Sermon given August 2, 2025  ONE. God is all powerful. TWO. God is all knowing. THREE. God is all good, and FOUR. Unjustified suffering exists in the world. You may choose three. This is how Rabbi Elliott Dorff, the rector of my rabbinical school, opened his senior seminar. On the first day of class, Rabbi Dorff wrote those four points on the board and asked us which one we were willing to sacrifice in order to have a sustainable personal theology. Again, the problem is this: there are four statements, but only any three of them can actually theologically co-exist in harmony. I’ll say them again: 1. God is all powerful 2. God is all knowing 3. God is all good 4. There is unjustified suffering in the world. Think about it. If God is all-powerful, all-knowing, and all-good, how do we explain the existence of unjustified suffering? It’s a classic question. Wouldn’t an all-good, all-powerful, all-knowing God be able to swoop in and save people who are experiencing unjustified suffering? Alternatively, if we were to say that unjustified suffering didn’t exist, that is to say, if we claim that all suffering IS justified, then yes, we could reconcile the other three statements. Whether we were talking about a skinned knee or a murder spree or a rare disease or a war or a massacre, we could just say: this is part of God’s plan and therefore it is justified. But you may be able to tell by my tone of voice that that argument does not cut it for me. At all. A god who in any way uses, say, the mass murder as a “justified” punishment is not a God I would be comfortable praising. And that’s exactly why lots of Jews stopped believing in God, in the wake of the Holocaust. Many Jews stopped believing, stopped practicing, stopped identifying as Jewish, or simply seethed in anger at God for what had happened. Because there was no escaping the fact that unjustified suffering had occurred, to us and to our children, and that God had not prevented it from happening. Our traditional theology needed an update. Tonight we will double down on the theme of suffering as we enter into the unique spiritual space of Tisha B’Av. We will sit on the floor in the small chapel, light candles, and grapple with the traumas our people have faced over the millennia: the destruction of two Temples, countless pogroms and expulsions and massacres, and in modern times, the Holocaust and October 7th and more. And contained within any discussion of suffering has to be the question– where is God’s responsibility in this, and where is ours? Because violent antisemitism is the definition of unjustified suffering. To be hated just for who we are. And it is not only historical. It is part of the world you and I live in as Jews, part of the world we are raising the next generation of Jews within, and that makes our observance of Tisha B’av this year not only a theoretical spiritual journey, or an obligatory one, but a real and personal one. How do WE, personally, reconcile our own generation’s immense suffering, in addition to the Jews throughout history, with our belief in God? Tonight we will also read the book of Eicha, of Lamentations, which describes the destruction of the Temple and the sacking of Jerusalem thousands of years ago. The name Eicha literally means “ how ?”, as in, how could God have let so many awful things happen to us? How could a God who is all-good allow for such hateful actions in the first place, including the slaughter of children? How could a God who is all-powerful not step in and fix the situation so that massacres didn’t occur? How could a God who is all-knowing not see the harm that would come long-term by allowing such vitriol to fester in the hearts of us humans? How - Eicha? Well, God as portrayed in the book of Lamentations certainly has a plan, and certainly is in control. But I don’t know if I would call this God all-good, or all-kind. In Lamentations, the suffering of the Jewish people is clearly portrayed as a very painful but also Divinely-sanctioned punishment for our own misdeeds. We will read tonight: הָי֨וּ צָרֶ֤יהָ לְרֹאשׁ֙ אֹיְבֶ֣יהָ שָׁל֔וּ כִּֽי־יְהֹוָ֥ה הוֹגָ֖הּ עַ֣ל רֹב־פְּשָׁעֶ֑יהָ עוֹלָלֶ֛יהָ הָלְכ֥וּ שְׁבִ֖י לִפְנֵי־צָֽר׃ {ס} [Zion’s] enemies are now her masters, Her foes are at ease, Because the LORD has afflicted her For her many transgressions; Her infants have gone into captivity Before the enemy. This concept of a punitive yet righteous God is reinforced by countless examples from Scripture. We know these stories. In the Torah, God is sometimes wrathful, God wipes out civilizations, God turns people into pillars of salt, God commands Abraham to sacrifice Isaac, and tells B’nai Yisrael to slaughter other cultures. God as portrayed in the Torah is not always patient, not always kind, not always forgiving. Now, on the one hand, this view can be accessible and even reassuring for people, because A) it lines up with a simple reading of the Bible and B) it means that God has a plan. God’s in charge! On the other hand, the problem with seeing God like this is that it’s really hard, in times of pain, to turn for comfort to a God who is not all-good or all-merciful or all-loving. This is why, throughout history, many famous Jewish thinkers have wrestled with how God is portrayed in the Torah. Some sages have preferred instead to preserve God’s goodness and mercy, at the expense of God’s omnipotence. Rabbi Akiva was one such proponent of emphasizing God’s mercy above all. He famously stated that the most important imperative in the Torah is to love. In Pirkei Avot, Rabbi Akiva is quoted as saying: הַכֹּל צָפוּי, וְהָרְשׁוּת נְתוּנָה, וּבְטוֹב הָעוֹלָם נִדּוֹן. Everything is foreseen, and freewill is given; and the world is judged in Goodness. Modern thinkers like philosopher Eugene Borowitz and Rabbis Harold Shulweis and Kushner agreed. In his well-known book, When Bad Things Happen to Good