Sermon given August 8, 2026. Shabbat Shalom, everybody. As you know, this coming week (God willing!) Ian and I will be getting married. That means that I’ve been running around asking everyone who is married what advice you have for us as we embark on this journey. It also just so happens that I have a tendency to turn to the Torah and see what advice it has for what I’m going through in life– I know, I know, I’m a rabbinic nerd– but this is a pretty hilarious week to look for marriage advice form the Torah. Because this week’s Torah portion begins with the following line: רְאֵ֗ה אָנֹכִ֛י נֹתֵ֥ן לִפְנֵיכֶ֖ם הַיּ֑וֹם בְּרָכָ֖ה וּקְלָלָֽה׃ “Behold, today I set before you a blessing and a curse…” We laugh, but of course, we all know that with so many things in life– relationships, jobs, projects, ideas, goals, you name it– the reality of it is that sometimes things feel more like a blessing, and sometimes things feel more like a curse. This is even true of being a rabbi. The vast majority of the time, being a rabbi is quite literally the greatest blessing of my life, in that it allows me to actively make my life a blessing to others and to this world, and helps me help others make their lives a blessing. I get the honor of officiating at weddings and b’nai mitzvah and giving sermons and sitting with all of you when you wrestle with big decisions, illness, and life transitions. This tradition blesses me every day, and the fact that I get to be a professional Jew provides me with the framework for putting my beliefs and values into actions each day, and trying to go out and spread blessing to others. So I am always grateful for this path, even when it isn’t easy. But just like the dichotomy of blessing and curse offered by this week’s Torah portion, the rabbinate also has times that are not easy– And the last few weeks haven’t been easy. As I discussed in last week’s sermon, serving a diverse congregation has its own unique challenges built into it. There are times when there is no choice that a person can make– and I say a person here, and not just myself, because this is true of all of us at some point– sometimes, there is no choice a person can make that will end well, or that will result in smooth sailing or in unanimous support or understanding. בעולם הזה הם ברכה וקללה Says the Da’at Zkenim– in this world, it’s inevitable that there will be both blessing and curse. The framework of a blessing and a curse is also accurate for describing what it can feel like to be in community with other people. Because as we all know, being in community– any community– brings with it immense benefits, AND it also brings with it friction, infighting, misunderstandings, accusations, division, and feuds. And the more people join that community, and the more varied and rich become the opinions within the community, the more challenging it will be to make decisions for that community that everyone agrees with, or even can just live with. There may be times when community members, and especially leaders tasked with making decisions, can feel “damned if I do, damned if I don’t.” When I’ve sat with that feeling in my own life, my brain has reframed the phrase. Instead of “damned if I do, damned if I don’t”, what I’ve realized is that those situations, where I feel that tension– where I feel like all options are curses, and none of them are blessings– are the ones where my various deeply held personal values come into conflict with one another. You know what I mean? The sort of situations where “follow your heart” or “listen to your gut” just don’t quite cut it, because your gut, and your heart, are actually telling you a bunch of different things. I can stand up here and quote Scripture and say, justice, justice, you shall pursue– but what if in different moments, my own sense of the word “justice” means different things? What if doing what I believe is “just” for one person, or one group, feels unjust for another group I care about? I can stand up here and say “I support the diversity of this synagogue”, but what does that really mean when the decisions I make will land VERY differently with different groups within this community, and any decision I make will hurt someone, or at least one of those groups? Like our Torah says– I set before you a blessing, and a curse. I believe that carrying the mantle of leadership, sometimes, means being the one to carry the burden of both sides of that coin. But what has become more and more clear this week is that it’s important we not lose sight of the blessing within the curse– or to use more specific words applicable to our lives and community, we can’t lose sight of the beauty that exists within productive conflict. That is to say– sometimes, what feels like a curse can actually be a blessing. Some communities have given up on trying to wrestle with the multiplicity of views and preferences among members, instead adopting one mentality and becoming monoliths to one mindset or another. This situation avoids conflict, but at a cost. Belonging to such a community often ends up with de-facto litmus tests for belonging– either you do, or don’t, use a certain word (say, genocide)-- you do, or don’t, identify as a certain thing– say, zionist or antizionist– and those whose truth is in the gray space struggle to know where they can fit in. But I do not want TBE to be a shul like that, and neither do many TBE-ers. As I said last week that it was in part TBE’s Social Kashrut policy that drew me in when I was applying for jobs: the policy written by TBE-ers, celebrating the assertion that there are multiple valid ways to be Jewish. In last week’s sermon, I clearly stated that I am honored to be the rabbi of ALL of the Jews of this congregation, both those who refer to Israel’s actions in Gaza as genocide and those who do not AND those who refrain from wading into the argument. In other words, I agree with TBE, that there are multiple valid ways to approach this and many other Jewish issues. And the abundance of emails and texts I’ve received this week from all of you have reinforced that truth– there is no shortage of opinion in this congregation. Many of the emails thanked me or offered support. I did, however, get other emails. Some were from congregants who were utterly shocked that there are TBE congregants who believe differently than they do. That tells me that we, as leadership, need to do a better job of bringing people together into real and meaningful discussion in this synagogue, and into relationship with viewpoints other than what is immediately comfortable to them. There were also emails from congregants who were shocked that there are TBE congregants who agree with them. People who shared that they had felt alone with their views. Similarly, this shows me that we, as synagogue leadership, can do better at connecting community members to one another. There were also emails that stated that no matter what message of inclusion my sermon said, it was meaningless or empty when combined with my signature on the JCA’s letter. Which shows me how much this issue matters to Jews of ALL persuasions, and how much people are hurting, and angry, in the face of the utter tragedy of what has happened in Gaza. There were emails this week of gratitude, confusion, anger, disappointment, and celebration. This means that in a very real way, in my inbox this week, I received a whole mountain of blessings and curses. And what keep reminding myself, each time a new message comes in, is that no matter whether it seems more like a blessing or a curse, this is actually a false dichotomy. If we can learn to lean into productive conflict, then no matter what each message said, they were, actually, blessings. Because these messages all showed engagement. Because they were continuing the conversation. Because even the ones that carried deep disappointment, deep anger, deep disconnect, or deep confusion, showed me that people care enough to speak up. That people haven’t given up on community, even when it continues to disappoint them. That people are willing to say something difficult, to a person that they know thinks differently and then ask “can we talk?” Because the thing that is worse than either blessings or curses is silence. This week’s Haftarah offers us another message of consolation from Isaiah. In it, Isaiah offers comfort to a bereaved people. עֲנִיָּ֥ה סֹעֲרָ֖ה לֹ֣א נֻחָ֑מָה “Despondent, storm-tossed one, one who is not comforted!” Says Isaiah. “I will make your foundations of sapphires, your battlements of rubies, your gates of precious stone, your whole encircling wall of gems.” And I understand that Isaiah is describing a fortress of safety and riches to our exiled ancestors; I understand that this is an image that was helpful to them, and gave them something to hope for. But my comfort does not come from battlements and walls, no matter how shiny and sparkly they may be. My comfort comes from breaking down walls; from building windows, doors, and points of connection and entry into community and conversation. As the sages say in the Yerushalmi וּסְיָיגִין סְיָיגָא וְתִרְעִין תְרִיעָה —fences close things in, but doors are openings. My comfort comes from Jews making the choice not to close ranks and shut each other out, but rather to listen, and to truly hear each other, and to sit with each others’ truths, and to put our resources into substance, and into the hard work of relationship. Because the last thing we want is to start seeing our fellow Jews, our fellow community members, as blessings and curses, themselves. We are all blessings, full stop. In the coming months, the TBE leadership team will be building on the groundwork being laid right now; the groundwork of meaningful, messy, communicative relationships and learning about ourselves and those around us, specifically about what we have in common, and what we do not. This isn’t as easy as letting conflict slide, but the challenge is already worth it. We invite you to join us, and to continue making your voices known. Because the opportunity to grow in real relationship is never a curse, and always a blessing. Shabbat shalom.

