The Many Names of God: Shemot.24

 The Many Names of God

D'var Torah for Parashat Shemot

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

January 5, 2024

In Memory of Ruth Heilman and Elaine D. Finestone

In her famous poem, “Each of Us Has a Name,” the Hebrew poet known simply by her first name, Zelda, lists the many names which we acquire through our lifetime, starting with those given us by God, by our parents, by the work we do and the manner in which we live, and finally the name given to us by our death.

Our name identifies us. It labels and characterizes us. It reminds us of our past and our heritage. It describes our hopes and ambitions, our values and ideals.

It isn’t a coincidence that the second book of the Torah, which in English we know as Exodus, in Hebrew is called Shemot—names. It begins by listing the names of the children of Israel, who by this point in our history are more than individuals, but rather large tribes. “Israel”—the name given by God to our ancestor Jacob—now stands for the entire people that we, Jacob’s descendants, have become. But our evolution isn’t only in size and numbers. Four hundred years after first arriving in Egypt, each tribe has now assumed a role among the people, fulfilling the blessings given by Jacob on his deathbed, at the end of the first book of the Torah, Genesis. Judah has assumed leadership; Levi has become the storyteller, the teacher of Tradition and Religion; and Joseph is the bearer of hope and redemption. Every tribe, each household, has its role and place in society.

Not everyone in this book, however, is named. Pharaoh is never identified other than by his title. There is a Hebrew curse that is used after mentioning particular enemies of the Jewish People: Yimach Sh’mo—may his name be forgotten. In the book of Exodus, this curse comes true. The name of the evil tyrant of Egypt remains unknown. But this doesn’t explain why Pharaoh’s daughter’s name is not revealed either, despite the vital role she plays in the story of the Exodus. Batya, “Daughter of God”—is the name given her by the early rabbis—or possibly earlier, around the 4th century BCE.

Pharaoh’s Daughter does get to give Moses his Hebrew name, however—Moshe, drawn from the water—which is surprising considering that she probably didn’t know any Hebrew. More likely, Moses’s name is derived from ancient Egyptian, where Mose (or Moseh) served as either a complete name in itself, or at least a part of it, as in Rameses or Thutmose.

Names will continue to appear throughout the book of Exodus, and more and more they will begin to represent the values held high by the Jewish People: Tsuriel: God is my rock; Nachshon—devoted and faithful; Aminadav, a charitable people. 

Yet one name above all remains inscrutable: God’s. In the wonderful scene in which God commands Moses to return to Egypt and undertake the mission of freeing the Hebrew slaves, Moses asks to know God’s name. God answers: “Ehyeh asher ehyeh,” variously translated as “I am that which I am,” “I will be what I will be,” or even “I am the One who always will be there for you.” Based on this mysterious phrase, some Biblical scholars speculate that Ehyeh is God’s personal name, not Adonai—which is the title by which we address God.

Yet God’s unclear response actually leads to an infinite number of possibilities. The Midrash offers the following teaching: “God said to Moses: ‘You want to know My name? I am called by My deeds. I might be called El Shaddai, or Tzevaot, or Elohim, or Adonai [the Tetragrammaton, YHVH]. When I judge My creatures, I am called Elohim; when I wage war on the wicked, I am called Tzevaot; when I tolerate the sins of human beings, I am called Shaddai; when I show compassion on My world I am called Adonai” (Shemot Rabbah 3). 

The speculation does not end there, however. In the Kabbalah, starting around 1100 CE the term Ein Sof (Endless) appears in describing God. A 45-letter name is derived by some Kabbalists, while yet others deduce that God actually has 72 names. There is even one source, Sefer Yetzira, the Book of Formation, that says that all God’s names are comprised of 216 sacred letters, each taking its place in endless variations and permutations.

And still one of the most common names by which we call God even today is Shechinah—God’s Presence, often representing the more compassionate, even feminine and motherly, aspect of God.

There is obviously no end to it—and perhaps that’s the whole point. God’s name is unknowable. Names define and describe us, they give us characteristics, features and qualities. Drawing lines of demarcation, they separate one individual from another. When God created Adam, the first task God set out before the first human was to name the animals. But God is different. God cannot be named. God is endless, infinite. We humans can’t know God’s totality or even one part of it; we can only describe God’s attributes and characteristics: strength, judgment, compassion, presence, and no more than that. 

The wonderful response given by God to Moses empowers each one of us to see God in our own unique way, according to our own needs and experience. Ehyeh asher ehyeh. It’s as though God says, call me what you will, I will be there for you. At times of joy or sorrow; in need or abundance; when we need strength and courage, or respite, peace and consolation—God is always there for us and with us. Call God as you wish, the breath of life spells God’s Presence in our lives.

And we, finite, limited, imperfect, human beings? Our insignificant presence is limited by the time we are allotted on this earth. But our names tell the world, both now and after we are gone, who and what we were.

In the end, the poet Zelda’s list of names can be summed up with just two that matter most: the name you are given (or choose), and the name you make for yourself. May the former reach the hopes and expectations that come with it; and may the latter express deeds and accomplishments that we can all be proud for and be remembered by.

© 2024 by Boaz D. Heilman

Impressions of Hanukkah 2023

Impressions of Hanukkah 2023

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

December 15, 2023

Hanukkah is always a joyous holiday. The candles on the chanukiya—the Hanukkah menorah or candelabra—glow and bring a small—but bright—measure of light to our long and dark evenings. Sumptuous foods (of course), the company of friends and family—what more could one ask for?