People, Rabbi Kushner says “”The God I believe in does not send us the problem; He gives us the strength to cope with the problem.” Does that match Scripture? Not exactly. But, by allowing limits to God’s power, these rabbis allow suffering to be seen not as punishment, but rather as a side effect of nature and of humans having free will and the ability to do evil– whereas God becomes the ultimate source, instead, of relief and comfort. Of course, there’s a downside to this view too. The problem with this view of God is that it takes away the ability to say “everything is part of God’s plan.” See? It’s quite a dilemma. What are we supposed to believe? Again, as Jews we usually steer around this discussion and focus on other parts of our tradition. But do we really have to choose one or the other? Do we have to choose either a God who has a plan and is in charge and is therefore the source of suffering, or a God who is the ultimate source of goodness and love, but who doesn’t have the power to stop our suffering? As we prepare for Tisha B’av today, and as we continue to sit with the ongoing pain and anguish over what is happening in the Middle East, over the deep tears in the social fabric of the United States, I’d like to offer a third option. It’s very similar to the view held by Rabbis Akiva, Shulweis, and Kushner. This solution supports the idea of God being all-good. For the purpose of my theology, though, God doesn’t have a plan– God has a hope . And instead, it’s up to us, as the humans, to take action. In this theology, God has a deep-seated, pervasive hope, an ache, a longing, a desire for peace in the universe, peace in the world, and peace throughout our lives. That hope, in this theology, is one of God’s key attributes, and it pulses through everything in the universe. It pulses through commands in the Torah and pulses through the rituals and services we have developed over millennia. But the kicker of this theology is that God both deeply hopes for peace, AND wants to have partners in creating that peace, and partners in bringing healing to a hurting world– which is where we humans and our pesky free will come into the equation. It’s up to us to act, not to God. This means that when we humans choose to pursue peace, and love, and justice, we are choosing to tap into the holiest portions of ourselves, the part that is closest to God’s deepest hope, that part that is most b’tzelehm elohim. The flipside, of course, is that unfortunately, when we humans choose to pursue violence and possessiveness and death, we drag the world further away from what God is hoping for. We can plan for the good of one another, or we can plan for destruction. We can plan for nuance and compassion and sacrifice, or we can plan for selfishness and exclusion. Either way, in this third theology, it is humans, and not God, who will determine the outcome of our interactions. And in honor of Tisha B’av, I’d like to name that there is an additional grief that we are carrying today, and that this third theology can help us address. Because in 2025, Tisha B’av is different than it was hundreds of years ago. We are in an overly-connected, social media-driven world, full of sound bites and tik toks and AI deepfakes. This year, for Tisha B’av, in addition to our grief over the loss of the Temple, and in addition to the pogroms throughout history, and the Holocaust, and October 7th–we are also looking at a human family that has absolutely no consensus as to how to bring about a better world, and is OBSESSIVELY focused on everything that is going wrong. In fact, studies are showing growing levels of general discontent, increasing isolation from social support, and pervasive concern over what the future will bring economically, socially, politically. People are unaffiliating religiously, distancing themself from the support of their communities. Rhetoric in the public sphere has become increasingly dangerous; attacks on public figures and violent graffiti are becoming commonplace. And this is, perhaps, one of the deepest griefs that we will sit with tonight: the grief that comes from looking around us and seeing the world go in a direction we aren’t comfortable with. Seeing so many people, regular folks and powerful folks all around the world, making choices not to be partners with God in bringing about peace. As I have met with TBE congregants, several of you have reflected to me that you are scared for the future and for your children growing up, scared about what is going to happen to our country and to us as Jews. You are not alone. And this is where it can help to see God as the ultimate source of Hope, and ourselves as the source of Action. Because collectively, as a species, we have no plan, and we won’t know where to start– yet. But. We have an opportunity, beginning tonight. With Tisha B’av this evening, we kick off our lead-up to the High Holidays, embarking on a journey of meaning and meaningful pain: of repentance and forgiveness, of reckoning. And tonight, we also can start, as individuals and as a community, to ask ourselves: what is our plan? How are we going to do our part to heal this hurting world, as individuals and as a synagogue community? Are we ready to do the individual soul-searching necessary to affirm what kind of a God we believe in, and what role our roots in sacred community could play in bringing about a better tomorrow? This can be scary. These are big thoughts. But the first good news is that we are not alone. And the second piece of good news is that we certainly do not have to be all-knowing or all-good to do our part. We just have to be our imperfect human selves, committed to leaning into the holiest parts of who we are. And if we do this, if we do our part, then God willing, next Tisha B’av we might carry a tiny bit less grief in our hearts. Shabbat shalom.

