This is the sermon I delivered on the first day of Rosh Hashanah, October 3, 2024. The embedded video contains the full service; the sermon starts at 1:29:45.

When I’m working on a Rosh Hashanah sermon, I ask myself “What would I want to hear?” And I have to say, this year was a little bit more of a struggle than it usually is. Normally, I start off with a very basic concept of a sermon in late spring that marinates and coalesces over the early summer and feels pretty ready to share by September. This year, however, that was not the case.  

There’s no shortage of things to talk about in a year like we’ve had. Do I lean into politics? Tempting, but don’t worry, no. We have many other chances to discuss and listen, now is not that space. Do I talk about Israel? Again, calm your racing heart, no. I’m not sure there’s anything I could say in this particular season about Israel that I haven’t been saying for the last year.  

So what would I want to hear? Of all the possible topics, what has enough weight and importance this year? What’s something that our community and each of us individually could focus on, discuss, and act on as we work through the liturgy and actions of the days of awe and inspiration? 

What I kept coming back to was my cornerstone text Hillel’s own series of three clarifying questions. “If I am not for myself, who will be for me?”, “If I am only for myself, what am I?”, and “If not now, when?” 

In particular, I’ve been looking at this as the ways it relates to identity in a time when so much of who we are as Jewish people seems to be questioned and discussed. First, the version of self we present – in other words, what makes up the me that you see. Second, the version of me that’s biological – what literally makes up who I am. Third, the version of me that I feel deep down – what do I tap into to connect with myself and with others. 

Why three versions and three questions? Because we are doing too much dividing among each other and not enough dividing and examining of ourselves. More than anything else, I believe division is our number one threat today. Not long division, although that’s pretty menacing. I’m not looking forward to checking my kids’ homework when they get to long division. That’ll be Duncan’s job. No, our number one threat is thinking that not choosing sides is the equivalent of moral bankruptcy. We’ve been conditioned to think you have to have a side. You have to think this or that. And because I’ve chosen my side, I’m not going to listen to your opinion anymore. I’m only going to listen to the opinions that validate my side. I’m sure you’ve heard of this, it’s called confirmation bias.  

Which, if you think about it, is self-destruction. We are doing this to ourselves. I promised no politics, but think about some of the issues that are front and center in our politics time and again – climate, sensible gun laws, immigration. How many issues would we be that much closer to solving if politicians didn’t pick a right and a wrong? Or if you didn’t blindly click share on that Facebook post that got your attention without bothering to find out for yourself if there was any truth to it. There’s no quick fix to the things that are driving us apart. So instead of trying to face societal division head-on, I’m proposing that we divide our individual selves in order to possibly put us all back together again. That’s what the High Holidays are about anyway. Taking things apart and putting them back together each year, hoping to make some improvements as we do.  

To review, here’s how I’m dividing myself. There’s the self we outwardly present – let’s use a modern term and call that the “selfie.” There’s the self we are innately and biologically – let’s change the spelling a little and call that the “cellfie” – C-E-L-L. See how we did that? And there’s the self that connects us all through our humanity. Let’s call that the “soulfie.”  

Rabbi Hillel’s three questions match up pretty nicely to these three selves. He challenges us to consider our individual responsibility, our relationship with others, and the urgency of the present moment. Let’s explore these through the lens, so to speak, of the “selfie,” the “cellfie,” and the “soulfie.” 

First, the selfie. The version of us we have some control over, and the version that others see the most of. And if there’s any question as to the selfie’s legitimacy, this year is the 10th anniversary of the word “selfie” being recognized as a playable term in Scrabble. So happy Srabbleversary to “selfie.”  

It’s also an interesting expression of Hillel’s teaching, “If I am not for myself, who will be for me?” Hillel emphasizes self-advocacy and responsibility, and it’s revealed in how you present yourself, whether capturing a single moment in time, like an actual photo, or your sense of style or your social confidence. How do you define and assert who you are?  

At the same time, how do you acknowledge your worth and presence? Taking a selfie is taking the time to say, “I’m here, and I matter.” Hillel’s version of self-care is not a selfish act; it’s a necessary part of our well-being if we hope to put good back into the world. 

It’s also about taking control of our lives. I don’t believe that we should become absorbed or obsessed over what other people think of us, but there’s a healthy element of ownership in Hillel’s wisdom. The act of self-representation encourages us to be mindful and intentional about our presence and our actions. 

