.  Some of the countries that have benefited from Israel’s aid include Nepal, Japan, the Philippines, Haiti, Turkey, and even the United States.

Helping the weak, the poor and the disenfranchised; feeding the hungry, and healing the sick are some of the values that help define Israel’s existence and purpose today. And the most amazing thing is that Israel does all that while facing constant challenges to her security and even to her very right to exist. Yet this important humanitarian work rarely makes the evening news. It’s so much more interesting, after all, to show full-color pictures of atrocities supposedly committed by the Jewish State.  

Still, Israel’s sacred service to the world does not go completely unrecognized.  The work of Lior Yarn, the dairy farmer, won him the “Great Wall Friendship Award,” a prestigious prize conferred by the mayor of Beijing.  Perhaps more significantly, in 2014 Israel was appointed to serve as vice-chair on an important UN panel dealing with refugees and human rights.  More than 140 countries overrode a coordinated effort by Arab states to prevent this appointment.  The selection of Israel to serve on this committee demonstrates both gratitude and acknowledgment of the Jewish state’s many contributions to humanity and the world.

In the past, it was customary on Yom Kippur to ask for contributions for impoverished Jews living in Israel and elsewhere around the world.  

In my parents’ generation, it was the Israel Bonds campaign.  The 1948 War of Independence had taken a terrible toll on Israel’s population and economy.  On top of this came the complexities of absorbing hundreds of thousands of Holocaust survivors and 750,000 refugees from Arab countries. Israel needed these generous contributions in order to survive.

Today, however, I’m not going to ask you to buy Israel Bonds or that you invest in Israeli stocks.

But I am going to ask that you invest something else in our Jewish homeland. More than ever, Israel needs your support:  At home or at work; on college and high school campuses; in the daily papers and on all the social media; and not least, in Congress, the Senate and the State Department, we need to support Israel. Particularly today, with a nuclearized Iran threatening daily to destroy Israel, pouring greater sums of money and more powerful arms to its proxy militias in Lebanon, Gaza and Syria, Israel needs our support. Not because Israel is pure and blameless; it does have its faults, and it does makes mistakes, and we don’t even have to agree with all of its policies. 

But Israel deserves our support for three basic reasons:  First, because Israel is probably America’s best and most trusted ally, if not in the whole world, then certainly in its region of the world.  Second, because we, as Americans and as Jews, share Israel’s values and, like most Israelis, try to live by the highest standards of ethics and principles. And third, we must support Israel because criticism of Israel does not stop with Israel. Anti-Israel protests in Europe and elsewhere—including the United States—are clearly financed and supported by  anti-Semitic organizations, with demonstrators of various parties, from right to left, screaming out, “Death to the Jews,” “Gas the Jews,” “Jews Back to Birkenau” and “Hitler was right.”

By defending Israel’s right to defend herself, we stand up not only for Israel’s right to exist, but also for our own right to live free of violence and persecution.  By supporting Israel’s vital work around the world, we become partners with its cause and mission. And by being there for Israel, we ensure that Israel continues to be there for us too, as Jews and as Americans.

Thousands of years ago, when we stood at the foot of Mt. Sinai, we affirmed our unity.  From rich to poor; men, women and children, we declared ourselves one people under one God, ready to accept our mission and role in history.  Today, I call on each one of us to reaffirm our solidarity with our people, to be there for one another, to find within ourselves new strength and new hope for the future, as we stand firm together, arms linked, shoulder to shoulder and heart to heart.

Am Yisrael chai!  United, the People of Israel lives!

G’mar chatimah tova, may we all be inscribed and sealed for a good year of strength and peace.    

Kein y’hi ratzon, may this be God’s will.

© 2019 by Boaz D. Heilman