Question 21: Can We Reckon Together?

This is the sermon I gave on Wednesday evening at West End Synagogue in Manhattan. If you prefer video you can watch the sermon.

Reckoning Within: A New Ashamnu for Our Times

A few years ago, I decided I wanted EU citizenship. I don’t remember exactly what precipitated that desire— whether I was daydreaming of living abroad one day, worried about antisemitism or plain old authoritarianism developing at home, or just jealous of being engaged to someone with two passports, but I wanted dual citizenship. 

After a couple of false starts—I couldn’t prove my Grannie M’s Sephardic heritage for Portugal, and my Cheim ancestors left Prussia too long ago for me to be eligible to claim anything— I turned to my great grandfather, David Gorfein, to see if Poland was a possibility. Poland is unusual in that it will grant citizenship to a great grandchild if they can trace an unbroken line of eligible ancestors. After taking my family history, a Polish legal firm told me all I needed to prove my claim was my great grandfather’s birth record. So I enthusiastically dug into research and was delighted, after weeks of pouring over documents on ancestry.com and JRI-Poland, to discover David’s parents’ ketubah and the name of his shtetl. Through my research, I also connected with an Australian woman whose ancestors came from the same place and who had tried to do similar research. That’s when I learned that, of course, there were no shtetl birth records from the 1890s. Maybe there had never been. Maybe there were but the pogroms or Nazis destroyed them. It didn’t matter. Whatever the reason, it meant that I wasn’t going to be able to “go home” to the land of my ancestors. 

This is how it is for the Jews, right? 

We are a wandering people, and much of that wandering has not been by our own will. Collectively, we survive, but many individual Jews do not. Every Jewish family is riddled with tragedy. Every family has stories of trauma, of violence, of death. I said last year and I’ll say again that our trauma is written into our DNA, guaranteed l’dor vador for the foreseeable future before we even conceive our children. We are a people scapegoated, blamed, exiled—that is always wanting an extra passport because we just. never. know. 

When I am called to speak about Israel and Gaza, I feel the need to begin here. With our trauma. Our fear. Our justifiable suspicion. I do this because context is important, and in the hopes that beginning with our own hurt will soften our hearts enough to encounter the hurt we’ve done to others. 

Nearly a decade ago, I took my first trip to Bethlehem through an Encounter program, in which American Jews travel to the West Bank in order to literally encounter Palestinian narratives. At dinner, I listened to a young Palestinian man talk of being born in a refugee camp— the same camp his parents had been born into. He dreamed of returning to a house he’d never seen, to a village that no longer existed, to a life that had been eradicated in 1948 when his grandparents— children at the time—fled along with over half a million of their neighbors, as the State of Israel took its first breaths and the Nakba snuffed out the breath of thousands of Palestinians. 

I know that word, Nakba, which means catastrophe in Arabic and is used by Palestinians to describe the forceful land transfer from Palestinians to Israelis — is a difficult one for many Jews to hear, and that for other Jews it is said too infrequently. I’m going to invite us all to pause together. Notice your reaction to the word. Don’t judge it. Just be with it. 

Yom Kippur is an exercise in being with ourselves fully, including and especially the parts of ourselves that challenge us. So if your mind and body are having a difficult reaction, this is a good time for it. I invite you to breathe. I invite you to sit with your discomfort. 

Rami Shapiro wrote that on Yom Kippur, “we seek to deal kindly but honestly with ourselves, to take care that our commitment to ideals does not entail the destruction of our own souls, our own worlds. We freely admit our failings and create our atonements. No excuse, no escape, just an honest seeing into the truth, that we might correct our path and set off once more toward the good each of us seeks.”

No excuse. No escape. Just an honest seeing into the truth. 

I want to invite some honest seeing into the truth tonight. Truth that is painful, that challenges what feels to some Jews foundational. And truth, all the same. I am inviting us to this because I care about the soul of the Jewish people, because I believe wholeheartedly in the words we sing every morning that Elohai neshama shenatata bi tehora hi, that Elohai neshama shenata banu tehora hi— My God, the soul You have given us is pure. We the Jews are good. We can be as we were called to be a light unto the nations. But to be that we first must coax the flame within ourselves into greater brightness when it is flickering wildly. And to do that we must open ourselves to truths that challenge. They may seem like a threat but they are the oxygen we need to thrive. And so let us speak painful truths together.

Some Jews believe that naming the Nakba is a betrayal of the Jewish state— that by lending credence to this Palestinian narrative, we diminish our trauma and the miracle of Israel’s existence. If that’s your view, I want you to know that I understand your fear, and I believe it exists because you do know on some level that as much as Israel has been the victim it has also victimized — that Israel is not only Daveed standing up to the Goliath of the Arab world but is also its own giant in comparison to the Palestinian Dawud. For those of us whose families have risen from the literal ashes of the Holocaust, who can name loved ones killed and who survived forever damaged, it might feel impossible to acknowledge Israel’s wrongdoing. Even its capacity for wrongdoing. At most, we can share frustration with a particularly conservative government or messianist ministers. 