Sermon given August 1, 2026. Watch the sermon here . Shema, Yisrael, Adonai Eloheinu, Adonai Echad. Hear, O Israel: Adonai is our God, Adonai is One. The Shema is our central prayer, anchoring each morning service. And then, we whisper, baruch shem k’vod malchuto l’olam va’ed. Blessed is the Name, and its glory is forever and ever. And then come three paragraphs. The first paragraph is from earlier in Deuteronomy, and it’s the one we are most familiar with: the v’ahavta , which commands us, “you shall love the lord your God with all of your heart, and all of your soul, and all of your might, and you shall teach these words to your children and say them when you rise and sleep and bind them to your arms and between your eyes and put them on your doorposts.” The third paragraph is from Numbers, and has to do with the tzitzit , the fringes on our prayer shawls. We sometimes say this one out loud, and we kiss our tzitzit or touch them to our heart as we recite this paragraph, to show that our bond with the mitzvot is dear to us. That’s the first and third paragraphs. But it’s the second paragraph, which happens to come from this week’s Torah portion, that we are going to focus in on today. We usually stay silent for this paragraph, and some of us skim over it, so I’m going to read it aloud right now. That paragraph says: “If you faithfully obey the commands I am giving you today—to love the Lord your God and to serve God with all your heart and with all your soul—then I will send rain on your land in its season, both autumn and spring rains, so that you may gather in your grain, new wine and olive oil. I will provide grass in the fields for your cattle, and you will eat and be satisfied. Be careful, lest you be enticed to turn away and worship other gods and bow down to them. Then the Lord’s anger will burn against you, and God will shut up the heavens so that it will not rain and the ground will yield no produce, and you will soon perish from the good land the Lord is giving you. Fix these words of mine in your hearts and minds; tie them as symbols on your hands and bind them on your foreheads. Teach them to your children, talking about them when you sit at home and when you walk along the road, when you lie down and when you get up. Write them on the doorframes of your houses and on your gates, so that your days and the days of your children may be many in the land the Lord swore to give your ancestors, as many as the days that the heavens are above the earth “ I remember being very confused when I first picked up a siddur and read this paragraph in English as to why we had to read it in the first place, as the translation seemed to be largely reiterating what the v’ahavta already said-- to love God with all of our heart and soul, bind these words to our hands and arms and doorposts, teach them to our children, etc. At first glance, the only part that was new in this paragraph seemed to just be a warning: a warning that if we don’t follow the mitzvot, there will be real consequences. As I learned more Hebrew, though, I realized that there was actually another new detail in this second paragraph after the Shema, a new detail apparent only in the lashon kodesh, the holy language of our Torah. That difference is this: whereas the first paragraph, the v’ahavta, is conjugated in the singular in Hebrew, the second paragraph, the paragraph from this week’s Torah portion, is conjugated in the plural in Hebrew. That means that the v’ahavta can be directed at each of us individually. YOU shall love. YOU shall love. It speaks to our individual responsibility to the mitzvot and to God. But the second paragraph is directed at us collectively , as a community. You ALL shall love. You ALL have a collective responsibility. And then it adds: Or else . It warns us that there will be real consequences if we don’t find a way to approach our mitzvot collectively, as a community. This distinction matters. An individual has power, but it is limited; however, individuals working together can create something bigger, and more nuanced, and more powerful, than any individual working alone. The flipside, unfortunately, is also true, as the second paragraph of the Shema points out-- if we as individuals and individual communities can’t find a way to work together with each other, then catastrophes of great magnitude can occur. Schisms, war, global warming, broken families-- this is what we risk if we cannot think collectively, about how our actions impact those beyond ourselves. Even misunderstandings, if they are not addressed with the worth of all participants collectively in mind, run the risk of harming carefully carefully developed relationships. Essentially, this confirms what we already know as members of the TBE community: we know that sustained, real relationships take work, especially communal relationships, and we know the beauty that can come from that-- that’s this community! When we put in the work, good things can happen; and when we don’t, relationships can be hurt. This is the lesson of the second paragraph of the Shema. I’d like to share a story with you all from this past week that illustrates this lesson. The second paragraph of the Shema will provide us with our backdrop as I recount my experience of what happened this week in the Maine Jewish community. First, here’s the background for what happened this week: Over the last few years, in the wake of the Hamas attacks on Israel and the ensuing Israel-Hamas War, the use of the word “genocide” to describe Israel’s actions in Gaza has become more and more common, becoming a buzzword in the media and a staple in speeches and chants. We all know this in the Jewish community, and we know that the use of the word “genocide” is a deeply emotional topic for Jews all over, because of our past and the fact that our people faced the horrific genocide of the Shoah. In the public sphere, major political candidates in particular have often not grasped the real consequences and growing threat to the safety of Jewish citizens that has accompanied the increased usage of this word. Antisemitism makes no distinction as to how individual Jews feel about Israel, the war, or Netanyahu; antisemitism threatens us all, simply because we are Jewish. And most of these candidates do not know firsthand what it is like to be targeted just for being Jewish, although I will say that is not the case for all. The fact that public figures who behind closed doors have told the Jewish community that they will not use language of genocide when discussing the Israel-Hamas War have and then have pivoted to doing so while on the campaign trail has exacerbated already strained relationships and has left some members of the Jewish community in this state feeling betrayed, especially because these candidates rarely name the fact that Hamas, the other main actor in the conflict, is quite literally and by their own definition a genocidal organization. That’s the back story. In response to this ongoing situation, over the past several weeks, the JCA, the Jewish Community Alliance, in conjunction with several rabbis around Maine, wrote a statement which was released before Shabbat this week. Some of you have seen it-- it condemned the use of the word “genocide” by public figures and politicians in the Maine races and outlined reasons for this condemnation. I will note that there were many other points made in the letter, which was detailed and two full pages long, but that calling on major public figures to stop using the word “genocide” in their rhetoric was the main point of the statement. I first found out about the letter on Tuesday, after the JCA asked me to sign on in my individual capacity to the statement. The letter was already completed, and I was asked to sign as quickly as possible, with the goal of releasing the statement on Wednesday. And this meant that I, as your rabbi, found myself in a very challenging