So if that’s the outward reflection, what about the inward? What about the C-E-L-L cellfie? Who am I at my core level, and what role, if any, should that play in how I lead my life? 

Let’s say the concept of cellfie with a C is our genetic makeup, which is a fundamental aspect of who we are and remains unchangeable. “If I am only for myself, what am I?” What am I? Of the three parts to Hillel’s teaching, this if-then makes the least sense to me. The “if” phrase supposes that I could be a person who has no regard whatsoever for my fellow human beings. And the second part questions whether I’m even human at all. What am I? As if I had some choice? As if my molecular construction were somehow up to me? 

Maybe it’s this very mortal “what” that Hillel is challenging us to look beyond. Charles Darwin’s cousin Sir Francis Galton, who first pitted nature against nurture, determined that nature was more important. We can’t change who we are. 

But as you just heard, almost two millennia before Sir Galton, Rabbi Hillel seemed to say, “No. We have a choice.” You can either be a part of a community or not. But I still think there’s some validity to the nature side of the argument. I’d suggest that it’s our very nature, our very cells, that carry within us the desire for connection. We divide, we pick sides, we war, but through all of that, we need each other, quite literally. Without that, what am I?  

The cellfie with a C represents a static and unchangeable part of ourselves, while Hillel’s wisdom emphasizes dynamic interaction. And that’s fine. Our true identity and purpose are found in the balance between self-awareness and altruism. Being aware of our inherited makeup doesn’t lead to self-centeredness. It should ground us, giving us the strength and clarity to contribute meaningfully to others’ lives. 

It’s simply an invitation to reflect on how we use our unique innate qualities and strengths in the world. Our genetic makeup and inherent traits are starting points. True significance comes from how we leverage these traits in service to others. 

By connecting the unchangeable, inherited aspects of our identity to Rabbi Hillel’s statement, we get a fuller picture of the human experience: one that values self-awareness but also recognizes the importance of our actions and relationships in defining who we are and what we contribute. 

Going back and forth like this sets us up perfectly for the last piece of the puzzle. What’s a soulfie? It’s a little play on words created by Rabbi Naomi Levy, just like cellfie with a C, but have you ever stopped to think about what your soul reflects? What would a picture of your soul look like? If you could somehow create a portrait of all the ways you’re lifted up and given strength. All the ways you find yourself. All of your joy and fulfillment. Have you ever stopped to consider what that might look like? And if you haven’t, why not? And if not now, when? Think about it now. Think about a snapshot of self-discovery or personal growth or well-being. 

I would hope that we all regularly have moments of soul fulfillment. But if you don’t reflect on them – if you don’t take a soulfie in the moment – how do you hold them and come back to them? Like they say, “soulfie or it didn’t happen.” Hillel’s call to action, “If not now, when?” is about more than the urgency of doing good. I think it’s about the urgency of remembering the good.  

We don’t know if a soul is something that exists beyond us. But we do know that we exist here and now, and the present moment is the most significant part of our journey toward self-realization. Fulfillment of your soul isn’t something that you can schedule on Google Calendar. There’s no Meetup or Facebook group. It’s you. Now. Finding ways in every moment you’re given to be the truest you. There will never be a convenient time. Hillel knew that 2,000 years ago. 

The question I’ll leave you with: What if you spent some time with yourself divided? Take a bunch of selfies, cellfies with a C, and soulfies, and see what’s reflected back. 

May we be for ourselves, recognizing our worth and advocating for our needs. May we look beyond ourselves, finding our true purpose in our connections and contributions to the world. And may we seize the present moment, nurturing our souls and finding joy in the here and now. 

Shanah tovah, and may this new year bring us closer to our truest selves and to the community we cherish. 

This is the sermon I delivered on the first day of Rosh Hashanah, September 16, 2023.

I’d like to let you in on a little secret, but you have to promise not to tell my children. I’m NOT perfect. I know, hard to believe, right? We tend to look to rabbis and teachers as modeling the things we aspire to, and while yes, I am a rabbi, I am also a human being, resplendent in all my imperfections.

Wow, that feels great to get off my chest! Let’s all try it.

Show of hands, how many of you are perfect?

As we’re now officially in the aseret y’mai teshuvah, the ten days of repentance, it’s refreshing to have that out in the open, isn’t it? Wouldn’t it be great if that was all there was to it? But in ten days, we’ll be back here for Yom Kippur, and there’s a lot of work to be done between now and then. The central piece of this work for me comes right after I finish speaking, so I might be up here for a while.