This year it’s different.

This year it’s colder, darker and drearier than in previous years. 

I never thought it would be like this. I always thought of Hanukkah as a relatively minor holiday meant mostly for children, created long ago but enhanced for our own multicultural and materialistic time. However, this time around I came to understand the deeper essence of Hanukkah and the real miracle that the candles help us remember. 

This year the joy and light are dimmed by tears, by the enormity of evil and hate. The war between Israel and the terrorist organization Hamas isn’t over yet and shows no sign of ending any time soon. The Israeli news sources I follow are filled with sad stories: So many soldiers have fallen, so many wounded; so many sacrifices, and so much pain and longing. And how many will yet carry physical and emotional scars for the rest of their lives? I hear the stories of humiliation and hunger told by released hostages, and stories about those who will never be released. Over 100 are still held in captivity, not allowed visits by so-called humanitarian organizations that choose to criticize “the context” of their captivity instead of tending to their medical and other needs.

I also read and hear about the surge of antisemitism in the US, and I am grieved to know that this oldest, most vile, most dangerous and murderous hatred, is still with us.

And yet, as I look at the candles on my chanukiya I am filled with hope. Hanukkah this year has been more than special. It’s been extraordinary, and deeply moving and meaningful. Here are my impressions of Hanukkah 2023:

First candle: On the first evening of the holiday, we celebrated Hanukkah at my wife’s temple. Our grandson, Zev, now two years old, was a bit uncertain at first, but when he did warm up, he took to the bimah (the stage) and yelled into the microphone, “Happy Hanukkah” with so much joy that the old prophecy of Isaiah, “And a child shall lead them,” immediately came to mind and heart.

Second candle: Last Friday evening our own congregation held its annual Hanukkah celebration, and what a joyful event that was! Our sanctuary was filled to capacity with old members, new members, seniors, children, and many guests from the larger community! And as we lit our chanukiyot, the glow from all those candles was enough to fill all our hearts! The joy was enhanced by the wonderful companionship, the singing, and of course the delicious food.

Third candle: Saturday morning we had a guest speaker at the temple: the District Attorney from our region of the Denver Metro area. In a calm and quiet voice, our guest was able to reassure us of his personal and official support, as well as that of the local police force, easing some of the anxiety we’ve been feeling these last few weeks. We felt strengthened by his presentation.

Sunday, fourth candle: Our Religious School celebrated Hanukkah, and what a celebration THAT was! More latkes, more sufganiyot (jelly-filled donuts), spirited dreidel spinning, songs and decorations! The joy was evident on the faces of all the children and all others who were there, adding yet more gladness to our holiday and hearts.

Monday evening, fifth candle: an exceptional event organized by the US Attorney for Colorado and the ADL, with the participation of the Attorney General, several police chiefs and representatives of other law enforcement agencies, as well as members of quite a few communities of faiths, all coming together to discuss safety and security at houses of worship.

Years ago, in a book whose title and author escape my memory at the moment (perhaps someone reading this will remind me), I came upon a line that has stayed with me this whole time: That during the years of the Shoah, the Holocaust, under the Nazis and their associates, the Jews found ourselves “outside the protection of the law.” These safety and security events told me that things today—as sobering as they are—are nowhere near that state. How fortunate. The divisions in our society and culture today are deep and wide, but the Jewish community is not facing them alone. We have the support, the care and friendship of many in our wider communities.

Let the light increase.

Sixth candle: the new electric menorah I had ordered arrived just in time to be placed in the window, its light brighter than ever.

Seventh candle: Yet more latkes, and no noticeable weight gain. Small miracles are as appreciated as great ones. The wonder in Zevi’s eyes only increases, and now he is allowed—with his parents’ guidance—to light the candles in his own chanukiya. Unfortunately, he is also getting obsessed with presents, but hopefully he will learn that Hanukkah isn’t only about gifts—that it’s as much about giving as receiving.

Eighth candle: As Zev and I were sitting together last night, watching a Hanukkah video, he suddenly turned to me, his eyes as big and full as saucers, and said with all the love and intensity contained within his heart, “Happy Hanukkah, Saba!” And at that moment I understood better than ever, that the miracle of Hanukkah isn’t only about a little can of oil that was supposed to last for only one night but instead sufficed for eight nights. It’s an ongoing miracle, ancient and new at once, a miracle of small lights that have the power to chase away darkness.

No one knows what the future may bring. We know that the challenges ahead will be difficult and numerous. Without a doubt, there is still so much darkness around us. Even when the current fighting ends—and please God, may that be soon! —there will be grief and mourning. There will be a flood of rage directed at leaders who promised—but failed—to protect us, and against those false friends who abandoned us at our time of need and distress. And then, once these emotions are spent, the time will come for healing, for rebuilding homes and families, and for restoring a nation—united once again, rededicated to our common goals and ideals.

For that, after all, is the literal meaning of the word hanukkah—rededication.

The eight days of the Hanukkah are over now, but tonight I feel so much more confident than I did a week ago. And that’s what I took from this year’s holiday. More than ever, I understood the secret behind the miracle, the message encased in the treasured story we tell and retell. 

Just as the Maccabees did more than 2200 years ago, so too today, we, their descendants, have to rely on military power to overcome our enemies. But there is something else, a force greater than any other, that keeps us steady on our path, going forward from generation to generation. We read it in this week’s haftarah, in the book of Zechariah: “This is the word of God…: Not by might, nor by power, but by My spirit, said God of Hosts” (Zechariah 4:6). It’s the spirit of love; it’s the might of eight little candles to dispel hatred and banish darkness. 