position, communally and relationally, and that is what I want to talk to you about today. Before I go any further, I am going to let you know, in case any of you who may not already know, that I did end up signing the letter. The purpose of this sermon is not to hold you in suspense-- it is to invite you in to the journey I as your rabbi and the lay leadership of this amazing synagogue were taken on this week, to open the next stage of the conversation, and to highlight both the power of being in Jewish communal relationship and the ways we have yet to grow. Because I am an individual, yes, and I can and I do, occasionally, sign things in my own name; I have freedom of the pulpit. On a purely personal level, I do agree that the overuse of the word “genocide” by politicians is making Jewish lives less safe. But I am also the rabbi of this entire synagogue, and I know that this issue is a deeply intense and emotional one for the congregants of TBE. Furthermore, I know that part of the power of the letter was specifically to have Jewish communal leaders, congregational rabbis, sign on, Jewish leaders who represent and connect many Jews in our community. That’s all of you. And that meant that as I made my decision about whether or not to sign on, I needed to think about all of you before I responded, not just what I as an individual thought. I had to think about how my signing or not signing this letter would impact all of you and your well-being, because I knew that no matter what I did, I would end up hurting someone in this community. And that is not a feeling I want to have as your rabbi. But the reality is that sometimes, being in relationship puts us in those positions. As I sat with this choice, I mainly thought about three groups within our beautifully diverse congregation. I want to name and speak to those three groups right now-- all of whom, though they have reached different conclusions on this issue, I believe are trying to live their lives according to their Jewish values. And I support that. The first group are the members of this congregation who disagree with the use of the word “genocide” to describe the actions Israel has taken in Gaza. These congregants do not condemn the word because they celebrate the killing of Gazan children, no. They do not condemn the word because they believe that Netanyahu is perfect; Many of these congregants, in fact, disagree with the way this war was carried out and are outraged at Netanyahu’s actions. However, they also see how the widespread use of the word genocide, has directly aggravated and inflamed antisemitism-- sometimes intentionally-- making Jewish lives less safe in a real way. They also remember the killing squads and gas chambers of the Holocaust, designed to systematically murder as many Jews as possible in as short a time as possible, and they point out that if Israel wanted to, it has the means to kill far more Palestinians than it has. I am not saying any of this as conjecture: I’m saying this because I know we have congregants who feel this way, because I have sat with you, and I have heard your words and your pain. I know that you are heartbroken by what is happening. That is the first group. The second group is the congregants in our community who do use the word “genocide” to describe what Israel has done in Gaza. These Jews believe that “genocide” is the accurate word not because it is a trend, not because they hate themselves, not because they want Israelis to die, but because they see horrific, systemic destruction of infrastructure and staggering numbers of deaths in Gaza, and they hear Israeli ministers and leaders who influence the actions of the IDF directly saying things on the record that are at the very least advocating for ethnic cleansing. This group of congregants is not pro-Hamas, and, like the first group, they condemn the genocidal actions of Hamas. Like the first group, they also remember our people’s suffering in the Holocaust, but that memory leads them to a different conclusion about how they must act and speak. And again, I am not saying this as conjecture: I know we have congregants who feel this way, because I have sat with you, I have heard your pain, and I know you are heartbroken, too. And then there is the third group. This is the group that tries not to weigh in on the argument about the word “genocide”, from sheer exhaustion, or a sheer feeling of powerlessness in the face of the forces at work in this world that are bigger than what any one human being could change, or from the persistent grief that has grown within our community since October 7th and in its aftermath, as we have watched debates like this one divide our people. This third group is a group that worries that if they speak up, that they will be ostracized by either or both of the first two groups, and maybe even be left without a Jewish home. And to all three groups I say: You have a home here at TBE. It is my honor, and my challenge, to be rabbi to all three groups. As indicated by my name on the JCA’s statement, I personally disagree with politicians using the word genocide in reference to Israel’s actions in Gaza. But the fact that I, as rabbi, disagree does not mean that all of my congregants must agree with me, and this is important to say publicly. I have no interest in policing the vocabulary choices of any TBE community members who, in good faith, follow the TBE norms of social kashrut, communally agreed upon by this congregation, with careful conversation, which state that there are multiple valid ways to be Jewish, and say “Our community is not whole until all those who seek a connection with Judaism know that they will be welcomed and supported by all of us.” These are your words, TBE, and a big part of why I wanted to be your rabbi is because I believe in them, too. We talk a lot about welcoming the stranger. Usually we’re talking about immigrants; usually we’re talking about people who are new to our country. But the fact of the matter is that welcoming the stranger sometimes is harder when it’s the person next to you in shul who you don’t recognize as being on the same team as you. Or when it’s the person sitting next to you at kiddush lunch whose perspective you struggle to understand. That is also welcoming the stranger among us. I understand the heartbreak of the dedicated members of the TBE community who do use the word, just as I understand the heartbreak of the dedicated members of the TBE community who do not use the word. And I certainly understand the heartbreak of those who are hurting because these fights keep exacerbating deep rifts among the Jewish people. I am heartbroken, too. And I want to be your rabbi. All of you. I am speaking to you today about this issue, in such detail, because it is my hope that the members of this community who disagree about the word “genocide” can disagree while acknowledging the humanity in each other, and be able to support each other as fellow Jews in our shared suffering. We are in this together, whether we agree about verbiage or not, and there is more than enough heartbreak to go around already. So, on Tuesday, I made a decision-- the only decision that seemed in line with the communal lessons of the second paragraph of the Shema: I decided I could not make the decision about whether or not to put my name on this letter alone. And the beauty of it was, I didn’t have to. On Tuesday, when I learned about the finished letter and was asked to sign, I immediately consulted with Sara, as TBE President, and with Duane, as Executive Director. I agreed with their advice to hold an emergency Board meeting to discuss the matter and make sure that the entirety of the TBE lay leadership understood what was happening in the larger Jewish community and could make their voices heard. On Thursday night, we held that emergency meeting, and I will share with you a little bit of what it was like now. At the start of each