Sermon given July 26, 2025 Shabbat Shalom, everybody. This Shabbat, we find ourselves at the end of Bamidbar– about to begin the book of Deuteronomy. Our ancestors are standing at the edge of the Promised Land, after years and years of travelling and infighting and plagues and manna falling from the sky. Can you imagine what that must have felt like? Our ancestors knew they were approaching what would become, one day, Israel– approaching the Jordan River, ready to leave slavery and homelessness behind them and settle in what would become our homeland. But suddenly, there on the edge of the Promised Land, the tribes of Reuven and Gad decided to shake things up. With the Promised Land tantalizingly close, and the other ten tribes raring to go, Reuven and Gad pulled Moses aside and shared that actually, they didn’t want to enter the Promised Land after all. After everything they had gone through with the other Israelites, they told Moses they would rather stay on the East side of the River, and raise their livestock there. And Moses, quite understandably, was extremely upset. This was not the plan, nor was it how everyone else was reacting to their arrival outside of Eretz Yisrael. He warned the tribes of Reuven and Gad that they would bring God’s wrath down upon the Israelites if they didn’t cross the Jordan, and reminded them of others who had gone against God’s will and paid the price. But Reuven and Gad were not swayed. They continue bravely arguing their case, ultimately offering a compromise. They promised to fight alongside the other tribes to conquer the land of Israel, but reiterated that their personal wish was to return east of the Jordan River, and live the life of their choosing there. They promised: לֹ֥א נָשׁ֖וּב אֶל־בָּתֵּ֑ינוּ עַ֗ד הִתְנַחֵל֙ בְּנֵ֣י יִשְׂרָאֵ֔ל אִ֖ישׁ נַֽחֲלָתֽוֹ: We shall not return to our land until each other Israelite has received their land. And fascinatingly, once they make this concession, Moses– and God– agree to this deal. And everyone lived happily ever after (except for Moses, of course, who didn’t get to see the Promised Land.) On a zoomed-out level, the request made by the tribes of Reuven and Gad was surprisingly chutzpadik. It also calls into question a core Jewish tenant: what it means to be connected to the Promised Land itself, and whether or not there are multiple legitimate ways to support Israel. Because there on the banks of the Jordan, Reuven and Gad essentially said to the rest of the tribes, “We care about the Promised Land, and we will support you in your quest for it, but our hearts are calling us in a different direction.” And in ways I could never have anticipated, this fascinating story from our Torah, the contention between the tribes, the understandable anger of Moses, the bravery of Reuven and Gad, and the wrestling towards compromise, directly mirrors some of the intra-Jewish tension that has been building within us as a community since Hamas attacked on October 7, 2023, and the war ensued. Because we sure don’t all have the same vision of the Promised Land right now. In this room, in this state, in this country, in this world. There is wide, and deep, disagreement among Jews all over the world about what Israel should and shouldn’t be doing, and what we as American Jews should or shouldn’t be doing about any of it. And at the heart of the matter is an uncomfortable, yet deeply important truth, which the tribes of Reuven and Gad remind us has been a part of our people for thousands of years: the truth that not only has there ALWAYS been disagreement among our people over how to relate to Israel, but that that’s OK. There is a way for us to navigate this sacred disagreement. Not only is it OK for us to disagree, but, as demonstrated in our Torah portion, as long as we can find the core values that unite us, as Reuven and Gad did, our disagreements do not have to tear us apart, even when they hurt. There’s a special name for sacred disagreement in Judaism, machloket l’shem shamayim, an argument for the sake of heaven. And this type of argument, this type of machloket, is especially hard to navigate in a caring community like this one, that values its members holding a variety of beliefs about all kinds of things. I’ve been at TBE for a month this week. In that time, I’ve had congregants and staff members share with me that they are nervous or scared to talk about Israel and the War in Gaza with their friends and family, let alone to speak up at shul. And you know what? That makes sense to me, because it’s not easy for me, either. It’s hard to speak up when we know that the people we care about the most might disagree with us. But as your Rabbi, if I want all of us to be brave, and I want us all to be able to have difficult discussions about the things that pull at our hearts, then I need to model that bravery first. And that is what I would like to do today. I’d like to tell you about something I did this week. This week, I signed a letter, a public letters, written by three international rabbinic colleagues across denominations and signed, as of when Shabbat came in last night, by over 750 other rabbis around the world, including several of my colleagues here in Maine. Part of the power of this particular letter is in that it does not compromise on our shared connection to Israel. As a Zionist, this is important to me, and it echoes Reuven and Gad’s willingness to support Israel even when they did not feel the same way about it that the other tribes did. The letter clearly affirms Israel’s right to exist and defend itself, along with acknowledging the existential threats over which Israel truly has no direct power. It names the evil that is Hamas, and calls for the return of the remaining hostages. And yet, the letter does not stop there. Instead, it names the areas where Israel does, indeed, have power and influence over the outcome of the