It’s to this mission that we rededicate ourselves this year more than ever. May this be God’s will. Amen. 

© 2023 by Boaz D. Heilman

Giving Thanks at Times of Darkness: Thanksgiving.23

Giving Thanks at Times of Darkness

Sermon by Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

November 24, 2023

So how are you?

Don’t answer—I know. We are tired. We are exhausted—and rightfully so. For the past seven weeks we’ve been on an emotional rollercoaster, swaying from disbelief to horror, from grief to rage, from despair to hope—and right back again. We haven’t had a decent night’s sleep all this time, hoping to rise in the morning if not exactly refreshed then at least strong enough to carry on with the day’s challenges and obligations.

We’re exhausted not only because of our attempts to follow—and understand—the news from Israel, but also because of the strange and fearful wake the war leaves in our own lives. The uncertainty, the fear for loved ones and friends, the horrors we’ve been trying to push out of our minds, the unimaginable rise we’re witnessing in anti-Semitic rhetoric and violence in our own backyards.

The humorous saying we often use to summarize Jewish history, “They tried to kill us; we survived; let’s eat!” isn’t so funny this year. 

And yet, here we are, American Jews, celebrating possibly the most American holiday of all (except of course, the Fourth of July and maybe Presidents’ Day), a holiday that truly represents what America is, or hopes to be: a nation of immigrants from all corners of the world, all trying to integrate while keeping some old-world traditions alive, struggling to create a new life, a new nation, with hopes for peace, security, and acceptance. Not so easy or simple when the differences between us outweigh the common goals: Skin color, language, nation of origin, religion and other barriers that often seem insurmountable.

Still, despite the violence that sometimes erupts along these lines of demarcation, we’ve managed to stay more or less unified. Until now, it seems.

Suddenly, a clear and wide divide has erupted between us. With hardly a heads up (at least for some of us; for others, the signs have been clear for a long time), what seems like a deafening silence has caused us to reevaluate who our friends are. We are confused. We find ourselves strange bedfellows with news outlets we normally scorn; with politicians and religious leaders we prefer to keep an arm’s distance from. We wonder how quickly political allies we once thought of as our partners have turned against us. Because it isn’t only Israel that is being widely criticized and attacked; the lines between anti-Zionism and anti-Semitism have become so faded as to become invisible. The two hatreds have become one, a throwback to times we thought we had left behind in “the old country.”

Worst of all, we have become fearful. Fearful to look too Jewish or exhibit outward signs of our Judaism or support of Israel. Fearful for ourselves, for our children in school, on college campuses, at the workplace, and on the street.

So what can we be thankful for this Thanksgiving?

For our food, for family love, warmth and companionship, of course. But there is yet more, so much more.

As Jews, we can be thankful for our unity as a people. We may at times quarrel and argue, but we are one family. Reaching out to—and for—one another has always been our strength. When so much of the world turns against us, we turn to one another. When no one else seems to care, we care more than ever.

We can be thankful for President Biden, whose unwavering support for Israel, both militarily and diplomatically, will probably cost him some votes, but whose bold and forthright standing as a friend of our people and homeland will enshrine him in our hearts forever.

We can be thankful for the larger community around us. In the past few weeks Congregation B’nai Torah has received numerous letters, emails and phone calls from total strangers, offering encouragement, support, and friendship. We’ve been invited to co-sponsor and participate in interfaith security events. Though not many clergy of other faiths have contacted us, we did hear from the CEO of the Interfaith Alliance of Colorado, who will also be present at our Hanukkah celebration in a couple of weeks. We’ve heard from friends, members of Westminster City Hall, as well as from the United States Attorney’s Office in Denver and the District Attorney of Broomfield and Westminster Counties, offering their support. I am thankful for all these expressions of caring and friendship.

A few days ago I attended a presentation by the ADL and the US Secret Service, at which the two agencies shared their strategies for protection of communities and houses of faith. I was frankly amazed at the scope of the plans as well as at the close working partnership they displayed. And I am grateful for that.

Last week’s pro-Israel rally in Washington DC showed me several things: First, the number of Israel supporters—nearly 300,000! —who came out to demonstrate, sing, wave Israeli flags and show the world that—in the Hebrew words, Am Yisrael Chai—the People of Israel is yet alive and strong. A strong showing by representatives from the entire spectrum of political, social and religious groups, spoke to the ideal stated by the U.S. Envoy to Monitor and Combat Antisemitism, Deborah Lipstadt, that “Hate and violence directed at any member of our society because of who they are is un-American and wrong.” 

And I was gratified to see how many young Jewish men and women were there. At a time when many Jewish American youth are ambivalent about their Jewish identity as well as their relationship to Israel, the presence of these young people demonstrated for me that theirs is NOT a lost generation. That our future is in strong hands—with God’s help. And I am grateful for this wide and diverse show of support.

Lastly at this point, and just as important as anything I’ve already said, I am gratified to have watched today—through many tears—the miracle of the release of 13 of the Israeli hostages and 11 foreign workers who taken by the Hamas terrorists 49 days ago—though I am still afraid (and yet hopeful) for the fate of the almost 200 others who are still in the clutches of those barbarian cannibals whose whole purpose in life is to kill, ravage and mutilate. I am grateful to all who negotiated this small step from despair to hope, from darkness to light; and above all, we all owe a huge debt of thanks that can never be repaid, to the scores of Israeli soldiers who sacrificed their lives so that this miracle could take place.