Board meeting I offer a small piece of Torah or a short text to frame the meeting. This week, which had also contained Tu B’av, the Jewish Holiday of love, I shared a line from the special miSheberach prayer for fiancees before their wedding. That line is, quote: “May their love grow, as You, God, plant within them a listening heart and a tongue that speaks the truth quietly and kindly.” That was how I opened the emergency meeting-- because no matter the urgency of the issue at hand, it is my wish for us both at TBE and in the wider Jewish community that we can find a way to have listening hearts and speak our truths kindly, even when, and especially when, it is difficult to say them. And I was deeply moved by the truths that were shared by our Board members at that meeting. Mainly, they spoke, and I listened. Their opinions were not uniform, but each one was a gift , and each one advised me as I prepared to make that complex decision. As tends to be the case in strong community, there was division. But I did my best to have a listening heart, as the mi sheberach says, and each and every Board member spoke their truth kindly, also as the mi sheberach says. I want to state clearly that through everything that went into this statement, everything that happened this week, all of the decisions about whether or not to sign it, the many, many late night conversations-- that meeting with the TBE Board was a shining light in a dark week. The readiness and willingness of the Board to be an active part of this multi-layered decision reminded me that no matter what decision I made, personally, about signing the letter, the process itself had already helped us grow, as a community. I am sitting, this Shabbat, with immense gratitude for the many ways that the lay leadership and professional leadership of this synagogue prioritized relationships and communal responsibility this week, listening and compromising. Even when and especially when we disagree, as long as we continue to intentionally be in sacred conversation, our community can move forward; Because ultimately, it’s the process, and not the end result, that is the whole point, the essence of all of this, the ikar . As the second paragraph of the Shema teaches us, we have to find a way through whatever is happening in our world in real relationship with one another, or else. Imagine if we never raised our voices about anything, and never got passionate about anything. Imagine if we never argued, instead staying silent and holding grudges. Imagine if nobody had the courage to say they disagree. Imagine if we didn’t trust each other enough to speak our truths. That is not the world, or the Jewish community in Portland or in Maine, that I am hoping for or want to help build. In the end, as will surprise no one, there was no consensus from the Board as to whether or not I should sign, though there was overwhelming agreement on several fronts: first , that TBE welcomes conversations such as this, and wants to be involved in these conversations on a community-wide level; second , that something needs to be done to address the dangerous rise in antisemitism we that we are facing; and third , the acknowledgement that there would be consequences for either signing or not signing a communal letter like this, and that we needed, if we were being responsible, to consider them in our decision-making process. TBE is one of the largest and most visible Jewish organizations in the State, and as such we all understood, as the governing body of this synagogue, that TBE would be impacted by my response to this letter, no matter whether I signed or not. That the safety of the members of this synagogue had to inform my decision about whether or not to sign or not to sign on to a letter like this in my personal capacity speaks to the brokenness of the public discourse around Israel. And so, given all of these factors, I made several decisions. First, as you know already, I signed on to the letter. I agree that the overuse of the word genocide by prominent politicians is increasing antisemitism in Maine. I see it, here. Would I have worded the statement differently, given the opportunity? Yes— but that wasn’t an option. And so, I signed in hope. In a hope echoed by everyone present at our board meeting this Thursday, that in the future, TBE’s voice will be included in the crafting of communal statements, as their fallout will inevitably impact this institution and its members. I did not sign on to be a hero. I signed on because I wanted to make the choice that I believed let the community of TBE enter into the next chapter of Jewish life in Maine in close relationship with the other communal Jewish institutions of the state. And I signed on in the hope that if we are going to hold our major politicians to the expectation of nuanced discourse, then we ourselves, as the greater Jewish community, will also be able to extend each other the same grace and courtesy. That’s the first thing I decided. Second, I decided to give this sermon. First and foremost, I wanted to say clearly to those who agree AND those who don’t agree with my choice, that I welcome you here at TBE. In light of this situation, I wanted us to examine our tradition’s charge to find honest ways to work together, with its warning for what happens when we do not. That the JCA wanted to release a communal statement about a communal source of pain is in line with the spirit of the second paragraph of the Shema. That the JCA was willing to postpone their release timeline so that the TBE Board could meet and advise me was also in the spirit of the second half of the Shema, and for that, I am grateful. And, the fact that I insisted on not making the decision alone, but instead consulting with synagogue leadership, was also in line with the second paragraph of the Shema. At the end of the day, we are all trying, and we are all growing, and it is my hope and my prayer that we will learn and grow closer together from this experience, not farther apart. That was the second thing. Third and finally, I resolved to be an active part of building the next chapter of Maine Jewish community in the aftermath of this letter. My choice to sign this letter has gotten more of a response from congregants, non-congregants, community members, potential members, and others since its release yesterday morning than literally any other single thing that I have done as TBE’s Rabbi, and I do not want to shut any of those conversations down. Now is not the time to stop talking. Now is the time to lean into conversation. Like the Board’s advice to me, this outreach from the community has not been uniform. And I believe that that diversity is a strength, not a weakness, of this community. I signed that statement because I believe that TBE’s relationships to our fellow Jews and our fellow Jewish organizations are more important than my ego; they are more important than any individual word or phrase; and they are more important than the political rhetoric of the hour. And as I hope is abundantly clear by this point, this sermon is not really about signing or not signing anything. It’s about how it is the honor of my life to be your rabbi-- ALL OF YOU, whether we agree on this or not. And it’s about how this entire process has laid bare how deeply important it is for us, as a Jewish community, to protect and nurture our sacred relationships to each other, and to take the time to work together on difficult issues, and hear each other. It’s about how, as the mi sheberach says, we must practice, again and again, speaking our truths kindly, and hearing them with loving hearts. Shema, as we say. Listen. Listen, and be heartbroken together, and then make your choice. In the end, I choose relationship. I choose discussion. Messy, sacred discussion. I choose community and collective responsibility. I choose the second paragraph of the Shema. And I choose all of you. Shabbat Shalom.