As much as I admire my own rabbinic teachers, I’m not in favor of the “rabbi on a pedestal” attitude. Which I realize is a strange thing to say as I’m literally up here on the bimah. I’m reminded of a line in one of my all-time favorite movies, Keeping the Faith. Ben Stiller and Edward Norton are best friends, one a rabbi, the other a Catholic priest. If you haven’t seen it, you can probably figure out who played who.

The movie is very funny, but also very rich in asking questions about what it is to be a faith leader and the complexities of being held to a higher standard in all aspects of life, when really, we’re all human, as you may remember from two minutes ago. Ben Stiller, as Rabbi Jake Schram, says “Jews want their rabbis to be the kind of Jews they don’t have the time to be.” And Father Brian Finn – Edward Norton – responds, “Yeah, and Catholics want their priests to be the kind of Catholics they don’t have the discipline to be.”

There’s a connection here to Hineni, the prayer which the service leader chants before entering into the Amidah for Musaf on Rosh Hashanah. It’s an unusual prayer. It plays both upon the words we hear repeatedly in the Torah for one of our ancestors standing up and answering a call from God, as well as upon the notion of the humility that it takes to lead a congregation, knowing that they hold you to a higher standard, yet being human nevertheless.

“Here I stand, impoverished in merit, trembling in the presence of the One who hears the prayers of Israel. Even though I am unfit and unworthy for the task, I come to represent your people.” The prayer continues, “Charge them not with my sins and let them not bear the guilt of my transgressions, though I have sinned and transgressed.” There’s more, but we’ll be there in just a few minutes, and I want to leave you with something to look forward to!

Growing up, I remember one of the lessons of the High Holy Days about repentance, which is that the prayers are written in the plural. “We have” done this, “we have” done that. But here, this is in the first person singular. This is the one time when an individual is asked to name their imperfections in front of the kehillah. Why would this be an exception?

It could be the idea of leading by example. After all, it might be easier for you to see your imperfections and name them if I do it too. Surprising no one, we have a method for this as well. Judaism has a process for everything. To quote Rabbi Jake Schram one more time, “What do you want me to do? Flagellate myself? Jews don’t do that, we plant trees!”

True, we do plant trees, but, kidding aside, we also plant the seeds for transformation, regrowth, and the reworking of our own actions and preconceived notions in order to find our next steps forward. We learn this from the Rambam.

Rabbi Moses ben Maimon, philosopher, doctor, scholar, teaches us that repentance and repair require time and intention. He also gives us the steps to take in order to truly make amends and move forward. You’ll note that this process is really more about repairing than forgiving. We are not commanded to “forgive and forget,” as helpful of a sentiment as that may sound. Instead, we’re given steps to follow to change ourselves and work towards earning forgiveness. Here’s what the process looks like, and how we might use these next ten days ahead of us, and perhaps beyond. 

Step one: Own the pain you’ve caused. In order to actually begin any process of healing, we have to move past denial and own our actions. And own them without passing the blame. It could be: “I recognize the words I used were hurtful, even if I didn’t mean them that way.” Or “I wasn’t as responsible as I should have been.” Or “I judged someone by their appearance alone.”

Step two: Make a change. Simply owning your actions alone is like an empty promise. There is real work involved, and it starts with step two. In this space we’re implored to get down to it. Repentance is an active endeavor; it happens when we make actual changes to behavior and thought patterns. That’s not easy. Sometimes we all need reminders to keep destructive comments to ourselves. Sometimes we all need reminders that it’s ok to ask for help when you need it. Sometimes we all need that nudge from a friend for a quick reality check.

Step three: Make amends and apologize. To make amends means putting effort behind repairing a relationship. You’ve changed yourself, now figure out how that change can counteract the damage that might have been done. This one is tricky because it requires both interpersonal contact and the openness of the one who was wronged to hear your apology and either accept it, or hopefully at least acknowledge it and allow room for growth. 

Don’t try to reverse engineer this step three; I know all your tricks because I’ve used them too. Saying “I’m sorry that YOU felt I was out of line” doesn’t count. That completely skips over step one and step two. Again, apologies without action are empty promises. When you actually put in the work of ownership and change, then you’ve earned the right to say, “I’m aware of my actions, and I apologize for the lapse in judgment that was cause for concern.” Or “I realize my actions crossed a line, and I hope you’ll see how I’ve changed.” 