Israel is indeed a place where miracles happen every day—though often at no small cost to our people.

I am thankful and feel ever-so-blessed to be member of this ancient and resilient people that has somehow managed to rise from the ashes time and again; that has contributed so much to humanity and civilization and, against all odds, manages to remain a light unto the nations. I am gratified that, after nearly 2000 years, today we have an army—the most heroic, the most moral army in the world—to defend us and our inalienable human rights of existence and self-determination in our own ancient and rebuilt homeland.

This Thanksgiving, we truly have much to be thankful for. But one thing is clear: The work is far from over. During the next few months and possibly years, we will have to somehow bridge the cavernous chasms that have opened up in our own society and nation. We will have to rebuild relationships and restore trust. Above all, we must not let divisiveness tear us apart, nor let hate and fear hide the ideals for which the United States stands. Our strength is always in our unity.

In the next few weeks we will all be celebrating holy days that speak of light and peace. May the darkness of the season be dispelled by glowing lights of joy and thanksgiving. May all our hopes and prayers come true. 

Adonai ‘oz l’amo yitein; Adonai y’varech et amo bashalom: May God bless us with strength; may God bless us, one and all, with peace.

Amen.

© 2023 by Boaz D. Heilman

Redefining Evil: Hamas’s War Against Civilization

 Redefining Evil: Hamas’s War Against Civilization

Sermon by Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

October 20, 2023

In this week’s Torah portion, Noach (Genesis 6:9—11:32), we read that the reason God decides to flood the earth and destroy all life was that the world was filled with violence. “Violence:” that’s the most frequent English translation of the Hebrew word hamas. The Amplified Bible, however, which incorporates explanations and interpretations into its translation, defines hamas as “desecration, infringement, outrage, assault, and lust for power.”

How ironic that in the last two weeks, the term has reentered our spoken lexicon. 

Now of course, hamas in the Bible and Hamas, the terrorist organization, are not one and the same. The words may sound the same, but that’s a mere coincidence.

Still, in this case, the shoe fits. In both situations, it represents evil—evil enough to break the heart, evil enough to cause destruction death and destruction.

In the past, I defined evil in context of the Biblical history of Amalek and its war against the Israelites. The Amalekites were a tribe that roamed in the Sinai Wilderness and the southern regions of the Negev, subsisting to a large extent on robbing and looting. Deuteronomy 25:17-18 describes the first encounter between Israel and Amalek. Having just left Egypt, the Israelites were weary, disorganized and not yet trained in war or self-defense. Seizing the opportunity, the wily Amalekites attacked by stealth, by night, targeting the rear of the camp. 

Attacking the weak, despondent and helpless is indeed evil—the very opposite of what we consider a sacred mitzvah. But this definition is not complete. The horrendous attack on Israel two weeks ago mandates that we redefine the term.

Orchestrated by the malicious axis of Iran, Russia and the terrorist organization Hamas, the surprise attack which took place on October 7, a Sabbath and a Sacred Day in our calendar, has so far taken the lives of over 1400 civilians—men, women, children, infants and the aged. I won’t go into detail on how they were killed. Additionally, more than 200 were taken hostage, and the estimate is that, tragically, at least half of them are no longer alive. 

But committing these atrocities wasn’t the only goal of Hamas.

When the IDF—the Israel Defense Force—fights, its main purpose is to protect Israel and its civilian population. Hamas on the other hand uses its own people as human shields. To make matters even that much worse however, is the reality that Hamas doesn’t use the Gazan population merely as human shields, but rather also as human bait. 

Hamas knew very well what would happen as a result of its vicious attack. There could be no other possible outcome but a full reckoning. As in past conflicts, Hamas expected—and even hoped—that thousands of its own population would be killed and wounded. Relying on world sympathy, Hamas has been using this tactic ruthlessly and cynically for years now. Turning the definition of oppressed on its head, the goal of Arab leaders has always been to keep their own people captive in fear, poverty and misery, and turn Israel into the victimizer. Untold millions of dollars have poured into Gaza since Hamas violently took control of it in 2007. Not surprisingly, very little of that money ever reached the Gazan population. Most of it went either to finance the luxurious lifestyle of Hamas leaders, or to purchase weapons and dig attack tunnels that reach deep into Israel proper. 

The stated goal of Hamas is to “liberate” Israel and give its land back to the poor displaced Arabs. But that, like everything else Hamas purports to be and do, is subterfuge and a lie. Their real goal is to spread the rule of radical Islam (and along the way, make its leaders powerful multi-billionaires). Make no mistake about it: Hamas is ISIS, a mutated deadly virus that will do anything—and stop at nothing—in order to reach its goal of world domination.

Last Tuesday, an explosion at a Gaza hospital reportedly left hundreds of civilians injured and dead. The world and international news organizations pounced on the opportunity to accuse Israel of this atrocity, without stopping for a moment to check the facts on the ground. Now it turns out that the explosion was caused by an errant missile fired by Hamas from a cemetery adjoining the hospital. By the way, this wasn’t the only example of this tactic. Hamas commonly uses high-rise apartment buildings, schools, kindergartens and mosques to launch missiles against Israel, hoping for the inescapable result, retaliation that would cause loss of life to its own population and the inevitable condemnation of Israel. And, of course, even more blood money to pour in, in the guise of humanitarian aid. The bombing of the Gaza hospital was the moment Hamas was waiting and hoping for. Mongering fear and horror while appealing for sympathy is how Hamas aims to spread its reign of terror. First Israel, then the rest of the world. 