situation. Specifically, the letter addresses the piles of food aid waiting outside of Gaza. The letter continues, and I quote: “In the name of the sanctity of life, of the core Torah value[...] that every person is created in God’s image[...] In the name of what the Jewish People has learnt bitterly from history as the victim, time and again,[...] In the name of the moral reputation not just of Israel, but of Judaism itself, the Judaism to which our lives are devoted, We call upon the Prime Minister and the Government of Israel To respect all innocent life; To stop at once the use and threat of starvation as a weapon of war; [and] To allow extensive humanitarian aid, under international supervision, while guarding against control or theft by Hamas;” Interestingly, the leadership of the Conservative Movement, to which TBE is affiliated, also decided to release a statement this week, calling on Israel to allow food aid into Gaza. It said, and I quote, “Even though we believe that Hamas could end this conflict immediately by releasing the hostages and providing care to its civilian population, the Israeli government must still do everything in its power to ensure humanitarian aid reaches those in need.” As a Zionist, as a Rabbi, and as a Jew, I believe it is important that any discussion of Israel be grounded in love, in ahavat Yisrael. And yet, like how Reuven and Gad disagreed with the other tribes about what kind of connection they and their descendants should have to the land, so too Zionists disagree amongst ourselves about what that ahavat Yisrael should look like. The Midrash in Bereshit Rabbah teaches us that: כל אהבה שאין עמה תוכחה, אינה אהבה. That any true love must contain within it the ability to remind each other when we fall short. As for me, I believe that Zionism, and Ahavat Yisrael– a true love of Israel– must include within them both an appreciation of the many things Israel does right (such as its democracy, its pursuit of human rights, and its innovations and inventions) as well as tochecha, or loving rebuke, when it does not live up to its own ideals. I believe that to love anything truly is to be able to speak up when we believe it isn’t being its best self. And I cannot look at what is happening to thousands of children in Gaza right now, or hear the openly racist and hateful rhetoric coming from some of the top lawmakers in Israel right now as they discuss the plight of the Gazans, and say that I believe Israel is being its best self at this moment. My heart has been broken since October 7 in a way that I don’t think will ever completely heal, and I know that I am not alone in that. The evil that Jews and Israelis in particular face from all sides is real and horrific. And at the same time, my heart has broken in new ways in the past months as the numbers and images of gaunt Gazans and the testimony of IDF soldiers being ordered to do things that go against their conscience have become public. My heart breaks for those soldiers, too, who out of love for their own people are being put into a situation that is deeply unfair to their own physical and emotional well-being. The status quo is hurting both Gazans and Israelis in the short term AND in the long term. This isn’t easy to say, but I believe I must. I find myself turning deeply to Torah in moments like this, because I know we are not the first humans or Jews to face difficult moments. As I speak today, I am trying to channel Reuven and Gad. I find myself, as I stand before you and share these words, hoping for the courage that they must have needed to approach Moses and say “We want a different way.” For the past two years, as we have read through the cycle of our holiest book, the plight of the hostages, the Israelis, the Gazans, and everyone impacted by the conflict has been near to our hearts. When in Genesis, Abel’s blood cries out from the Earth, we thought about this conflict. When in the desert, the Israelites cried out to God in fear and hunger, we thought of hostages wasting away in tunnels and the children above ground without access to nutrients. When in Leviticus, God tells us, v’ahavta l’reicha ca’mocha, you shall love your neighbor as yourself– what could we do, but think of this awful, awful conflict, and think of all of us? And when we opened our doors at our Seders this year, and we said, Let all who are hungry come and eat– we had to think of this conflict, and of the hostages, and the children without food amidst the rubble. Our own spiritual suffering has grown. Are these just words, or do we mean them? Are we comfortable having caveats on our deepest spiritual obligations to one another as human beings? I have to believe, as a rabbi, that there is not a limit to the compassion and love we can put into the world. I have to believe that saving a life, any life, especially the life of a child, is a priceless gift, and a sacred act. In the spirit of engaging in machloket l’shem shamayim, I offer my conclusions today as my own, as a starting point for future discussion, in the hope that as a community we can openly wrestle with this, and openly name the core values that we share. I know that this community has a wide variety of beliefs about Israel, and I want you to know that my door, my ears, and my heart are open to all of you. I do not have a monopoly on what is right or what is wrong. I do not know how to get the hostages back, though I desperately wish I did. I do not know how to guarantee Israel’s safety in the future, though I desperately wish I did. I know there is great disagreement within the Jewish community about how to proceed, and none of us know what will happen next. But what I am certain of is that allowing children to starve will not bring about the Promised Land any of us are hoping for. Shabbat shalom, my friends. 