Sermon given July 25, 2026. When I was living in Austria, I went to the children’s section of the library to get a few books for myself. This is something I often did when I was living in other countries, because I found that it was easier to practice my German (or my Spanish, when I lived in Costa Rica, or my Hebrew, when I lived in Israel) through kids’ books. I picked up a book at the library in Austria that was about a king who was scared of death. As a side note, yes, this is a sermon about death- but it is also a sermon, first, about a somewhat silly book. The book was both lighthearted as well as serious and heartwarming. In it, the king was SO scared of death that he outlawed death completely. Nobody was allowed to die anymore, and at first, everything seemed great-- people were taking risks and having fun and not getting sick and growing older and older. But then problems started to happen. The world was too packed with people, nobody was careful or respectful anymore, and nobody valued the time that they shared or spent together anymore. Ultimately, a great misery spread around the whole world until the same king revoked his decree and volunteered to be the next person to die. The end! (Trust me, it worked very well in German.) But anyway-- I found myself thinking about that story this week. Because in this week’s Torah portion, we see Moses again wrestling with his own mortality in a way that, like that story, is also silly and serious and ultimately, through the lens of Midrash, heartwarming. Moses’ wrestling with his own mortality started a while back, when we were still reading the book of Numbers. That was when we learned for the first time that Moses would not be entering the Promised Land, and would, in fact, die before our ancestors crossed the Jordan. B’nai Yisrael were thirsty, and threatening mutiny, and Moses struck a rock with his staff which yielded water-- but because he did not follow God’s orders completely, or with pure faith, as a consequence he was told he would no longer merit entry into Eretz Yisrael. In the book of Numbers, the original version of the story of Moses’ punishment is brief and straightforward. God says to Moses “, “Because you did not trust Me enough to affirm My sanctity in the sight of the Israelite people, therefore you shall not lead this congregation into the land that I have given them.” v’zayu . And that’s that, and the parashah continues. But this week’s version of the story is a little different. This week, in parashat V’etchanan, Moses is personally recounting the moment he learned of his fate, to die in the desert without entering the Promised Land, and it is clear from the words of his recollection that the news was not easy for him to stomach. The opening phrase of this week’s parasha is emotional and poignant, as Moses shares what he remembers from the moment God condemns him. וָאֶתְחַנַּ֖ן אֶל־יְהֹוָ֑ה Moses says, “and I pleaded with God! “O my Sovereign GOD, You who let Your servant see the first works of Your greatness and Your mighty hand, You whose powerful deeds no god in heaven or on earth can equal! Let me, I pray, cross over and see the good land on the other side of the Jordan!” This vulnerability, and this level of grappling with the significance of his impending death, was absent in the book of Numbers. And so, too, was God’s response. As Moses continues, he shares with B’nai Yisrael that God grew angry with his resistance to his mortality. Moses does not take complete ownership for his resistance, saying this week “But GOD was wrathful with me on your account and would not listen to me. GOD said to me, “Enough! Never speak to Me of this matter again!” Now as we just said, none of this was in the version of the story told in Numbers. As will happen repeatedly throughout the book of Deuteronomy, Moses’ process of recounting B’nai Yisrael’s journey through the wilderness and his own actions as their leader will contain variations and anecdotes not included in the earlier versions of these events, as well as some cases where details are omitted in the second retelling. And this makes sense-- We know from our own lives, and our own memories, that forgetting and remembering can be fickle processes, and depending on what we are going through in our lives, certain details may stick out more than others, afterwards. So, it’s not surprising if Moses’ retelling of the moment he learned of his impending death is more detailed and emotional the second time around, after he has had time to sit with it, and process it. And, it turns out that the variation and emotion in this week’s version of the story also inspired a great deal of rabbinic creativity and imagination. Because in Devarim Rabbah, an extensive Midrash on the book of Deuteronomy, the rabbis take the scene even further. They imagine Moses not only wrestling with his own mortality, but actually becoming quite obstinate and stubborn with God. Upon hearing God’s vow not to let him enter Eretz Yisrael, the Midrash says: “When Moses saw that his sentence had been sealed, he decreed a fast upon himself, drew a small circle, stood within it, and said: ‘I am not moving from here until You, [God], void this decree.’ ….[and] He donned sackcloth, wrapped himself in sackcloth, and covered himself with ashes.” I mean….. Have you ever seen a two-year-old throw a tantrum? Well, here I almost feel a bit like we’re seeing a 120-year-old man throw a tantrum. “I’m not moving from this circle until you change your mind” certainly doesn’t seem like an effective tactic to take with God. And of course, Moses doesn’t get his way. That’s not how human life works, and apparently, it’s not how God works. The circle and sackcloth plan does not get him what he wants, no matter how much he argues-- and the Midrash imagines that boy, does he EVER argue! Back and forth, and back and forth, the Midrash depicts the argument continuing, with God invoking the help of various celestial beings and even bypassing Moses to talk directly to his soul. Finally, with Moses apparently exhausted from the emotional labor of the topic, he calms down and makes one final plea of God, invoking their powerful history together, saying, quote: “Moses said before the Holy One blessed be He: ‘Master of the universe, remember that day that You revealed Yourself to me at the bush, and said to me: “And now, go, and I will send you to Pharaoh, and take My people, the children of Israel, out of Egypt”? (Exodus 3:10). And remember that day that I was standing upon Mount Sinai for forty days and forty nights? I ask You, please, do not hand me over to the angel of death.’ “ And A Divine Voice emerged and said to him: ‘Fear not, for I, Myself, will tend to you and to your burial.’ At that moment, Moses stood and sanctified himself, like the angels.” And at the end of the story, God takes Moses’ soul back into heaven with a kiss on the lips. Isn’t that beautiful? Ultimately, the takeaway from this Midrash is not just about mortality, but rather about the shift from fear to peace, from argument to acceptance, from fighting to resting, from rebuke to comfort. Which is why it is so perfect, and so fitting, to read this Midrash today. Last week was Shabbat Chazon, the final Shabbat of Rebuke-- but this Shabbat, immediately following Tisha B’av, is Shabbat Nachamu, a shabbat of comfort and consolation. And so, on this Shabbat Nachamu, I offer this Midrash to us all. Because at the end of the day, though this Midrash is all about death, it isn’t actually just about death. It’s about our very human reactions when faced to things which are bigger than us and out of our control, and about how one of our most recognizable leaders had to face the same fears all humans know. Because all of us do, indeed know fear. Lord knows we are scared now, today. We are scared for our country and state, scared for Israel, scared for Jews facing antisemitism, scared for minorities who are being targeted, scared for the LGBTQ+ community, scared for immigrants, scared for our kids, the list goes on and on And Moses’ fear reminds us that being scared is just the beginning. It is not the end of the story. His tantrum-- drawing the circle, wrapping himself in sackcloth and ash, and arguing with God-- is also something we can understand. How many of us here have tried to barter with God? How many of us have refused to admit or accept something we know is true, whether a diagnosis or a piece of unwelcome news? How many of us have curled up on the couch in front of Netflix and refused to think about or contemplate reality because it hurts so much? Moses knew that feeling, too. It can be a source of deep comfort to know that even our greatest leader and teacher panicked when faced with the unknown, and something he could not control. It is humbling, to remember that deep fear touches us all, no matter our power, no matter our titles. But despite his fear, and despite his tantrum, it is also deeply comforting to know that Moses found closure in acceptance, and in sanctity. And all of us-- no matter who, and no matter exactly which burdens we are sitting with today-- could benefit from a bit of acceptance, and a bit of peace. Which leads us to the question-- What would it look like for us, today, to choose to incorporate a little more sanctity and a little more acceptance into the aspects of our lives that we cannot control? What would it look like for us to see the many very real challenges we face as a society and as individuals as things God is also present for, and also loving us and supporting us throughout? From Moses, we get a clear example of how to acceptance, though he fought it, tooth and nail. It is the moment God reassures Moses that God, God’sself, will be ushering him into death, that everything changes for Moses. And by ultimately being willing to sanctify the process of death itself-- by seeing Death as a journey God has a direct and loving hand in, just as much as giving the Commandments or bringing our people out of Egypt-- Moses finally finds his personal peace. And with that realization, he is finally able to accept that though he will not see the entirety of his dreams fulfilled, that does not mean his life’s work is meaningless, or his life forfeit. Ultimately, Moses sees that if he truly believes God is in everything, then death cannot be completely ungodly. And his example, both in his resistance and in his acceptance of God’s power over death, can remind us, too, and teach us, today, that the challenges of our lives are also not completely divorced from sanctity. May we all be comforted by the fear, the tantrum, and then the acceptance of Moses, this Shabbat Nachamu. Shabbat shalom.

Sermon given July 18, 2026. Shabbat Shalom, everyone. Normally, at least once a day but especially on Shabbat, I find myself thinking: Zeh hayom asah adonai! Nagila v’ni’smicha bo. This is the day that the lord has made! Let us rejoice and be glad in it. This is especially true since I moved to Portland. I am moved every day by the beauty of the world around us, especially in Maine; I am moved by the glory of God’s creation, and by the incredible community and staff here at TBE; and I am moved by how lucky I am to get to serve this synagogue. But this week, I really haven’t felt like rejoicing. This has been a painful and discouraging week for our state. The events of the world, and the choices made by those with access to deadly force, have meant that more precious life has been snuffed out this week. Anger and fear are bubbling over into the streets, and not for the first time this calendar year. And it just so happens that this Shabbat is also Shabbat Chazon, the Shabbat of Visioning. Shabbat Chazon is the special title given to the third Shabbat of Rebuke, which immediately precedes Tisha B’av, our day of mourning for the destruction of the Temple and the many other injuries our people has suffered. This means that today is a Shabbat where our desire to rest and express joy, as we do each Shabbos, clashes a bit with the words of our prophet Isaiah, from today’s special Haftarah, proclaiming God’s anger towards our ancestors as they took their spiritual and geographic inheritance for granted and failed to prioritize justice, forgetting the widow and the orphan in favor of living selfishly. I’m going to read an excerpt from the Haftarah. The book of Isaiah says: “Hear, O heavens, and give ear, O earth, For GOD has spoken: “I reared children and brought them up— And they have rebelled against Me! Ah, sinful nation! People laden with iniquity! Brood of evildoers! Depraved children! They have forsaken GOD. “What need have I of all your sacrifices?” Says GOD. “I am sated with burnt offerings of rams. Your hands are stained with crime— Your rulers are rogues And cronies of thieves, Every one avid for presents And greedy for gifts; They do not judge the case of the orphan, And the widow’s cause never reaches them.” On Shabbat Chazon, these words are meant to hit us in a deeply uncomfortable way. We are not supposed to like this. These words are a stark reminder that no people, Jewish or otherwise, is immune from sin and corruption. In fact, it is specifically a reminder that Jews are capable of doing harm and that we have done harm. Our individual and collective sins have immense consequences, both for ourselves and for God. But these words are also a reminder that we know injustice when we see it , whether we want to admit it or not, and we are mutually responsible for the societies that we build together. This was true in ancient times, and it is even more true now, in America in 2026, living in a democracy where as citizens we have the right and the responsibility to vote and take an active role in forming our own government. As we just reaffirmed on July 4th-- this is a society built and maintained by We, the People. And unfortunately, We the People are struggling right now. It is impossible to hear Isaiah’s words this Shabbat Chazon and not hear echoes of the plights facing our own country today, and admit to the hard work that lies ahead of us to bring our nation back on track. In the news, we see children whose parents are torn from them and deported--- we see partners and friends whose loved ones have been killed without due process-- we see politicians from all parties who are openly greedy and self-serving and lining their own pockets with kickbacks. Orphans-- widows-- greed--corruption. These are precisely the markers of the broken community that Isaiah describes for us on Shabbat Chazon. And they have also been the markers of broken communities throughout history and around the world. This is a painfully universal message from our prophet this week. And it’s more than words on a page. Just this week, a three-year-old girl was made an orphan in Biddeford, and her mother, a widow. This is our country, and this is our state, and just like the Jerusalem being described in today’s haftarah, there are consequences for this level of brokenness, and we are all mutually responsible for what we will do about it. This is not a happy sermon. This is the day that the Lord has made, but I am not rejoicing today, and I am not happy in it. I am, frankly, quite brokenhearted. But I am not alone in my brokenheartedness, and neither are you. On Tuesday, Rabbi Braun and I stood outside of the ICE detention center in Scarborough with a dozen other clergy. Before we went, she and I lay tefillin together. When you wrap the straps of leather around your hand, you say, v’erastich li b’tzedek, u’b’mishpat, u’b’chesed’, u’b’rachamim , I bind you to me in justice, in law, in lovingkindness, and in mercy. And those were the qualities we were trying to embody outside of that detention center. We went to fulfill the mitzvah of actively pursuing