But it’s more than that. You know it. I know it. 

Israel has done wrong. Israel is doing wrong. As we sit here, right now, Palestinian civilians are dying. Yes, Hamas shares responsibility for these deaths, but Hamas’s complicity does not relieve Israel— which holds far more power— of its responsibility. The deaths that are happening as we pray are deaths that are happening because the Jewish state is at best willing and at worst working for them to happen. 

Ashamnu.¹  We have acted wrongly.

Bagadnu. We have built walls instead of bridges within and beyond our community. 

Gazalnu. We have gone too far. 

Dibarnu dofi. We have deemed endless death a reasonable price for the possibility of temporary safety. 

On and since October 7th, 2023, Israel has lost approximately 2000 civilians and soldiers. Each of these lives is a universe. 36 Israeli children were murdered on October 7th and many more became orphans. Most of us know the names of Ariel and Kfir Bibas, children kidnapped by Hamas with their mother Shiri and murdered. My son, at almost 10 months, is now the age Kfir was when he died. I think about that every day. 

I also think about Palestinians. Almost 10-month-old Palestinians. Almost 10-year-old Palestinians. Ten Palestinians from the same family. Tens of thousands of Palestinians confirmed dead, and likely thousands upon thousands more buried beneath the rubble. 

According to Ha’Aretz, in September former army Chief of Staff Herzl Halevi reported: “There are 2.2 million people in Gaza, and more than 10 percent of them have been killed or wounded." This statistic reflects that which has been reported by Hamas’s Gaza Health Ministry, an organization certainly meriting skepticism. It is understandably challenging to know how much to believe when those reporting it are run by a terrorist organization. But after two years of nearly relentless onslaught, with civilians running from supposed safe haven to supposed safe haven, how could casualties be largely military? With hospitals having to ration care, with Gaza now home to the highest number of child amputees per capita in the world, how could we genuinely believe that every bomb and bullet has been justified? 

He’evinu. We have held Hamas responsible for more than their share

V’hir’shanu.  We have validated narratives that make us feel better without examining them

Zadnu. We have zeroed in on stories of hungry children with pre-existing conditions as fake news to avoid confronting the reality of starvation, and in so doing, we have also on some level declared that the lives of disabled children are less important than those of healthy children. 

Hamasnu. We have hidden from the full history of the Land

Tafalnu sheker. We have told our children that Palestinians hate Jews, that Israelis hate Arabs, that Jews have been through so much that we must have a land for us no matter the cost, that Israelis are the only real aggressors and Palestinians the only real victims in this conflict.

Europe did not want its Jews back after World War II, the one third that survived, anyway. On my first trip to Israel, our tour group went to Yad VaShem, and as we emerged from the museum, it was to a view of the Jerusalem hills. I remember thinking “Thank God. Thank God there was a place to go when the world was so cruel. Thank God our people lives.” 

At the start of the war, several generations of the Gorfein family still lived in my great grandfather’s shetl. By the time it was over, everyone —from elders to small children— had perished in the camps or in the Lodz ghetto. Everyone except for one man. Somehow, Asher Gorfein made it to Israel. A miracle. A miracle echoed in many families that found safety, peace, and in some cases— at least for Ashkenazim — prosperity in this new nation. 

And it wasn’t just a literal safe haven for these Jews. It was a return. A reclaiming of an identity as a people with agency, with our own army and a government that would put our needs first after generation upon generation of being turned on by the leaders of the places we called home in exile. A place where whether you were Hardei or Hiloni— secular– the rhythm of the state would be the rhythm of the Jewish calendar. Where Hebrew would be a native tongue for millions again, spoken not just in yeshivas and shuls but on the streets. Where our ancient sites would be accessible to us.

My first time at Kotel, the Western Wall, I cried. I touched the stones of what had been an enclosure that could only loosely be called part of the Temple and whether there was a God or not I felt the awe of something much bigger than me. In that moment it did not matter that the women’s section was a small fraction of the whole plaza, that I couldn’t wear a tallit or wrap tefillin. I was just filled with gratitude to be there, like my ancestors before me. 

When the protestors scream about Settler Colonialism I want to scream back “the Jews were here too.” We were. Our connection to the Land is not fabricated. Whatever else happened in 1948, and in the waves of aliyah preceding, our people has reason to call this place home. There have been Jews living here continuously for over 2000 years. I don’t dispute that. Where I struggle is in how many of us believe that our sense of home, and of necessary self-determination, justifies two years of outright slaughter in Gaza, and ongoing violence against civilians in the West Bank. 