Sermon given July 19, 2025 Shabbat shalom, everybody! Exhibit A: A few weeks ago, a child in the TBE community asked me what my cat’s pronouns were. This, first of all, absolutely delighted me. It also showed me that this is a community that so values honoring a person’s sense of self that our kids are applying those values across species. Exhibit B: There is a rainbow flag hanging in the window in my office. I did not put it there. Rabbi Estrin did not put it there. No, Rabbi Braun put it there– meaning it has now graced the offices of three TBE rabbis in a row– and this teaches me that it is ingrained in this congregation’s culture to proudly and publicly support marginalized individuals and to celebrate diversity and identity, even before it’s popular. This is a congregation that demonstrates that we are ALL made b’tzelem elohim, in God’s image. Exhibit C: Elijah’s chair, a ritual piece of furniture used to welcome babies into the covenant, also sits in my office. TBE’s version of Elijah’s chair was hand-painted and decorated with colors and flowers by TBE’s children. Unlike other Elijah’s chairs I’ve seen, which have been more ornate, or larger, or covered in rich fabrics– TBE’s Elijah’s chair is handmade and wooden. It is humble, collective, beautiful, and one-of-a-kind– and it reflects the multi-generational joy and heimisch nature of this synagogue. And finally, Exhibit D: A week after moving to Portland, I had the first-time experience of buying kosher meat out of an unmarked van in a parking lot. This taught me that the Jewish community in Portland is willing to go to great lengths to remain connected to our traditions, while also living here, and being present here, living lives both in a uniquely Jewish way and also deeply intertwined with the other Mainers and from-away-ers around us. Each of these experiences has given me a glimpse into the communal values of TBE, and what I have learned makes me feel honored to count myself as one of you. Now, we’ve had a rich set of Torah portions recently, and they’ve all been ones that inspire us to take a look at our communal values. Two weeks ago, Parashat Chukat opened the door for a discussion about approaching transitions in a way that reflects our values; last week, Parashat Balak inspired a conversation about how to live our values when under duress, or in the face of a culture or leadership that is telling us to act against what we deeply believe. This week continues the trend, but in a slightly different way. This week, we are going to focus in on one specific ancient value in our Torah– a specific and difficult value– and then examine how it can relate to us today. It just so happens that this is a value that, while hard to stomach, is also one I believe TBE excels at. It’s a value which is embedded in a very rich and detailed parasha, including the aftermath of Pinchas’ bloody and zealous actions; a thorough census of the Israelites; the actions of the brave daughters of Tzelophehad, advocating for themselves in the face of misogyny; and Joshua, son of Nun, being tapped to be the next leader of B’nai Yisrael after Moses’ passing. But then abruptly, when we reach the final chunk of Parashat Pinchas, which, thanks to our triennial Torah reading pattern is what we just read this week, things change. There’s no more narrative, no more stories. Instead, you and I just heard seven aliyot, plus a maftir, full of a review of the major holidays: Passover, Sukkot, Shavuot, Rosh Hashanah, etc., and listing off every single one of their corresponding sacrifices– seven he-goats here, twelve rams there, two bulls there. And I don’t know about you, but nothing gets me more in the Shabbat state of mind than reading seven aliyot about animal sacrifices. Because sacrifice, in all its messiness, is the value we are going to focus on today. The sacrifices our Torah describes are numerous, and bloody, and can be incredibly difficult for us as modern Jews to relate to. This is both because, ever since the destruction of the Temple, animal sacrifice has been replaced with thrice-daily prayer services, to which we are now accustomed; and partially because our sense of collective morals and responsibility have evolved. And yet– there is no denying that for our ancestors, sacrifices would have been a normal, routine, intense part of life. The root of the word korban, or sacrifice, is the same as karov, being close to something. And this makes sense, because for our ancestors in the desert, sacrifices would have been the practical way to be closest to God, by sending up the smoke, the reach nichoach (the pleasing scent) to the Holy One. Regularly practicing sacrifice would have been a core value to them. And it was a core value even though it meant giving up property and security. Because even millennia ago, our fledgling society grasped the truth that sometimes, giving up resources, whether to communal causes or to God, has deep value. The urge to belong to something beyond ourselves, and give of ourselves on its behalf, that is, to sacrifice for it, is in fact one of the most human things we do. Because ultimately, that’s what sacrifice is: doing something we don’t want to do, or giving something up that we want, in the name of something bigger than ourselves, something beyond us that is so important to us. I mean, consider the alternative to sacrifice. Imagine, for a moment, how it would be if we lived in a world where none of us were beholden to anything beyond ourselves. Imagine living a life where you didn’t believe anything was worth sacrificing for– where there was nobody you would lay your life down for, let alone be willing to sacrifice money and time and resources for. Imagine never, ever having a cause you believed in so strongly that you wanted to march or protest for or donate to, sacrificing time and energy and funds. Imagine not having a community like this one, whose success you were invested in, and which tied you