Finally, step four. Step four is the hardest. Of course it is, it’s step four. If it was the easiest step, we’d start with it. Don’t repeat whatever it is you’re trying to change. Don’t fall into the trap of letting this happen again. There’s no magic solution to step four, it just takes practice. And why, again? Because we’re not perfect after all. Don’t we all wish we lived in a world where we could snap our fingers and change behavior? But we don’t. To truly make a change in 5784 or any time requires daily practice and self-control. It takes holding oneself accountable and recognizing when it’s time to return to steps one through three of the process.

This is a good time to remind each other again – this process isn’t really about forgiveness. It’s not about the person who was wronged because you can’t control their feelings, and you shouldn’t try. Repentance is first and foremost about personal change. What’s remarkable in this, as in the Hineni, is that it’s built on trusting the true intentions of another person. Forget all your preconceived notions, forget your snap judgments. Giving the benefit of the doubt is a two-way street. Here’s what I mean. If I’m the one who did wrong, you trust me that I’ve made it to step two. I’m working on me. And at the same time, I trust you that forgiveness will come eventually. It’s not automatic or necessarily quick.

See? Now you know why step four is so challenging. The thing that follows change, the thing we don’t really talk about during the season of repentance, is maintaining. Forgive me – it’s the time for asking, right? – but I’m going to quote a line from a famous Christmas song from 1959, written by a Jewish composer, as all the best Christmas songs were. The great Sammy Cahn, who wrote the lyrics to hits like “High Hopes” and “Ain’t That a Kick in the Head?” wrote the words, “It’s not the things you do at Christmas time, but the Christmas things you do all year through.” I don’t think the Jewish Mr. Cahn would mind if we adapted it just slightly. It’s not the repenting you do at the Yamim Noraim. It’s the changes you make all year through.

In a few minutes, after the act of recognizing the imperfections of leadership, we will recite the Unetanetokef prayer, the one which asks “Who will live and who will die, who by fire and who by water, etc.” We often read this prayer as placing all these decisions on God, removing our personal ownership in the outcomes for the future. Personally, that theology doesn’t make me feel more connected to God, it makes me feel less connected to myself.

To quote Rabbi Ed Feinstein on this text, the answer to each of these questions in the Unetanetokef is “I have the power to decide.” We are not greater or more powerful than God, but each of us does have the small power to change the way in which we live. Not for this small window of ten days, but for much, much longer. However, we use these seasonal reminders of forgiveness and repentance, when done with honesty and conviction, to change our world so there is a little bit less anger, hurt, and judgment in it. 

One of my favorite Jewish musicians, Dan Nichols, in his prayer for the body, sings “I thank you for my life, body and soul, help me realize I am beautiful and whole. I’m perfect the way I am, and a little broken too, I will live each day as a gift I give to you.”

Friends, I’m a little broken too. About two years ago, I myself fell into a very deep depression that I have not talked much about publicly, except for bits and pieces here and there. This is my public opportunity to say that throughout the journey of leaving that depression, I made my share of mistakes. My step two occasionally resembled an out-of-order escalator, and any of you who’ve had similar experiences know how stuck we can get. Therapy, friends, nature, and simply time have allowed me to stand here today, acknowledging my missteps on the journey to being the kind of Jew I want to be, and want to make time to be – thank you, Rabbi Schram.

As we perch on the precipice of 5784, I ask for your forgiveness. As is the High Holiday tradition, I’m moving to step three. But as you already know, forgiveness is not automatic. Neither yours nor mine. But it’s the changes we make in step four – the “all year through” part of the song – that let us rebuild and reshape and recommit. I invite you to join me in tearing down whatever notion of perfection you have and walking through the world seeing each other the way we are. A little broken too. Together, repentance, forgiveness, and a lot of community, kehillah, can bond us to each other and inscribe us in the book of life this coming year.

As we prepare for Yom Kippur, enjoy the audio recording and text from my Rosh Hashanah sermon, delivered on September 26, 2022.

Let’s play a game. There’s a table in front of me, and on it I have eggs, flour, sugar, oil, and salt. What am I making?

Let’s add chocolate chips to the list; now what would you think?

Ok, what if I swapped out the chocolate chips for yeast?

What would I be making if cheese was an ingredient?

Apples?

Poppyseeds?