Hamas does not represent the majority of Palestinians. Frankly, it couldn’t care less about them. Nor does it represent the Gazan population that they control through oppression and tyranny. In addition to murdering, kidnapping and raping Jews, Hamas is willing to kill its own people and sacrifice Gazan children for its own vile purposes. And that is what makes Hamas so evil, and that’s why Hamas has to be eradicated. 

Evil can no longer be defined only as hurting the weak and defenseless. This definition must be expanded to include the cynical use of men, women and children, infants and the aged as human shields and human bait. 

It turns out that the explanation offered by the Amplified Bible is pretty accurate: “desecration, infringement, outrage, assault, and lust for power” describe both the Biblical word hamas and the goals and methods of the terror organization that today is the very personification of that evil. 

How sad that, thousands of years after the Israelites first encountered the vicious tribe called Amalek, the Torah’s warning still remains valid today: “Remember what Amalek did to you on the way as you were coming out of Egypt, how he met you on the way and attacked your rear ranks, all the stragglers at your rear, when you were tired and weary; and he did not fear God” (Deut. 25:17-18 NKJV).

Tonight we pray for the wounded civilians and soldiers, as well as the hostages held by Hamas in Gaza. We pray for the souls of the innocent men, women and children—entire families—who were so brutally murdered two weeks ago, on the Sabbath, on a day set aside for holiness and rejoicing. We pray for the return of peace to the region, so that evil and suffering may be eradicated from the earth. 

Adonai ‘oz l’amo yitein, Adonai y’varech ‘et ‘amo bashalom—May God grant us strength, may God bless us with peace. Amen.

© 2023 by Boaz D. Heilman

Eradicating Evil: Israel's War Against Hamas

 Eradicating Evil

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

October 14, 2023

I’d like first of all to thank all of you who are here today. This gathering isn’t meant to be a political rally. We’re not here to discuss political issues—we are here to show unity and solidarity in the face of evil.

Let us not be mistaken: what happened a week ago today in Israel was not part of a regional conflict. It wasn’t tit for tat, one in a series of attacks and counterattacks. This was not merely an act of war. It was the essence of evil itself.

The atrocities we witnessed, the savage murder of over 1200 innocent men, women, children, infants and the aged, are unspeakable. They belong in horror movies or history books—the acts of barbarians and hordes that come riding across continents, slaughtering any and all who stand in their way.

The Jewish People, tragically, are not unfamiliar with terror and massacres. We first encountered it three thousand years ago, having just come out of Egypt, unprepared for war or conflict, when we were assailed by the Amalekites, a vicious and bloodthirsty desert tribe that attacked us at night, by stealth—and most treacherously, that targeted the rear of the camp, where the weary, dispirited, and sick were lagging behind.

At that time, God and Moses declared an eternal war against the Amalekites and the evil that they represented.

The Amalekites are long gone, but not so the evil. We saw it again and again, perpetrated by nations and nationalist fanatics who took the sword against us, forcing us to convert or be killed. 

The horror that was perpetrated last Shabbat was the most recent in this long line of attacks. But let us be clear: This massacre was not intended against Israel alone. It was far and beyond part of the “cycle of violence,” part of the regional conflict between Israel and the Palestinians. Taking place on the Sabbath—and, most significantly, on Simchat Torah, the day set apart thousands of years ago to celebrate our Covenant with God—this was an attack against all Jews, an attack against Judaism itself.

And in truth, it was even broader than that. The massacre was meant to send a signal to the entire world: “We,” said Hamas, “are coming after all of you. Jews, Christians, and anyone else who may not be a follower of Allah,” their god. 

Who and what is Hamas? 

Hamas is the blood sister of ISIS, whose stated purpose is to establish a Muslim califate over the entire Middle East—and then spread to the rest of the world.

Hamas claims to represent the Palestinians. That is a lie. They couldn’t care less about the Palestinians. They claim to be the liberators of conquered lands—and that’s a lie too. Their true intention is to subject all lands to Sharia Law. The Jews in Israel represent only the first target on their target list of those destined for annihilation and destruction.

Hamas has always stated their intention: Their national covenant calls for the elimination of Jewish presence in Israel. For 1500 years, their version of Islam has shown its true bloody, murderous purpose in Iran and Iraq, in Yemen, Turkey, Egypt and Syria, among many other lands. 

There are those in this country and elsewhere who see last week’s massacre as the result of oppression and occupation. Those pseudo-liberals who live in ivory towers, in academia, in bastions of liberal politics, who claim to stand for freedom for the oppressed—have had their minds stolen by religious fanatics who are only too happy to teach them that pent up rage results in righteous self-defense.

But righteousness doesn’t—by any stretch of the imagination and definition—include acts of barbaric violence such as were committed last week. 

Righteousness, by any standards, does not include the indiscriminate murder of men, women and children. It does not include the desecration and mutilation of bodies. It does not include rape, beheadings and burning of babies, slitting of throats of defenseless youth, the mass shootings and setting on fire of entire families and communities. Such acts are nothing less than evil. They represent the choice some people make, to do the very worst that human beings are capable of. By the definition set by Moses and God thousands of years ago, these acts are evil.

Today is Shabbat, and we are taught not to mourn on Shabbat, but this is no ordinary Sabbath. This is a Sabbath of mourning and commemoration. It is a Sabbath of unity, reflection, and prayer: Prayers for the souls of those who were murdered in cold blood; prayers that we may forget the images we have seen, not hear again the screams of terror and agony; prayers for unity; prayers for the moral courage and strength to eliminate and eradicate evil and all evildoers.