justice-- tzedek, tzedek, tirdof ; to fill the world with lovingkindess, as my sign said, Love Your Neighbor; we went to advocate for fair enforcement of the law and due process; and we went to plea for mercy for the downtrodden and the marginalized, in a society that is too quick to shoot, and too afraid to see ourselves reflected in the eyes of the stranger. We went to protest, yes. But we also went because we still have hope. And we went because we have responsibility. And it is that same hope, and that same responsibility, which form the second, crucial, part of Isaiah’s message. Shabbat Chazon is called the Shabbat of Visioning because Isaiah, after lambasting us for our many sins, then describes a future world where a Third Temple has risen from the ruins, and where justice and mercy reign supreme. In this vision of the future, Isaiah describes how our people will have redeemed ourselves, and recommitted ourselves to living their values. As Rabbi Chaim Jachter wrote, “It is vitally important for us to hear the message of Isaiah before Tishah Be’Av …because our experience of Tishah Be’Av should not be one exclusively of mourning.” Indeed, in addition to outlining exactly how grave our sins have been, Isaiah offers us a blueprint for improvement-- not for how someone else will swoop in and save us, but for how we will redeem ourselves. The book of Isaiah says: “Wash yourselves clean; Put your evil doings Away from My sight. Cease to do evil;” “Learn to do good. Devote yourselves to justice; Aid the wronged. Uphold the rights of the orphan; Defend the cause of the widow.” I will restore your magistrates as of old, And your counselors as of yore. After that you shall be called City of Righteousness.” These are not just words for our ancestors. These are words for us, today. The book of Isaiah contains words of rebuke, yes. But they are also a sacred reminder of our own agency and our own sacred connection to each other, and of the fact that no matter how bad things may seem to get, we always have a choice and a say in bringing about a better future. A fairer future. A kinder future. A future more like what God would want us to have. I’ll leave us today with a quote from the Ramban. In his commentary on today’s Torah portion, as Moses began to reflect on B’nai Yisrael’s epic and complex journey through the wilderness, the Ramban muses that אֵין דֶּרֶךְ שֶׁאֵין בָּהּ עַקְמִימוּת. There is no path without crooked portions. In other words, all human life is complicated. All of our choices, all of our societies, and all of our relationships, and all of our stories, will have surprises, and challenges. There will be times we are proud of our actions, and times we are not. But now is not the time to stop trying, just because we are in the midst of a particularly crooked portion. Rather, now is the time to recommit ourselves to our sacred responsibilities, to hold each other accountable, and to be the ancestors our descendants need us to be, today. This is the day that the Lord has made. Let us go out and do good in it . Shabbat shalom.

Sermon given July 11, 2026. Shabbat shalom, everybody. It has been… a week. Quite a week. I actually had the pleasure this week of standing together with two dozen other faith leaders from around the state in Lewiston and speaking publicly about the nonpartisan interfaith efforts that are underway nationwide to get out the vote and prevent voter suppression. It was awesome. With my colleagues from other faiths, we shared how we each navigate the boundaries between discussions of faith and discussions of civic issues, including politics, and how the inherent gray spaces between religion and the electoral process can be challenging for everyone. One of the pastors I stood with this week shared that she approaches her pulpit with the attitude that it is her duty to speak to whatever it is that her congregants are wrestling with, whatever it is that is impacting their day-to-day lives. “If I refuse to ever talk politics”, she said, “that means that I am sometimes refusing to talk about my congregants’ pain.” And that resonated with me, especially this week. I don’t want to be a rabbi who always talks politics, because there is so much more to life and to Judaism. However, lately, I have indeed been moved to give several sermons about our political process in Maine, specifically because I see how deeply that process is impacting all of you, the congregants of this synagogue, and how much your worries and hopes and concerns are being influenced by what is happening within the political sphere. Before the recent primary, I highlighted a series of leadership lessons from the parasha B’haalot’cha, and drew parallels between the experiences of leadership our people faced while wandering in the desert, and the decisions we voters had to make while choosing candidates for a statewide leader now, in 2026. After the primary, I used the story of the spies scouting out the Promised Land as a reminder that trauma has lasting impacts on our decisions and actions, and I urged us all to remember that different people can respond to the same scenario in very different ways, reaching very different conclusions, just because of the life experiences we carry with us. And this week… well, this week is another difficult week for us as Mainers, as we navigate yet another surprise turn in the electoral process. I know that there are people here today and online who feel a wide variety of emotions about what has happened this week. And my goal is not to tell you how to feel, and not to shame or judge anyone for your reaction to these intense few days. It’s not to tell you how I feel, either. I firmly believe we are stronger for our diversity and our uniqueness, and that extends to our political beliefs, as long as we engage in our conversations about politics with good faith, and with open hearts and open minds. I also want to affirm, though, that we have a strength as Jews. And that strength is that we know that we are part of something bigger. We know, at the end of the day, that there is no single party or candidate that is bigger, deeper, or more important than that which goes beyond. And so, with that understanding, we are going to look together at this week’s Torah portion. We are going to look at the Torah portion through a lens of communal exhaustion, communal hopes, communal disappointments, and communal compromise. And through it all, I want us to keep coming back to the refrain that we are connected to each other, and to God, in a way that transcends anything that could happen in the ballot box. My hope is that, as with the previous two sermons during this election season, these words will provide us with a sacred framework for holding the difficult mix of feelings impacting our community, and will help guide us forward, after a series of sudden political shifts. This week’s Torah portion is a double one, Matot- Masei. Matot literally means “tribes”, and “Masei” means “journeys”. This sermon will mainly focus on the Matot portion, which is also what we read from today. We have, of course, been talking about Matot– talking about tribes, that is– pretty much nonstop for chapters and chapters and weeks and weeks. We’ve learned about how the different tribes of B’nai Yisrael marched and rested and communicated, how they divvied up tasks both ritual and non-religious, how certain tribes carried tent poles and certain tribes carried dolphin skins and certain tribes carried candelabras, and so on and so forth. While all of the tribes had certain things in common– common roots, common ancestry, and common experiences in slavery and then freedom– their day-to-day lives were not identical, and their priorities were not always the same. It is important to remember both how the different tribes were aligned and also how they were independent from one another. We’ve also learned in the past few