From the Bimah: Jewish Lessons for Life

Four words have been ringing in my ear all week. Powerful words. Magical words. But first a story.As many of you know, our dear friend Micah Goodman, a thought leader in Israel, has spoken from this bimah many times over the last 15 years. I’ll never forget the first time. He walked into our sanctuary that first Shabbat morning, stared at the very large space, and at the significant number of people in the pews, and at the bimah, and he said: by the way, I forgot to tell you, I don’t use a microphone on Shabbat. I said to him, would you please consider using a microphone this Shabbat so that people can hear you. He said no, he would rather not.At that point I tried several arguments to persuade him to use a microphone. I said there is not a halakhic problem with the microphone, because we set it before Shabbat, and don’t adjust it. He said his reservation is not halakhic, so the fact that our microphone is halakhally permissible does not change his mind.I said if you don’t use a microphone, people will not be able to hear you. He said he will speak louder. He’ll project. He’ll shout if necessary.I said even if you project, all I will hear at Kiddush is, what did he say, I couldn’t hear a word he said. To which Micah responded, I’ll talk to everyone at Kiddush one on one and let them know what I said.I was stumped. And I had no idea how to persuade Micah to use the microphone that he did not want to use. Just then, Hashem answered my prayer.Into the Rabbi Samuel Chiel Sanctuary walked Gary Orren, a professor of persuasion at the Kennedy School for over 50 years. I shared my dilemma with Gary. I told him all the arguments I had tried that failed. I asked: is there any argument I have not yet tried that might work? Gary yes, one. You have one last argument left. Tell Micah: Do it for me.So I did. I went to Micah and said: Do it for me. And he said: Okay. I will. And he did. He used a microphone that Shabbat, and every Shabbat thereafter, and we all lived happily ever after.The power of do it for me. Where do the magic words do it for me derive their power?

Sometimes it is the quietest verse in the Torah that speak loudest, the incidental verse, the throwaway, the by-the-way, so easy to miss, that resonates so powerfully for every human being.In describing Abraham’s funeral, the Torah observes, in passing, without fanfare: His sons Isaac and Ishmael buried him in the cave of Machpelah, in the field of Ephron son of Zohar the Hittite, facing Mamre, the field that Abraham had bought from the Hittites; there Abraham was buried, and Sarah his wife. Genesis 25: 9-10 (Italics added) Abraham died at 175 years old. Issac and Ishmael had last spent a night in the same home in childhood. It had been years. And they were very, very different from one another. Isaac had just gotten married to Rebekah. At the time his father was laid to rest, Issac had no children. By contrast, Ishmael was long married and the father of twelve sons. Isaac lived in Canaan. Ishmael lived near Egypt. Ishmael was an archer. Isaac was no archer. Different cities. Different family situations. Different talents and interests. And zero shared life experience. Plus trauma and estrangement dating back to their childhood. The Talmud struggles to understand this moment. But they come together to bury their father. What is so powerful about the verse is two things. One, the verse’s restraint. We have no idea what either son is thinking or feeling. Two, the virtual universality of this moment. So many of our families have loved ones who are geographically dispersed. They have not lived in the same zip code for years. If a loved one passes on Sunday, in Israel the funeral would be on Sunday. Often in our community the funeral is not until Wednesday or Thursday because loved ones live so far away, and it takes that long for everyone to get back to Greater Boston. Why is it that death can bring us together in a way that life cannot? Death brought Isaac and Ishmael together in a way that their life did not. What is that? Why is it that we come together to bury in a way that we don’t necessarily come together in life? And, what is the relationship between the funeral moment and the rest of our lives? Does the funeral moment have anything to teach us about the rest of our lives? Please read Act Three of Our Town by Thornton Wilder, which also takes place in a cemetery. Emily Webb, who had died in childbirth at age 26, is about to be buried, but she is given the chance to relive one day of her life, knowing now that mortality is real. She chooses February 11, 1899, a Tuesday, which was her 12th birthday. She is back in her home, reliving that day with the wisdom of eternity that she possesses now, that neither she, nor her family members, possessed then. What did she learn? Can we learn it now? While we are still here.

Rabbi Dan Judson, Ph.D. is the Provost of Hebrew College where he also serves as lecturer in Jewish history. He received his doctorate from Brandeis University, and his book Pennies for Heaven: The History of American Synagogues and Money was a finalist for the National Jewish Book Award (2018). Dr. Judson’s research on synagogues has appeared in the New York Times, the Boston Globe, Haaretz and many other Jewish periodicals. He is currently writing a book on American Zionist history, When America Became Zionist: The Lodge-Fish Resolution of 1922. He is also a storyteller who has appeared on the national Moth radio hour.