There will yet be a time for political reckoning in Israel. The country’s leaders let Israel down. They failed us; they failed in their mission, stated over and over; they failed to demonstrate the proof of the oath we repeat: Never Again. And they will pay the price for this failure.

But this isn’t the time for that. For now, we must face the evil that was unleashed upon us. It has affected each and every one of us, regardless of nationality, religion, or political affiliation as inhumanity and evil inevitably do. 

Over the past few days, I’ve struggled both with words and with prayers. How could God let this happen again—especially on the day celebrating our Covenant with God?

The only prayer that comes to my mind at this moment is Adonai oz l’amo yiten, Adonai yevarech et ‘amo bashalom: “God give us strength, God bless us with peace.” We need to be strong. Only then will peace follow. It will take what it will take, and undoubtedly Israel will be condemned for disproportionate reaction, war crimes and crimes against humanity. Because this is the nature of anti-Semitism and hypocrisy. The world at large shows the Jews pity when we are slaughtered, but none when we hit back. That luxury—a right given to every other nation and people and nation in the world, is not one allowed the Jews.

Tragically, however, it is exactly this kind of force and strength that Israel must now show, no matter how prolific be the crocodile tears shed by pop artists, hypocritical and ignorant academics, pseudo-liberal students and hardcore anti-Semites who crawl from the swamp or occupy gilded seats of power.

Am Yisrael Chai—the People of Israel lives. Our history offers unassailable proof that no matter how many times we are attacked, exiled, humiliated and murdered, burnt alive or drowned in the deep seas, we rise up again and again. We shall rise again after this demonstration of evil and hatred too, but first we must teach the perpetrators a lesson they will never forget. It’s our moral duty and responsibility.

And so help us God. 

© 2023 by Boaz D. Heilman

A Fifty-Year Anniversary: Yom Kippur Sermon 2023

 A Fifty-Year Anniversary

Sermon for Yom Kippur 2024

September 24, 2023

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

I recently attended a screening of the movie Golda. The movie deserves much of the praise it’s been receiving, but it still left me feeling that something—perhaps even a lot—was missing.

Timed to coincide with the 50th anniversary of the Yom Kippur War, the movie centers on Golda Meir’s role in the preparation for, and conduct of, the war. However, despite the brilliant acting by Helen Mirren and the powerful visual and sound effects, the movie’s narrow perspective is ultimately also its biggest flaw. As a war movie, Golda fails to portray either the war or its impact on Israelis—which lasts to this day. And as a biopic of the fourth prime minister of the State of Israel, this limited view of one of the most beloved and influential politicians of the 20th century fails to tell us much about Golda’s life, her strong beliefs and ideals as a Zionist—so strong that she left her husband so she could live and work in Israel—or about the political struggles she engaged in—and won, until the very end of her life and career.

Even though 50 years have passed, a whole generation of Israelis remembers the day and even the moment that the war broke out. It was—as its name implies—on Yom Kippur, which in 1973 fell on Oct. 6. At 2 o’clock in the afternoon, on the holiest day of the Jewish year, the sirens’ wail took us all by surprise. Because it was a holy day, the only news you could hear was not from Israel’s own broadcasting authority, but from the BBC. That’s how we—the majority of Israel’s civilian population—learned of what was happening.

Some people, however, were not so surprised. On September 25, almost two weeks earlier, King Hussein of Jordan flew to Tel Aviv to personally warn Golda that the Syrians were planning an attack. His warning was not heeded. Golda preferred to leave the unfolding of events in the hand of the military establishment, particularly those responsible for intelligence gathering and analysis. Then, on October 4, only two days prior to the war’s outbreak, Golda received reliable information that Egypt and Syria were planning a joint surprise attack, to take place on Yom Kippur.  The timing however, was a bit off. It was expected to happen three-to-four hours later, towards evening time. 

Meanwhile, even as intelligence showed massive Arab tank, artillery and infantry buildup along both Syria’s and Egypt’s borders with Israel, Israel was warned by President Nixon and Secretary of State Henry Kissinger not to fire the first shot. Golda agreed, and Defense Minister Moshe Dayan issued orders that reservists not be called up. Despite this, on October 5, Israel’s Chief of Staff, David Elazar, popularly known as "Dado," called up a limited number of reservists—no more than a few thousand.

On the day the war broke out, a total of 500 Israeli soldiers and a handful of tanks were positioned along the entire Suez Canal. Israel’s Air Force—which had basically won for Israel the 1967, Six Day War—was grounded. Only starting on the morning of the holy day itself could you see thousands of young men, many wearing a tallit over their military uniforms, gathering at bus and train stations and at major intersections, waiting for transportation to their bases.

It was a tragic mistake that cost Israel almost 3000 lives, with almost 8000 wounded, many of whom still bear emotional and physical scars to this day.

The war started out badly from the beginning. At the end of the first day of fighting, Moshe Dayan appeared on Israeli television. Despite looking haggard—he would be suffering an emotional and psychological breakdown hours later—Dayan insisted that the war was going as expected—that Israel was taken by surprise but was winning. He was lying.