into both the past and the future, and for which you were also prepared to sacrifice. The Midrash in Sifrei Bamidbar explains to us that the frequent use of verbs conjugated in the plural in Parashat Pinchas while discussing sacrifice means that, quote שיהו כהנים ולוים וישראלים עומדים עליהם That not just the priests, and not just the Levites, but ALSO regular, good-old-fashioned “Jews in the Pews” from B’nai Yisrael were present for and involved in the process of sacrifice. This was something the priests were responsible for carrying out, yes, but each member of the Israelite people was bound into the system. To actively belong to something means to be ready to give to something, to sacrifice to something, and that is a reality that touches every. Single. Member. Of this community. At the beginning of this sermon, I mentioned that I think that sacrifice is a value that TBE excels at. Of course, I don’t mean that we excel at killing animals– chass v’shalom. What I meant was that it is clear from me, even after only three weeks as your rabbi, that TBE is a community built by Jews who want to live intentionally connected, intentionally mutually supportive lives, and you demonstrate this in myriad ways. This is also a community that intrinsically understands the conclusion from Sifrei Bamidbar– that it is incumbent upon all of us, not just on our leadership, to be a part of these sacrifices. You’ll recall that I also started this sermon with a list of ways that the citizens of TBE have already charmed me. The common thread through each occurrence I named, though– the respectful curiosity, the cross-generational joy, the respect of the identities of others, even the van full of kosher meat in a parking lot– is the fact that this synagogue’s existence and success was built and is maintained by countless tiny decisions made by all its members, every day, that respect the rights and dignity of others, and sacrifice our human desire to be the fastest, the richest, the ones on top. As Jews and as citizens of the world, we are offered endless opportunities– whether in how we eat, how we speak, how we donate our money, how we spend our time– opportunities, every single day, to make ancient values new again, to make them our own. But interwoven in these opportunities is the ancient value of sacrifice, pervasive in our Torah. And I see countless ways that members of the TBE community are embodying the value of sacrifice, in big and little ways. Everyone here today, and everyone watching online, has sacrificed a Saturday morning to be in community. When we dedicate ourselves to prayer and to showing up for synagogue activities, we are sacrificing time and energy in order to keep ourselves and the Jewish people alive and spiritually nourished. When we give money in dues, in donations, and to causes we believe in, we are sacrificing our funds in order to build a better world. TBE members have been incredibly generous, both in annual campaigns and targeted giving, supporting the greater community and each other. And yet one of the most impressive types of sacrifice I have witnessed already in my time at TBE is the crucial social sacrifice required to peacefully and respectfully exist in community with those who have different viewpoints. I have delighted in my meetings with congregants and leadership so far at TBE, who have not only expressed a wide variety of opinions and beliefs regarding everything from halacha to Israel to politics to kashrut, but who are also eager to establish classes, discussions, and safe Jewish spaces specifically so that we can explore these and our differing opinions topics together. And this, too, is sacrifice. Because on some level, we all want to be right, and we want to be supported in our beliefs and surrounded by people who agree with us. That means that when we make the choice to give grace during an argument, or to bite our tongue before lashing out, or to put in the extra effort to find a compromise, we are in fact sacrificing the desire to be right in order to be in community and in relationship to one another. These are difficult times for our country and world, and sacrificing our urge to dig in our heels and stubbornly refuse to compromise is not only a gift to each other, it is brave. It is counter-cultural. And it is sacred. And with the current state of the world, the country, war in the Middle East, and the deep social divides across the board, it is likely that in the coming months we will in fact be asked to sacrifice even more. More time. More resources. More energy. We will be called on to model again and again, for ourselves and others, the social and conversational and communal sacrifices necessary to remain a safe and pluralistic space during this difficult time. And there will be times when some of us have more or less to give, and vice versa— whether we are talking about funds, or brainpower, or heart-and-soul power. We will all have moments where we say, I cannot give anymore. And where others will have to step up and say, that’s ok, right now, I can give more. As we prepare to face the months ahead, I bless us all with the reminder of how lucky we are to have each other and this community and this society— that is to say, how lucky we are to have things worth sacrificing for. And there is no other place I would rather be than right here, making those sacrifices with all of you. Shabbat shalom.