weeks that not all tribes were happy with those differences, and with the divisions of labor and power that existed while our people wandered the desert. Just two weeks ago, we read the story of Korach, a charismatic leader who believed that the status quo was unjust. He was not alone– he brought others from his tribe with him, en masse, to confront Moses and to demand change. He successfully appealed to the emotions of his followers, and those followers clearly did not anticipate that his downfall– and theirs– would be swift and merciless. But although Korach’s case is the most infamous one, we also know that his was not the only circumstance where certain tribes, and certain leaders within those tribes, differed in their opinions of what the future of B’nai Yisrael should look like. Pinchas, last week, clearly thought that zealotry and violence were effective means to his ends. Meanwhile, other tribes disagreed, and wanted closer relations with outsiders. And in parashat Matot, this week, we see the tribes of Reuven and Gad somewhat shockingly announcing that after decades of wandering together in the wilderness, their families actually don’t want to settle in the Promised Land with the rest of the tribes after all, but would, in fact, prefer to stay on the eastern side of the Jordan, and make their future there. And this announcement, that their two tribes were going to take a different path than the others, was painful for Moses and the other Israelites to hear. They are clearly shaken. Moses, in fact, panics at this shock announcement. He immediately worries that the decisions of the tribes of Reuven and Gad will have dire consequences for the entire future of B’nai Yisrael. It is clear in this moment that Moses himself loses sight of the fact that we are all bound by something greater than any single tribe or its actions. Calling them sinful and dangerous, he even claims that by choosing a different path וְשִֽׁחַתֶּ֖ם לְכָל־הָעָ֥ם הַזֶּֽה “And you will destroy this entire people!” In other words, the shock announcement from Reuven and Gad shakes Moses so much that he is afraid that the entire dream of B’nai Yisrael, and the entire future he had envisioned for them, was over. And Moses’ fear makes sense. When a person or a group of people change their path in what seems to be an abrupt or unexpected manner from the outside, it can be unnerving. Whether we are talking about changing long-set plans, converting to another religion, coming out of the closet, revealing a deeply held secret, or another major change, other people often need time and space to adjust to the new reality. Parents, partners, children, and friends need space to let go of their old ideas about a person or a movement, and to get used to the new ideas. There may even be a grieving process, and a mourning process, as others let go of one type of dream or one type of a relationship, and begin to build a new one. And the other Matot, the other tribes in this week’s Torah portion, probably had to go through something similar when Reuven and Gad made that announcement. Moses certainly had to wrap his head around this choice. Clearly, it had been expected that all of the tribes would journey on together and build a future together. They were so close to the Promised Land– they had just scouted out to see it!-- and a better future must have seemed tantalizingly close. Hearing that that future would no longer look just like they had imagined it must have hurt. And in case I’m not laying this out obviously enough, I’m going to be blunt: there are people here today and online and in this congregation who are hurting right now in exactly this manner; people who are frustrated, and upset, and disappointed, because the future you had hoped for is no longer possible, not in the same way. And I hope that one of the things you’re hearing through these words is that you’re not alone in those feelings, as people, as citizens, or as Jews. There may even be people in our number who are identifying with the followers of Korach, whose strategy led not to success, but to being swallowed by the Earth. There may be people in our number who are scared, like Moses, and who worry that the shocks of the past week might mean destruction of an entire movement, or an entire dream. There may also be those of us who are full of relief this week, and that is another emotion to remember and honor. But if we stop our analysis and our empathy at this moment in the story, with the anger and frustration and fear, we are doing ourselves and our tradition a disservice, and we are missing out on a valuable lesson. Because as much as the tribes of Reuven and Gad did, indeed, pull the rug out from under their companions; as much as the vision for the future had to shift abruptly following their decision to settle on the East of the Jordan– as much as both of these things are true, that’s not the end of the story. Because the end of the story is actually that despite that decision, despite that shock, the Matot, the tribes, remained united when it mattered most. They just had to be willing to pivot, and to adapt, and to unite in a new way, around a slightly different dream. The tribes of Reuven and Gad communicated, and they compromised. They sacrificed immediate satisfaction and the home they wanted and instead promised to fight with their brethren. They did not take the easy way out; they did not refuse to do the messy work to find a new dream together. They did not disregard the very real fear and concern from the other tribes and from Moses. Again, in case the metaphor isn’t clear, I’m going to be blunt: no matter what you are feeling today, whether it is anger and frustration, whether it is relief, whether it is Schadenfreude, whether it is just utter exhaustion– this isn’t the end of the story or the process for our state and its leadership, or this country, or us as a people, and the only way forward is to listen to each other. To let go of older visions of dreams that are no longer viable, and to lean towards compromise. The bigger picture are key. This is true when we are talking about multiple political parties learning to work together, and it’s also true when we are talking about different groups within the same political party. Surprises will happen. Shock and fear will happen. The question is, how do we respond to those shocks and those fears, and does the process lead to greater connection, or to greater division? And through it all, can we remember that there is no one party, no one person, and no one idea that will bring the ultimate answer? It is not upon us to finish the work, but neither may we desist from it. As citizens, it can feel like we are in different tribes, in different camps, in different Matot. It certainly feels that way whenever we are handed a ballot and have to choose between this name or this name or this name. Catchy slogans, colorful flags, all of these things can make us feel good and like we belong to a special group amongst the masses. But the masses are tied together in an even deeper way. Just like the twelve tribes in the desert, we have to be able to set aside our flags, and our slogans, and come together when there is a greater cause, and a bigger challenge to face. The health of our community, our synagogue, our state, our nation, is always going to be bigger than one candidate or one dream. It is a precious thing to be a part of a tribe. But it’s an even more precious thing to be part of an Am, part of a people. Our ancestors knew this, and they still made it to the Promised Land, in the end. They didn’t have to give up on their dream because it changed– they just had to be willing to dream it slightly differently. And the same is true for us, as citizens of this state. We have to learn the lesson our ancestors did– and we have to be willing, too, to dream a new dream, and to dream it together. Shabbat shalom.