Shortly after, Golda took matters into her own hands. Sidestepping Dayan, she handed control of the war effort to the IDF Chief of Staff, David Elazar (“Dado”). A few days later, against objections from senior advisors, Golda OK’d General Ariel Sharon’s plans to cross the Suez Canal in a bold and dangerous counteroffensive. Despite heavy casualties, Sharon’s success forced Egypt’s ruler, Anwar Sadat, to agree to a ceasefire. Egypt’s defeat—despite its initial successes—and the peace deal that followed six years later—resulted in Sadat’s assassination eight years to the day after the Yom Kippur War, on October 6, 1981, at the hands of a radical Islamist.

In Israel, immediately following the war, public outcry over what became known as Ha-mechdal, “the failure,” forced the appointment of an inquiry commission to determine what went wrong. The Agranat Commission, named after its chairman, Chief Justice of the Supreme Court of Israel, Dr. Shimon Agranat—concluded that the majority of the blame fell on the Chief of Staff, Dado. It cleared both Moshe Dayan and Golda of any wrongdoing.

Following this decision, Dado resigned. He died of a heart attack three years later.

Moshe Dayan continued serving for two more years as Minister of Defense, and later became one of the architects of the peace agreement between Israel and Egypt.

Golda, though cleared of any blame, was the only person who took personal responsibility for the war and resigned six months later.

The discussion over who was at fault, however, still continues to this day, with most of the blame now placed on the Intelligence Branch of the IDF (Israel Defense Force) for failing to assess correctly the probability of the outbreak of war, despite reliable information it received in the weeks and days prior to October 6. 

Still, questions remain. To what extent was Israel’s political leadership at fault? Was there collusion with the United States? Henry Kissinger, who along with then-President Richard Nixon had warned Israel not to fire the first shot, is known to have shared his opinion that he “dreaded an all-out Israeli victory that resulted in a decisive Arab surrender.” His intent was to teach Israel a lesson in realpolitik, to remind the Jewish state that it could not survive without relying on United States help. Even after Israel’s devastating losses during the first few days of the war, Kissinger was reluctant to replenish Israel with military equipment, finally agreeing only after he was convinced by Golda Meir that Israel would be forced to resort to the nuclear option. 

Politics, as we know, is not based on romantic idealism, but rather on political expediency, arrogance and greed.

The Yom Kippur War transformed forever Israel’s psychological and political landscape. Israel has taken to heart many lessons from the trauma it suffered 50 years ago. One of these lessons is to never again allow itself to be pressured into relinquishing one of the most important purposes for which it exists: Defense of its population. 

Secondly, despite the current infighting within Israel itself, Israel’s political and military leaders have learned to cooperate more fully among themselves (or so we hope). Israel will never again be caught unprepared. As one father who had lost his son in the war cried out soon after its conclusion, you don’t show up to a championship game five minutes late. You must always be prepared.

And that’s where we American Jews come into the picture today. We’ve come a long way since 1973. Jews are more influential than ever in American politics, business, and the judicial system. We’ve come to that position rightfully, both through activism and idealism. Now we must take to heart two lessons from the Yom Kippur War. First—that Kissinger was right. Israel needs the support of the United States.

Secondly, in light of the alarming spike in anti-Semitism—much of it taking the form of anti-Israelism—we must lend our full validation and assistance to Israel. We may not agree with some of her policies. We may not like some of her leaders. But one thing is certain: Neither Israel nor American Jews can afford another Yom Kippur War. We must use our influence to ensure that the US does not abandon its most reliable friend and ally in the world. We must continue to fight the surge of racist and anti-Semitic hatred and violence emanating from both right-wing and left-wing extremists. If nothing else, the Yom Kippur War is proof that violence against Israel is not disconnected from attacks against Jews and Judaism itself. Agencies such as the ADL and StandWithUs are always there, ready and able to help defend our right to live and express ourselves as Jews. We must continue to rely on these organizations and to support them in an existential war that has claimed millions of Jewish lives in the last century alone.

Yom Kippur has always served as both an individual and collective Day of Atonement. Along with other renewed pledges, on this sacred day we must also rekindle our commitment to the Jewish Nation and the Jewish People—in Israel and everywhere else in the world. 

Israel is, and always was, at the heart of our national and religious existence. We pray for its continued safety and security. Adonai oz l’amo yitein, Adonai y’varech et amo bashalom: May God always grant strength to our people, may God always bless us with peace.

G’mar chatimah tova—may we all be inscribed and sealed in the Book of Life for a year of healthy, joy, love and peace. Amen.

© 2024 by Boaz D. Heilman

The Gateway To Repentance: Kol Nidrei.23

 The Gateway To Repentance

Sermon for Kol Nidre Eve

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

September 24, 2023

On a day not long ago, the phone rings in the rabbi’s office. Rabbi Rabinowitz answers. “Hello?”

“Hello, is this Rabbi Rabinowitz?”

“It is.”

“This is the IRS. Can you help us?”

“I’ll try.”

“Do you know Sam Cohen?”

“I do.”

“Is he a member of your congregation?”

“He is.”

“Did he donate $10,000 to the synagogue building fund last year?”

“He will!”

Ahhh! Jewish humor! And what better topic—especially for Yom Kippur—than guilt, and Jewish guilt in particular!

Of course, by now most of you must know my views on so-called “Jewish” guilt—that there’s really no such beast. Guilt is innate in all humankind and therefore crosses all cultural, religious and other imaginary divides. “Jewish guilt” is a stereotype, an example of a prejudice that goes back thousands of years. Still, we like to laugh at things we can’t do much about, and in this context of time and place, the topic isn’t completely inappropriate…

Guilt is part of the psychology of every human being. Used—and misused—for centuries by individuals as well as institutions, guilt can serve both to unite people but also to suppress uniqueness and individuality. Used as a verb—“to guilt”—it can become a form of emotional abuse.