Sermon given July 12, 2025 Shabbat shalom, everybody. I’m Rabbi Simmons, and I’m very happy to be here today with all of you. There are all kinds of things I could share about myself in this moment– how I’m from the DC area, how my new life goal is to see a moose, how I have two cats named Kohelet and Galilee, how my pronouns are they or she, how I love singing Adon Olam to Disney melodies and my favorite trope is Eicha– but there will be lots of time for fun rabbi facts in the weeks to come, and Torah waits for no one. Let’s just suffice to say that I feel so lucky to be your new Rabbi, and I very much would like to get to know each of you and your stories and questions and ideas. For those of you who were here last Shabbat, or if you had the opportunity to watch online or to read the text of my first sermon in the weekly email, you’ll know that last week I spoke about sacred transitions, and about how important it is for us as a community to be intentional as we navigate our current transition together. Using the story of the transition from one High Priest to another in our Torah portion, we explored how transitions in general are opportunities to honor the past, to feel the emotions we are holding in this moment, and also to intentionally commit to moving forward together, turning towards one another in times of both joy and challenge. And if all of that sounds like it’s right up your alley, I have good news for you– we are still going through a big transition, and we will be for a good while– so this is an ongoing conversation and theme, and one which will undoubtedly continue to influence us all in the coming months. However, this week in particular I’d like to pivot a little in our sermon focus. Our Torah portion for this week, Balak, is fascinating in a different way– it has everything from blessings to curses to an invisible angel to a talking Donkey. More importantly, though, this week’s Torah portion offers us a main Character, Bilaam, who is in spiritual crisis, who is being ordered by a person in power to do something he is not comfortable with, something that goes against his own convictions. Our Torah this week offers a model of someone who is actively balancing his respect for human authority and power structures with his sacred bond to God and humanity and his own conscience. And it is that kind of struggle, and that kind of balance, that we are going to focus on in our sermon today. To set the stage for our Torah portion, Balak, the Moabite king, is afraid. He sees the large number of Israelites encamped near his peoples’ borders and, out of fear, he orders the prophet Bilaam to curse them. Bilaam, as a private citizen, has to figure out how to respond to this order from his leader. The king clearly has great faith in the power of Bilaam’s words, saying כִּ֣י יָדַ֗עְתִּי אֵ֤ת אֲשֶׁר־תְּבָרֵךְ֙ מְבֹרָ֔ךְ וַֽאֲשֶׁ֥ר תָּאֹ֖ר יוּאָֽר: "I know that whomever you bless will be blessed, and whomever you curse will be cursed.” No pressure, right? We can certainly imagine how Bilaam must have felt when he received this command. He was being ordered by his leader to harm others. Others he did not know personally. He was being told that harming these others would improve the safety and security of his own people. Our commentator Sforno also points out that it was a telling choice made by the King to ask Bilaam to curse the Israelites, instead of asking Bilaam to bless the Moabites. Bilaam, as the King acknowledged, had the power to either bless or curse. Imagine how the King’s choice influenced the rest of the story, and how our story may have been different had the king focused instead of putting more blessings out into the world– but I digress. Ultimately, the King made his choice, to move forward with an agenda of cursing– and this choice impacted what followed. Meaning that Bilaam was placed in a very difficult position. And faced with such a difficult set of instructions, Bilaam models nuance and caution. His immediate reaction is neither agreement nor condemnation. Instead, he says that he wants to wait before acting: he wants to pray, to talk to God, to think, to gather information. He says to the messengers from the King, who bore him news of the command to curse the Israelites, quote: לִ֤ינוּ פֹה֙ הַלַּ֔יְלָה וַֽהֲשִֽׁבֹתִ֤י אֶתְכֶם֙ דָּבָ֔ר כַּֽאֲשֶׁ֛ר יְדַבֵּ֥ר יְהֹוָ֖ה אֵלָ֑י "Stay here for the night, and I will let you know what God tells me to do.” From the beginning, then, Bilaam demonstrates how we must look within ourselves to balance our immediate loyalty to our human leaders with our loyalty to an even greater authority– in this case, to God. Of course, the word God here could be replaced with morals, or ethics, or common decency– but regardless, Bilaam understands that there will be multiple factors informing his decision, and that he is not only beholden to the wishes of his king, but also to his own conscience and to humanity. And as it turns out, once Bilaam has slept and prayed and spoken to God, he refuses to curse the Israelites, even though his king has commanded him to do so. In fact, he states that he can only do whatever God allows him to. This must have taken a lot of bravery– it’s not easy to stand up to human authority, especially a king. And when the messengers return to the King to report Bilaam’s refusal, the king persists, not accepting “No” as a valid answer, which would have added to Bilaam’s discomfort. When ultimately, after further pressure, Bilaam unhappily agrees to go with King Balak, albeit with God’s permission, he still makes a point of expressing yet again to the king that while he will go along, he can still only say what God allows him to say. So, what happens when the King and Bilaam arrive at a mountain overlooking the Israelites’ encampment, and the King yet again orders Bilaam to curse the masses below? As the two men stand there, building pyres for burnt offerings, and Bilaam’s commander-in-chief yet again demands that he harm the group of humans who are different from them, what does Bilaam do that is so impressive? What does he do that can teach us, and inspire us, toady? He becomes, quite frankly, a spiritual broken record. Again, and again, and again, as King Balak and Bilaam move from vantage point to vantage point around the camps of the Israelites, as the King persists and persists