Ya’atznu ra. We have yielded to voices that say it’s us or them.  

Kizavnu. We have kept up standard lines of “Stand with Israel” when Israel is behaving in ways that cannot be abided.

Latznu. We have labeled our fellow Jews and our allies antisemites, kapos, and nazis because their views differ from our own— often without having a genuine conversation about those views.

Maradnu. We have made support for Israel a prerequisite for engagement in Jewish spaces and condemnation for Israel a prerequisite for engagement in activist spaces.

Ni’atznu. We have noted the ways that Palestinians have not been partners in peace without taking note of our own backyard.

Sararnu. We have stood by while our friends demonize Israelis with no room for nuance 

Avinu. We have allowed debates over language– Zionism, anti-Zionism, aparthied, genocide— to take up more airtime than debates over where we go from here.

Pashanu. We have prioritized Shalom Bayit— the preservation of good will in one’s family or community— over the pursuit of actual shalom. 

Tzararnu. We have silenced those whose views made us question what we thought we knew to be true. 

Kishinu oref. We have called out antisemitism too much and not enough. 

Several times this year, I gave sermons about Gaza that I worried would anger and offend members of our community. Some of you did, indeed, let me know you were angry and offended— and I thank you for trusting me enough to tell me. But more of you came up to me afterwards and said that you agreed with me. For some of you, that was undoubtedly true. For others, I’m going to admit— because it’s Yom Kippur and if not now, when?— that I wonder whether your agreeing with me meant that I didn’t clearly communicate my point.

What I have been saying this year, what I’m saying tonight, is not an Israeli version of “we’ve got issues with the president, but we love this country.” What I’m saying is “this nation was built on systemic inequalities that have reached a fever pitch, and if we don’t address the foundation of wrongdoing, this country will never be a moral, justice-seeking society.” 

 There is a reckoning happening within the American Jewish community. This reckoning has been decades in the making, but the aftermath of October 7th has raised it from an occasionally sputtering simmer to a rolling boil. Because it’s not possible to see the news and stay neutral. Either you break right, justifying as much of Israel’s behavior as you can, or you break left, finding more and more reasons to question Israel. This questioning, when met with defence from the mainstream Jewish community, has led many young Jews especially, but Jews of all ages, to feel rage and repugnance toward the land that is purported to be our home. Because we see how deeply unfair this all is. 

When I was living in Jerusalem, I took part in an ulpan and became friends with a Palestinian classmate. He had been born and raised in East Jerusalem, but he wasn’t eligible for Israeli citizenship, and his Palestinian documents weren’t good for much. He was stuck, more or less stateless. One day, during the break in class, he asked me if I would marry him. Understand, we’d never been on a date or even flirted. “I’d pay you,” he told me. The marriage wouldn’t be for love. It would be for an American passport. For freedom of movement. 

I thought about it—agonized over it, actually. There I was— single, middle class, with a passport that would let me in almost anywhere. And, had I wished to, I could have applied for and received another passport and Israeli citizenship. A country I’d spent less than a cumulative year of my life in, where I had no known family, where I wouldn’t even technically be considered Jewish due to my patrilineal ancestry– would literally pay me to move there due to my heritage. Meanwhile, a Palestinian from the Land, who’d known no other land, whose parents and grandparents and great grandparents had farmed the land, had no right to citizenship. 

I held all the power. And, privileged as I was, I said no. I didn’t want to go through the process of applying for a sham marriage license. Didn’t want to take the risk of being found out. Didn’t want to have to eventually divorce, eager as I was to meet the person I’d fall in love and build a life with. I held all the power, and I kept all the power, and I hope he’s ok. Selach li. Forgive me. 

In 1948, the State of Israel came into being, a culmination of nearly two millennia of prayer and many decades of political organizing by Jews and by those who wanted to be rid of the issue of the Jews. For those who’d lost everything but their lives in the Holocaust, Israel was, truly, HaTikveh, the hope made real. Our people could at last be gathered and embraced from the four corners of the earth. There could once again be a society where Jewish norms set the culture, where Jewish safety was paramount, where Jews would not have to answer to a dominating empire that could turn on us at any minute. Despite the wars, the enemies surrounding, the violence pervading, for many Jews Israel is home in a way that no other place ever has been or could be. And let’s be clear– for those of us with Jewish ancestry who call the US home, where we ended up was often a result of which boat our parents, grandparents, or great grandparents were able to get on. Some fled to Palestine before 1948 or Israel after, others to America, others still to Brazil or Britain or China or Colombia. This narrative matters. 