Now that we’re all hungry, I’m sure you’re relieved this isn’t a Yom Kippur sermon. The ingredients for so many culinary treats begin the same way, and yet, based on the time of year or an added ingredient, the end product could be completely different. Similar ingredients, different result.

Keeping with our food analogy for just another minute, have you ever noticed that you can make the same dish a thousand times, and even though most of the time it comes out perfect, once in a while it just doesn’t quite get there? When I bake challah, I use the same recipe every time, but some weeks I need to add more flour, other weeks a little less, based on the humidity. 

We have routines for our meals at home too. We tend to stick to the same basic weekly menu, and by “we” I mean my children. The repetition helps them feel secure, and the routine gives them space to worry about other parts of their days and weeks. Plus, it takes some of the stress off of us, knowing these meals are fairly reliable.

What are your routines? Maybe you can think of  a few. In the thick of Covid, many of you witnessed me walking outside during a Zoom meeting. The question I’m usually asked is where I’m walking, and the answer is I do loops around my neighborhood. It’s kind of like a big track, so I walk in circles, some days 10 miles, some 20, but this loop is my routine. It’s easy to do because I know the route so well that I can focus on the meeting instead of worrying about crossing the street or getting lost. I know where each crack in the sidewalk is so I don’t trip, which means I can actually be more present in the meeting than I could have been otherwise. 

Repetition is the building block of Judaism. I’ll repeat – repetition is the building block of Judaism. See? It’s a combination of repetition and context that holds us together. You know the old joke that the essence of most Jewish holidays is “they tried to kill us, we survived, let’s eat”? Or, as I like to say, “let’s help make sure everyone has food”? That’s the repetition part. The context is how you distinguish each holiday. You know it’s Rosh Hashanah if you’re eating apple cake, and you know it’s Hanukkah by the latkes. Purim by hamantaschen, Passover by matzah, and any number of fast days by the growling in your tummy, although maybe that’s every holiday when you’re sitting through the sermon. The repetition keeps us grounded, and using the context clues around us allows us to dig deeper into the meaning of the moment, the holiday, or the prayer.

Why does this matter? Well, for one thing, I’m feeling how different this year is from the last two years. For the first time since the High Holy Days of 2019, I’m in a room packed with people davening together. Not to take anything away from the wonderful Shabbat services that have been back in person, but these days of awe always feel different, and the last couple of years, very different. I was in the sanctuary alone, hearing only my own voice when I sang. But what I was singing was the same. Those prayers, the words I’ve said since I was old enough to sit through services (maybe), were the same ones that had always brought me to tears or brought me joy, but in those moments alone, they felt a little foreign. This year, surrounded by voices, feels like a one-eighty from the silence of the past. Same text, different context.

But again, that’s how Judaism works. There’s no Torah without interpretation. It’s called a tree of life not just because it provides for us, but also because it’s alive; it grows with us. That’s because context is key. So much of our lives and understanding of the world around us is about knowing the recent history of people, conversations, and events. And the Torah is very well aware of this.

Think about it this way: we read the Torah again and again each year, and yet each year the same words can strike us in a different way or teach us something we’d never thought about before. And for goodness sakes, the last book of the Torah, Deuteronomy, comes from Greek, literally meaning “second law” or “repetition of the law.” We haven’t even finished the Five Books of Moses before we start repeating ourselves. Why? 

We actually got a little hint of an answer recently. A few weeks ago we read Parshat Shoftim. Here’s a little bit from chapter 17, verses 8 and 9: “If a case is too baffling for you to decide, be it a controversy over homicide, civil law, or assault – matters of dispute in your courts – you shall promptly repair to the place that the Lord your God will have chosen, and appear before the levitical priests, or the magistrate in charge at the time and present your problem.” 

It doesn’t just say, “report the crime.” It says go to “the magistrate in charge at the time.” As if to tell us, the time is important. The authority needs to know not only the law, but also its context in society at that time. Or this time right now. The Torah says only a judge living in today’s world can understand how to apply the law today.

Context. It’s always context. And the good news is you don’t have to wait for me or Rabbi Kosak or the wonderful Downstairs Minyan sermonizers to draw these parallels for you. There are some amazing resources out there that summarize the parshiyot, and finding a spark of connection to your life is actually easier than you might think.