and persists with his agenda of cursing, of wanting to weaken and harm the Israelites, Bilaam instead blesses the Israelites, and repeats himself to his king, reiterating: הַדָּבָ֗ר אֲשֶׁ֨ר יָשִׂ֧ים אֱלֹהִ֛ים בְּפִ֖י אֹת֥וֹ אֲדַבֵּֽר: That which God puts in my mouth, I will say. And then: הֲלֹ֗א אֵת֩ אֲשֶׁ֨ר יָשִׂ֤ים יְהֹוָה֙ בְּפִ֔י אֹת֥וֹ אֶשְׁמֹ֖ר לְדַבֵּֽר: Isn’t what God puts in my mouth what I will say? And finally, הֲלֹ֗א דִּבַּ֤רְתִּי אֵלֶ֨יךָ֙ לֵאמֹ֔ר כֹּ֛ל אֲשֶׁר־יְדַבֵּ֥ר יְהֹוָ֖ה אֹת֥וֹ אֶֽעֱשֶֽׂה: Did I not tell you that that which God says is what I will do? This must have been downright terrifying for Bilaam. I want to say to him a hearty “Kol HaKavod”, well done. Respect. Because Bilaam identified his boundaries. He identified his values. And he stood by them. Again. And again. And again. Even in the face of an authority who had the power to harm him, and who was not hearing his words, he stood up for what he believed in. Bilaam is not offering us a blueprint for widespread revolution here– he is offering us a blueprint for individual, intentional, meaningful spiritual resistance. The kind of resistance that each of us has the power to enact in our own lives, should we ever feel similar pressure to what Bilaam faced in the Torah this week. Because the kind of struggle he felt is actually a deeply human type of struggle, a timeless struggle, one many of us have probably felt at some point in our lives. And the beauty of being part of such an ancient people is that we can look to our tradition, and look to our texts, for guidance and for chizzuk, for strength, on how to make choices and take actions we can stand behind, when faced with painful moral dilemmas. Because even though it isn’t easy, or comfortable, it is incumbent upon all of us, each and every one of us, both as individuals and as communities, To take the time and effort to identify what our core values are, And to practice having those values guide our speech, And to practice having those values guide our actions, Over and over and over, just like Bilaam did, until it is our nature, until it is who we are, until we are known by those values, until those values are the essence of who we are. And yes, it’s hard at first– but it gets easier with repetition. Plus, as with so many things, we are not alone in our personal struggles, and this is something that really excites me about being the new Rabbi of TBE. Because this is a community that is actively examining and wrestling with exactly this question– who are we? What do we stand for? What is our tent? What are the core values which will guide everything from our finances to our policies to our programming? Where are the issues where we can say yes, and where are the issues where we must draw a line, like Bilaam, and say no, this is not who we are? This is a community that is asking itself– when we see things happening in the world outside of these walls, or even within these walls, that does not reflect our core values: what can we do about it? What must we do about it? What are the actions, and the stances, that our conscience can live with, and what spiritual resistance can we, and must we, offer when those in power do not honor the sacred principles that guide us? And for anyone who wants to be actively involved in these discussions, all you have to do is reach out– to the staff, to the lay leadership, to me, to each other– and join the conversation. Our values belong to all of us, and your voice can and should be heard. I have hanging in my office here at TBE a list of Jewish values from Keshet, which I have used over the years as a default starting point for identifying the core principles that guide me as a Jew. The list is not exhaustive, but it includes: 1. Kavod– Respect 2. Shalom Bayit: Peace in the home or community 3. B’tzelem Elohim: Everyone is made in the sacred image 4. Kol Yisrael Arevim Zeh BaZeh: All of Yisrael is responsible for one another 5. Sh’mirat HaLashon: being intentional about our language 6. V’ahavta L’reicha kamocha: Love your neighbor as yourself 7. Al Tifrosh Min HaTzibbur: Stay in solidarity and connection with your community I would encourage all of us, moving forward, to take the time to sit with and identify which parts of our Jewish system of values are most meaningful to us, as individuals and as a community. What inspires us, and drives us, and guides us? Which are the beliefs that we know in our gut that we must live up to? Which are the aspirational beliefs, the ones we are still working on? Which are the ones we most wrestle with, especially when making decisions that impact the world around us? I’d love to hear from you, whether today at Kiddush or another time, about the values you hold closest to your heart. These are the values which will guide us, as individuals and a synagogue community, as our city and state and nation and world face the tough road ahead. These are values which will guide us in our relationships to each other, to Israel, and to the wider world around us. And in the moments where we falter, where we struggle, where we feel the very real fear rising in us, and the sinking feeling in our gut that tells us that our values, and our conscience, is indeed going against what we are being told to do– we can take heart in knowing that our tradition is one that celebrates and encourages bravery in the face of adversity, and celebrates ethical action in the face of fear-based reactivity. We can be brave, and we can help each other be brave. Bilaam modeled this kind of bravery for us in today’s Torah portion, and now we get to model it too, for each other, for our children, and for the rest of our community and world. Shabbat shalom– and, to be continued. —------------------- Rabbi Simmons would love to hear your thoughts. If you’d like to continue the conversation, reach out to office@tbemaine.org for assistance.