In 1948, hundreds of thousands of Palestinians were expelled from their homeland. They expected to return soon, many carrying the keys to their houses, now passed down to their descendants. Like the Jews not wanted in Europe, the Palestinians weren’t wanted by their Arab neighbors. Over decades, they’ve lost more and more power and more and more of the small amount of land they have left. As Rabbi Danya Ruttenberg puts it: “Palestinians have been subjected to Nakba, subjugated under Occupation for decades, including many of the horrors that characterized apartheid-era South Africa, such as the gutting and seizure of homes, restrictions on day-to-day movement, removals into refugee camps and land dispossession, the banning of political protest and organizations, detention without trial, torture, assassinations, the brutal murders of activists, and, of course, creating conditions of terror, poverty, and desperation.” This narrative matters. 

Yes, there is a double standard applied to Israel compared to other regimes.

Yes, it is infuriating that some of those shouting for Palestinian liberation know little about Palestine or Israel, and that some just don’t like Jews and are glad for any excuse to engage in antisemitic rhetoric and action.

Yes, it is terrifying that some groups we’ve considered allies have overlooked or even joined in that same antisemitic rhetoric, and that antisemitism is finding more airtime in more and more mainstream spaces. 

Yes, it is exhausting as American Jews to know that we might be equated with Israel no matter what we think about it, that acquaintances might ask us for a complete explanation or power analysis of a complicated and decades-long conflict when we just want to buy a cup of coffee, that someone might see a necklace or a kippah or hear a name and make sweeping assumptions about what we believe.

Yes, it is awful to bear the news every day and to have to balance it with work or school or caring for loved ones or whatever responsibilities fill our time.

Yes, it is all just too too too much and there is no end in sight.

And. Our trauma, the double standard, the antisemitism, the devastation of October 7th, the plight of the hostages, the fact that the enemy in this war is a terrorist organization that gladly sacrifices innocents— none of it excuses Israel’s actions or the American Jewish establishment’s half-held defense of its actions. 

 It’s one of our profound lessons. Two wrongs, or in this case, thousands upon thousands of wrongs, don’t make a right. 

Rashanu. We have recognized some of Israel’s wrongdoing but have tried to isolate it to this particular ghastly moment in Gaza. 

Shichatnu. We have sought justification instead of justice 

Ti’avnu. We have taught our children to love Israel without teaching our children to understand Israel. 

Ta’inu. We have turned away because we can’t bear to look at the reality

Titanu.  We have transgressed, and we must atone. 

Last spring, Rabbi Amy Eilberg, the first female rabbi ordained by the Conservative movement, published a series of letters between herself and her daughter, whose views on the war are to the left of her own. They modeled dialogue with love across difference and are a worthy case study in this time where conversation about Israel and Palestine can be so fraught. I want to bring in a passage from her daughter Penina, in which she wrote: “though the experiences of Palestinians and Israelis could not be more different, the nightmare is now in some way shared, growing as it does from the same history and the same ground. The way out of the nightmare will have to be shared, too. The distance we have to travel feels unbearable. But you taught me the power of belief, how it is an engine that, when translated into action, can traverse distances that would otherwise be uncrossable.”

When I was living in Yafo, shortly after turning down my Palestinian friend’s proposal, I volunteered at a Montessori preschool. The students were Jewish and Arab, the staff were Israeli and Palestinian, and instruction was in both Hebrew and Arabic. It was only a preschool— a self-contained environment of a few dozen toddlers and teachers behind a secured gate— but within its walls I felt the potential of what could be. 

I imagine that none of you have heard of that preschool. But many of you are familiar with organizations like Standing Together that unite Israelis and Palestinians seeking peace. Both matter. The quiet work in the classroom and the loud work in the public sphere both matter. So too does the internal work, and that is the place where as a Jewish-American community we must start. 

Our status quo is broken. We will not be able to return to the idea of Israel that many of us grew up with. Even if Israel pulls out of Gaza tomorrow, even if Hamas returns each of the 48 hostages, even if this time becomes a distant memory, it will never be as it was before. Our generation, and the generations of Jews to come, will need to reckon with what Israel has become if we are ever going to be a light unto the nations. 

This is our work. It is work that will take time. It is work that is heartbreaking. It is work that is worthy of all that we can give to it. We Jews, beyond everything else, remain Am Yisrael. We are the people who wrestle with beings human and divine and make it through to the morning. So let us wrestle together. Let us sit in our discomfort. And let us hope that, when we sit here again next Yom Kippur, it will be with deeper compassion, connection, and commitment to wellbeing for all the peoples of the Land. 

G’mar chatima tovah. 

1- The Ashamnu is a part of the Yom Kippur Vidui— the collective confessional recited by Jews on the day of atonement. It, like many pieces of liturgy, is arranged as a Hebrew acrostic. I used the acrostic model but note that the English does not always correspond to the original Hebrew translation.