Context isn’t just how we understand ancient Torah today, but how we understand each other. If what you’re going through resonates with me because it connects or relates to something in my life, you’re no longer a stranger. Speaking of the courts, I’m sure you remember literature’s great moral compass, Atticus Finch. Harper Lee gave his character these words: “You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view . . . until you climb into his skin and walk around in it.” We can fill our lives with repetition, but we will not understand the Torah or each other without applying context. We have to live in our time, and that means we make tradition, ritual, and mitzvot meaningful and relevant all over again every year and every day.

Rabbi Ben Bag Bag taught in Pirkei Avot, “Turn it over and over again for everything is in it.” By the way, how appropriate for a sermon about repetition to quote Rabbi Bag Bag, the rabbi with a name so nice he used it twice. Whether we’re talking about the repetition of reading Torah, or reciting the same prayers over and over again, it forces us to examine what’s there in a different way.

Some of you read my weekly d’rei Torah in the Friday email blast. Did you know I started these writings in 2006? That’s a full year before I even met Duncan. Not every single one has been commentary on the Torah portion, but for 16 years I’ve been relating my life to my faith. I can’t encourage this enough. Explore the weekly portion or a midrash or even just rewatch The Prince of Egypt. It’s pretty good. But find something that speaks to you, in your language. Sibling rivalry, leadership development, romance, gardening advice . . . there is nothing else like our text. There is nothing like our Torah. Perhaps we might rediscover our relationship with it, and with ourselves, in the coming year. Shanah tovah. 

This is the recorded sermon I gave for Rosh Hashanah (first day) services at Congregation Neveh Shalom, with the text included below.

It begins, I suppose, with a person called – well, I don’t like saying the name if I can help it. No one does. People are still scared. See, there was this wizard who went bad. As bad as you could go. Worse. Worse than worse.

If you can name where that quote came from, 10 points to your house.

Yes, it’s from Harry Potter. I had actually never read the Harry Potter series until this past year, when Shiri became enthralled to the point of obsession. She never read them either of course, she had just heard about the stories from her friends with older siblings. I figured she’d want to read it at some point (perhaps judging by the fact that her go-to dress-up outfit is always Hermionie Granger) and that I should read it first so we could discuss it and I could know where all the scary parts were. So off I went on the Hogwarts Express, so to speak. 

If you’ve read the books or seen the movies, you know that the character who draws you in, the one that keeps you turning the pages and excited for the next chapter isn’t the title character. It’s someone who most of the other characters don’t even want to acknowledge by name. The character who holds the most attention and seemingly the most power is called Lord Voldemort. If you’re not familiar with the plot, Voldemort is the supervillain of the story, and so terrified is the wizarding community that they don’t call him by name, but instead refer to him as “You-Know-Who” or “He who shall not be named.” The fear, the danger, the violence mostly centers around the one character everyone is afraid to talk about.

It’s the sort of superstition we see all over the place, not just in fanciful fiction. It might be as innocent as not wanting to say something for fear of jinxing it. We’ll be discussing home repairs, and Duncan will say something like, “At least our old refrigerator hasn’t died yet.” That’s when I shoot him the death stare and quietly mouth obscenities at him that you don’t often hear from rabbis. Of course those words don’t actually affect the operation of our appliances, but why take any chances, right?

This “let’s not talk about it” fear can also take much more sinister forms. We don’t want to admit there are problems of racism, gender bias, patriarchy, anti-Semitism in the basic systems that govern and guide our lives. But what happens is that by refusing to name it, own it, and then deal with it as it happens, we let it reach a boiling point, and it causes much greater damage. 

I feel at this point I should acknowledge, as you may have heard from various sources, Harry Potter’s author J.K. Rowling has been outspoken and somewhat controversial about her viewpoints on current issues. While I don’t agree with many of the stances she’s taken, I think we can still say she was successful in providing us with this metaphor about what can happen when our problems and fears go undiscussed.

However, she’s not the first storyteller to use this device. Our very own core narrative shares the story of Amalek. The Amalekites, as told in the Torah, were a nomadic group living in the Sinai desert and the part of the Negev that was south of Judah. We know very little about them outside of what is specifically mentioned in the Torah, but we do know that the Amalekites staged a sneak attack on the weak and defenseless lagging at the rear of the migrating Israelites. It was an attack that showed Amalek to be uncommonly ruthless, and by today’s standards would certainly be considered a war criminal. 