But guilt does also serve a legitimate purpose. It’s there as a red flag, to let us know that we have done something wrong, or else to warn us that we are getting too near the danger zone, that we are about to err in judgment or behavior. It’s meant to direct us to do the right thing—or, if possible, to fix the wrong that was already done.

While guilt has only become subject for study in the last hundred years or so, we’ve always known its burden, and have always tried to find a way of being released from it. 

Today we may seek therapy, but in the past there were other ways of being cleansed of guilt. Most religions prescribe confession and penance—sometimes even to an extreme degree. The Torah commands a series of actions: First, public acknowledgment and a sincere apology, followed by restitution (often topped with a 20% fine); and finally a sacrifice meant to symbolically rid our souls of any residual feelings of guilt. Once these steps were taken, the individual was considered pardoned and absolved, their wrongdoing erased, never to be mentioned again.

There were also times for collective penance. When facing peril and danger, a king, prophet or rabbi (and sometimes a queen, too: think Queen Esther) could call for a period of atonement, a time in which a community would fast, pray and abstain from ostentatious behavior. 

One day in the year, however, was etched in stone, forever known as THE Day of Atonement: Yom Kippur. A day of personal as well as communal repentance, the rituals of Yom Kippur consisted not only of prayer and fasting, but also of a great number of sacrifices, including the famous scapegoat on whose shoulders all our sins were symbolically placed and which was then cast out into the wilderness. One of the most stirring moments of the day came when the High Priest entered the Holy of Holies—the only day he was allowed to do that—to encounter God’s own Sacred Presence and plead for forgiveness for himself, his family, and finally his people. Upon coming out, he would proclaim the Sh’ma, pronouncing the unity of God and the uniqueness of the relationship between God and Israel. Only then was the ritual of atonement complete, and we could move on with our daily routines.

This method may have worked in ancient days, but once the Temple was destroyed, everything changed. Without the ability to offer sacrifices, our relationship with God became an existential problem, and it became the ancient Rabbis’ most important task to re-define the Covenant between God and Israel in new and meaningful ways. 

The Midrash tells the story of Rabban (“Our Rabbi”) Yohanan ben Zakkai—who almost singlehandedly founded post-Temple, rabbinic Judaism—and one of his disciples, Rabbi Yehoshua ben Hananiah. One day the two were walking by the ruins of the Holy Temple in Jerusalem. Rabbi Yehoshua started weeping and tore his garments in mourning. “Woe to us,” he called out in his grief, “for this—the place where all of Israel’s sins were forgiven—is now destroyed!” Rabbi Yohanan said to him: “My son, do not be distressed, for we have a form of atonement just like it. And what is it? Acts of kindness, as it says (Ps. 89:3), ‘For I desire kindness, not a well-being offering’” (Avot d’Rabbi Natan 4:5).

Deeds of loving kindness go a long way towards bettering the world, but guilt is hard to expunge. A whole new set of rituals had to be put in place. New prayers replaced old sacrifices—including one so moving and significant that this evening’s entire service is known by its title: Kol Nidrei.

The date when this famous prayer was composed is unknown, but it is known to have been in wide use already in the sixth century CE.

Kol Nidrei has a long history of controversy. Common belief has it that the prayer was composed during a period of especially harsh persecution, when Jews were forced to choose between converting or being put to the sword. At that time, the text served to undo those vows made under duress and to reaffirm Jewish identity. In the eyes of the nations, however, this practice led to a general mistrust of Jews. As a result there were times and places when Kol Nidrei was altered or even completely removed from the service. 

Today however, no Yom Kippur is even thinkable without Kol Nidrei and its ancient and haunting melody.

But what is it about this prayer that makes it so powerful? And how has it come to symbolize the entire process of atonement? Its words do not speak of sins. No mention is made of sacrifice or contrition; nor does it even attempt to address God or beg forgiveness for our wrongdoings. 

But in having us declare all our vows null and void, Kol Nidrei frees us to examine what really matters to us. Repentance isn’t true unless it is freely made, not forced on us.

By the light of Kol Nidrei, we examine those values, ethics and morals that we hold up as highest and most sacred. Kol Nidrei doesn’t free us of our obligations, but its spiritual and psychological effect is such that it enables us to start again with a clean slate. Kol Nidrei opens for us the doorway to true repentance.

The purpose of Yom Kippur was always to give us a fresh start, an opportunity to turn a new leaf on life, to look forward toward the New Year with hope, not burdened with the stifling effect of guilt. This sacred day does not automatically absolve us of our guilt. The choice to atone, to realign ourselves with God’s purpose and reaffirm the Covenant, is ours to make. The lesson of Kol Nidrei is that as we renew our vows and make new promises, we pledge not necessarily to be perfect, but rather to be the best that we can be at any given time. And that’s why this prayer appears at the beginning of our service. It’s the gateway through which we, like the High Priest of olden days, take our tentative steps into the Holy of Holies, to face God and ourselves, to measure our accomplishments as well as our failures, and to begin again, with a clean heart.

May our prayers tonight and tomorrow serve the purpose for which they were created. May our atonement be acceptable before God, and may we be strengthened by this day to live by our highest ideals. 

L’shana tova tikatevu v’teichatemu—may we all be inscribed and sealed in the Book of Life for a year of love, happiness, health and peace, amen. 

© 2023 by Boaz D. Heilman