Do you have anyone in your life, friend or family, who takes a lot of energy, a lot of time, a lot of resources, who can be draining emotionally? And yet who gives you so little in return? And to whom you are connected indefinitely in this hard but not satisfying cycle because they are ours?The address for no-nachus-but-ours is Lot. Abraham gives and gives to his nephew Lot. Lot is pure headache to Abraham. Constant noise. Constant bad energy. Zero gratitude. When Abram and Sarai make the journey to the land that God will show them, they take Lot with them. Why? What function does Lot have in our covenantal story? Lot embodies a kind of problematic relationship that so many of us have—all take, no give. Lot takes the best parcel of land. Lot chooses to settle in Sodom and is kidnapped, requiring Abram and an army of 318 soldiers to rescue him from enemy territory. Lot proves to be a disgusting person, no character, no values, yuck, offering his own daughters to be raped by the townspeople of Sodom. As an unsavory coda to the Lot saga, he commits double drunken incest, sleeping with own daughters. That is how the Lot story, and the relationship of Lot and Abraham, ends. No closure. No apology. No gratitude. No nachus. Just a lot of Abraham’s giving, and getting nothing back in return. What does the sorry Lot story teach us about how to love the Lots in our lives, and whether we are Lots in the lives of others?

There was once a long-time member of Temple Emanuel who was a very accomplished litigator. He did trial and appellate work at the highest level. In court he was a fierce adversary. In life, he was gentle, humble, reflective, soulful. Heonce shared an observation about what it was like to go to the 50th reunion of his Harvard Law School class. He shared that going to his 50th reunion was a totally different experience from his earlier reunions. The earlier unions were a comparison trap. Classmates would see one another again and size each other up. There was edge in the air. Anxiety. How big is yourfirm? How big is your practice? What important cases or deals are you workingon? Earlier reunions were a bragfest. But at the 50th, all that edge, all that anxiety, all that bragging, was gone. Fifty years had humbled everybody. Everybody had been knocked around by life. Fifty years latereverybody had their own medical stuff, their own worries, their own losses, their own disappointments. Fifty years later it was about compassion not comparison.And that raises a question: Do we have towait until our 50-year reunion to discover what matters most in life? Benjamin Robinson, I have known you sincethe day you were born. I have had the blessing of getting to work with yourmother virtually seven days a week ever since you came into this world. As youmay know, your mother literally never takes a vacation. Even when she is allegedly on vacation, she is always working. Our offices are next to one another. As a consequence of that, I have literally seen you grow up before my very eyes. You have been sitting there with your family through the years. I have a photo gallery in my head of you from baby to child to young man, sitting next to your Dad, and to Maya, Noa and Eli.Benjamin, you are at the beginning of youradulthood. What really matters in life? What is worth pursuing? And what are false gods, the glittering things that look valuable in the moment but ultimately are not?

What story most claims us?: the Jewish story or the human story? To whom do we owe our first loyalty?: the Jewish people or all people? The answer of course is yes. From the very first page of our sacred canon, there is an ongoing, unresolved, and unresolvable tension between universalism and particularism. The Torah embodies this dialectic. Bereishit and Noach begin with the human story. Lech Lecha, our reading this week, the third parshah in our Torah, finally gets to the Jewish story.The rubber on this dialectic has hit the road in the form of a federal tax issue that has stoked enormous positive energy in the American Jewish community. One night I was getting a ride home from a community event with beloved friends Michael and Joyce Bohnen. I was in the back seat, but without seeing his face, I could hear Michael’s energy and enthusiasm for this $1,700 federal tax issue. When he dropped me off at home, he had not finished discussing it. He said I want to meet with you in person. Rabbis need to know about it. That night, at 11:30, he emailed me: when can we meet to discuss this federal tax issue. Rabbis need to know about it. Two days later we met in my study. This issue of federal taxation embodies a deep spiritual tension about whether our first loyalty is to the Jewish people or to all people.Please read these sources (Michael Bohnen and Co Pilot) about the Federal Scholarship Tax Credit. As Michael puts it:Beginning in 2027 every taxpayer can receive a dollar-for-dollar federal tax credit of up to $1,700 per person ($3,400 per couple) for donations to Scholarship Granting Organizations (SGPs). The taxpayer can designate their contribution to go to any K-12 public or private school to be used for scholarships for income eligible students.This is much better than a tax deduction. A $1,700 contribution reduces the donor’s tax liability by $1,700, so it effectively costs the donor nothing!...If just 5% of the Jewish adults in Greater Boston participate in the first year, we could generate millions of dollars of scholarship aid for our schools, potentially providing financially eligible students with average scholarships of $5,000. Our goal in future years is to increase that amount. (emphasis in the original)This sounds wonderful. It feels like a win win. A legal way to reduce our federal tax bill & providing potentially millions of dollars to Jewish day schools in Greater Boston to provide a day school education to families who might be interested in a day school education but are put off from doing so by affordability concerns. As Michael observes: “The annual cost [of Jewish day school] can exceed $40,000 per student, and even with the scholarships that the schools provide, the average family pays $25,000.” See also Co Pilot on the affordability challenge of Jewish day schools in Greater Boston.Decrease our federal tax bill. Increase aid for families seeking a day school education. What’s the issue?The issue is: what does not get funded because of all the dollars that go to the Federal Scholarship Tax Credit? If this credit did not exist (it is up to our Governor to decide if the Commonwealth will participate in the program), what good could the millions of dollars of tax revenue do for society as a whole?Help Jewish families who want a day school education for their children. Or devote those resources to the common good. The rubber hits the road on universalism vs. particularism.But it is more emotional than that. We live in a time of rising antisemitism. Rising antizionism. Rising animus against Israel. Rising hostility against the right of the State of Israel—78 years old—to even exist. The Massachusetts Teachers Association, especially since October 7, has been openly hostile towards Israel and Zionism. That is not even remotely debatable. If we want our children to grow up loving Judaism, Zionism & Israel, how do these practical realities affect the weighing of universalism & particularism?