When we read about Amalek in chapter 25 of Deuteronomy, we encounter the following: 

“Remember what Amalek did to you on your journey, after you left Egypt— how, undeterred by fear of God, he surprised you on the march, when you were famished and weary, and cut down all the stragglers in your rear. Therefore, when the Lord your God grants you safety from all your enemies around you, in the land that the Lord your God is giving you as a hereditary portion, you shall blot out the memory of Amalek from under heaven. Do not forget!”

“Blot out the memory.” “Do not forget.” Is it me, or is that confusing? It seems contradictory. How do we simultaneously remember Amalek while blocking out his name? It seems incongruous that we’d be able to do both. It’s not like Judaism doesn’t give double directives. We have plenty of those in the Torah, the one that comes to mind first, “shamor v’zachor.” This phrase from “Lecha Dodi” comes from both iterations of the 10 Commandments. In Exodus, we are to zachor Shabbat, remember the Sabbath, and in Deuteronomy, we are to shamor Shabbat, guard the Sabbath. Though the two versions aren’t identical, we can do both of these things. We can actively guard or keep, and we can remember. But with Amalek, the ideas of blotting out and remembering – they seem to be in direct violation of each other. Why would the Torah encourage us to remember and forget?

If this sounds familiar, it’s because it should, but it’s not from the Torah. We’re given a similar instruction on Purim, when we’re commanded to read the Megillah and say the name Haman, while also drowning out the name. So perhaps this tradition of Purim can help shed some light on how we can both remember and blot out.

At Purim we’re taught to blur the lines between cursed is Haman and blessed is Mordechai. And this isn’t just about getting drunk, it’s about telling a more complete story, one with representations of both good and bad. We don’t want to focus solely on the evil, and yet to revel in the victory without being able to reflect on the lesson learned would be a disservice to future generations.

This blurring of the lines and of the names also forces us to really examine who is to blame. For example, we don’t generally throw King Achashverosh into either the hero or villain column, but by allowing Haman to craft his extermination plan, is he not also guilty through his silence? To stand by is the opposite of to speak up, and no matter how advanced and connected our world becomes, we never seem to learn that lesson.

Haman, Amalek, Voldemort – we give them power when we only follow one part of the instruction. When we blot them out and then subsequently forget them, or when we remember them but don’t do anything about it. How many times have you heard you have to learn from your past so you don’t make the same mistakes in the future? We say the name, and we drown it out. We call out injustice, and we shout it down.

Tragically, we’ve become too good at just the “drowning it out” part without the “calling it by name” part. As we were thrown into the insanity of COVID-19, it revealed not only how broken our healthcare system is, but made abundantly clear cracks in our education system, our expectations of family work/life balance, our housing markets, and access to food. 

Then on top of racial and economic disparities made worse by the pandemic, George Floyd was murdered. While it was on one hand the latest evidence of unchecked police brutality, it also became the boiling point for the issue of systemic racism. 

I’d like to hope that maybe we’ve finally reached the point where we’re not leaving off half of the equation. Maybe we’re starting to do more than just remember, we’re starting to blot out. Maybe we’re not just shouting “boo,” we’re actually learning from the past.

Let’s be clear, though. Merely saying the name of the problem doesn’t make it go away. As in the case of Lord Voldemort, having Harry say his name wasn’t enough. It was only when Harry Potter was brave and bold enough to continue to say the name without fear that he was able to finally get enough buy in from the whole wizarding world to actually stand up and do something.

Social media has allowed us to become a passively reactionary society. What I mean is we rush to react and label people and actions we don’t agree with. But without any real change or even discussion behind it, engaging in this kind of virtue signaling doesn’t count as “saying the name of the issue.” These things don’t help anyone, they only drive bigger wedges between us.

I’m not suggesting we stop calling out injustice. I’m suggesting we call out these issues, these fears, these hypocrisies by name, and then back up those words with real data and real actions. It’s helpful to remember that not every issue affects me individually, but that doesn’t give me license to ignore it. We simply cannot pretend that problems don’t exist because we don’t say their names. That just allows the issue – and the fear of the issue – to grow. My Harry Potter quote at the start was from one of the early chapters of the first book. By the end of the first book, Harry learns a valuable lesson. Professor Dumbledore tells him, “Call him Voldemort, Harry. Always use the proper name for things. Fear of a name increases fear of the thing itself.”

This year, in 5781, we must continue to name the problems. We must relentlessly call them what they are. Don’t give them more power through silence. Voice with voice, hand in hand, we will work to achieve greater justice. Blot out AND do not forget.