Drawing on her experience surviving October 7th and her ongoing journey of healing and advocacy, Millet explores what resilience truly means. Through personal stories and practical reflections, she shares how letting go of what we cannot control can help us rediscover our strength, accept support, and find meaning in community.The talk invites us to embrace vulnerability, adapt to uncertainty, and focus our energy where we can make a difference in our everyday lives.About Millet Ben ShabatMillet Ben Shabat, 30, is married to Yakir and a psychotherapist in training. On October 7th, she survived the Nova music festival massacre. Since then, she has been active in international advocacy, supported the efforts to bring the hostages home (BH all home now), combating antisemitism, and helping her community through its ongoing healing and recovery. Committed to share truth, light and love.

Every once in a while you read a story in the newspaper that feels like it should have been published in The Onion.The other night, I couldn't wait to read this story to Solomon. Apparently, Dartmouth is investigating its provost, Dr. Santiago Schnell, after a Semafor investigation, and subsequent investigation by the student newspaper, The Dartmouth, revealed that much of his academic writing and recent op-eds, including a recent Washington Post op-ed about the problem of AI cheating in a university setting, were written largely by AI. Here is a direct quote from the article in The New York Times that made me laugh: "Dr. Schnell told The Dartmouth in a statement that he used A.I. 'for language refinement, copyediting, improving clarity and organization and making writing processes more efficient.' The newspaper then ran Dr. Schnell’s statement on his AI use through an AI detector, which flagged the statement itself as apparently written by AI Dr. Schnell did not respond to a request for comment."When I brought this story to Solomon, he did not laugh the way I had. Instead, he raised important questions. If all of the ideas in the article were Dr. Schnell's, and AI makes it easier for him to share those ideas with others, what's the problem with using AI? And even though this technology is purported to be completely accurate, are we sure that it can it effectively determine whether someone has used AI to write or whether they have only used AI to proofread? Solomon's questions made me realize how quick I was to judge Dr. Schnell, and how willing I was to laugh at his expense without pausing to question the situation more fully.What does our tradition teach us about judging people when we don't have the full story?

Imagine you have a friend who cannot stop raving about a book. "I love this book. You have to read this book.” One day an Amazon package sits at your front door. Inside is the book, along with a note from your friend: "I hope you find this book as life-changing as I do." You cannot wait to begin. But the moment you open the book, you notice something strange.There is no beginning. No page 1. The book begins on page 2. There is only an ongoing story.That is true of Judaism's most foundational text. Open any one of the sixty-six tractates of the Talmud and you will notice that there is no page 1. The first page is always page 2. There is only an ongoing story.And it’s not just true of the 66 tractates of the Talmud. The same thing happens a 67th time in our Torah this morning. As generations of commentators have observed, when the Torah tells the creation story, it does not begin with the first letter of the Hebrew alphabet, alef. It begins with the second letter, beit. There is no page 1. There is only an ongoing story.What is true of our sacred texts is true of our lives. None of us is born on page 1. All of us are born on page 2. Each of us enters a story already in progress.

Cain.What comes up for you when you think about Cain?Most of us know the first half of the story. That Cain kills his brother Abel. That Cain is the first murderer. That Cain is the first to commit the ignominious act of fratricide—one brother killing another brother.Most of us know that God sentences Cain to wander aimlessly throughout the world as a punishment—na v’nad tiheyeh va’aretz.But there is a coda that most of us do not focus on. Namely, Cain does not wander aimlessly throughout the world. To the contrary: Cain “settled in the land of Nod.” Nod means wandering. Cain settled in the land of wandering. Not only settled: Cain is the first to build a city, he is the first city builder. Cain gets married, becomes a father, indeed becomes the patriarch of multiple generations.How do we understand this coda, that Cain defies/transcends/ignores God’s express punishment, “You shall become a ceaseless wanderer on earth”? The first murderer is also the first city builder, a husband and a patriarch.What are we to learn from the whole story, including its underappreciated and curious end?