The Longest Night - Erev Rosh HaShanah 5775

(Video of this sermon as it was delivered at Temple Shaaray Tefila of New York City can be seen by clicking here, scrolling to the second-to-last video available, entitled "High Holy Days 2014 8:30." The sermon begins just after the 1:00:00 mark of the service. Or to hear it as an audio file, please click here.)

It was the longest night of his life. Even for a man who’d been on the run for 20 years—years of sleepless nights teeming with fear and dread—this was, by far, the most difficult. Having fled for his life from enemies both known and unknown, with the entirety of his family and every possession he’d ever amassed, longing for just a glimpse of clarity, some semblance of resolution in his life, he escorted them all to momentary safety on the other side of the river. Back on his side, he was left alone, where he lay down, and tried to sleep.

Tried, I say, because the pursuit of sleep was futile, and even he knew it. The frenzied tempest of terror swirling in his head was one he was all too familiar with; it whipped up anew each evening as the sun descended in its course. But this night would make every night before it seem as a restful luxury.

Jacob, a man tormented by the deceitful deeds of his past, by wrongs committed against both his brother and his father, was all alone. And yet, our text tells us in the very same breath, a man came upon him and wrestled with him until the rise of dawn. In their epic steel cage match, the back-and-forth of a fight straight from the action movies, the man wrenches Jacob’s hip socket, leaving him with a limp for the rest of his life. But Jacob is the victor, refusing to let the man go until he blesses Jacob, which he does. His blessing comes in the form of a new name—Yisrael—because, as the ish says, “You have struggled with God and with human beings, and you have prevailed.”

Who was this ish, this man? For many, this man is an angel of God, deduced from the explanation of his new name, as one who has struggled with God. For others, this man is none other than his twin brother Esau, whom Jacob had swindled out of his birthright for a bowl of stew, whose identity he later assumed so he could steal their father’s innermost blessing meant for the oldest son; whose dignity and self-worth Jacob had trampled upon with utter disregard; the very same man whose threats had sent him running all this time; the man he would confront the following day, for the first time in 20 tumultuous years. Still another interpretation is that of a bat mitzvah student of ours a few years ago, who opined that the man might have been Isaac, their father; that in Jacob’s enduring guilt at from having stolen the benediction, he sought to right this wrong, demanding a legitimate blessing before letting him go.

Fascinating. Perhaps true. But the text is clear. Jacob was l’vado, left alone, to himself. And it seems to me, as it does to many of our sages, that Jacob was wrestling with none other than himself. It seems to me that Jacob was grappling violently, with every fiber of his being, at the crossroads of his life, in a dark night of the soul, struggling to deal with all that he had been, all that he had done, all that he had experienced. Jacob, I believe, was engaging in cheshbon hanefesh, the accounting of the soul we are charged with doing at this time of year—taking stock of who he was, who he wanted to be, and how he would begin to narrow the gap between them.

My friends, especially this year, we are all Jacob. As individuals, as Jews, as Americans, as citizens of the world. And let us be frank: 5774 was a very, very long night. It was restless and fitful, traumatic and fraught, disturbing, disquieting and very deeply upsetting. And all of us—each and every one of us—carried that with us, bearing that weight upon our shoulders, as we entered through shaaray tefila, the gates of prayer, this Erev Rosh HaShanah. And so I feel we owe it to ourselves to emulate Jacob, to wrestle with and explore the year together, to begin our own collective cheshbon hanefesh, so that, like our flawed, imperfect forefather, we too can prevail in this new year of 5775.

So where have we been? 5774 found us glued to our TV sets, perhaps as never before, the bad news seeming to come in endless waves, filling us with outrage and anger, sadness and disbelief, frustration, desperation, and, perhaps worst of all, numbness. We watched as the least productive government in our nation’s history, worse by leaps and bounds than the infamous “Do-Nothing Congress” of the 1940’s, grew somehow even more polarized, more obstructionist, more dysfunctional, when we wondered how that could ever be possible. We endured the bickering: over security and spying, immigration, gun control, and increasing the minimum wage, while the abyss between the haves and have-nots continued to widen.  

We zoomed out from domestic concerns to see that things were even worse overseas than here at home. We heard the hemming and hawing of world leaders as tens of thousands were killed under Bashir al-Assad’s oppressive regime. In Africa. we saw one militant group attack an upscale Nairobi mall, while another kidnapped 280 girls from a Nigerian school, intending to make them sex slaves, their education seen as blasphemous, while in their warped view of faith sex trafficking is condoned.

And yet, somehow it all feels like a distant memory, from far longer ago than just a handful of months. It all seemed to dissolve quickly in the rearview mirror, as school let out, the kids went off to camp, and spring gave way to the Summer of Our Discontent.

It began on June 12^th, when Naftali Fraenkel, Gilad Shaar, and Eyal Yifrach—3 Israeli teenagers—were kidnapped by terrorists as they attempted to hitchhike home. Hopes for their safety, for their possible return to their families, were dashed when their bodies were discovered in a field northwest of Hebron on June 30^th. Retaliation followed swiftly, and the cycle of violence continued to escalate, as Israeli air strikes on Hamas targets in Gaza commenced and the rockets fired from Gaza multiplied. And just as Naftali, Gilad, and Eyal were laid to rest, a Palestinian teenager, Mohammed Abu Khdeir, also just 16 years old, was kidnapped in East Jerusalem, and then beaten and burnt to death. Perhaps most shocking, most upsetting of all was that the murders of these four children were greeted with a sickening display of glee: Palestinians and, yes, Israelis alike celebrated the pain inflicted upon the other, with politicians and leaders and clergy on both sides not only having incited these heinous acts, but even going so far as to claim responsibility for doing so, and with pride. “An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth,” seemed to be the cry from everyone, forgetting the prophetic warning of Doc from West Side Story that such a rationale would only leave the whole world blind and toothless. And before we knew it, it was Groundhog Day all over again. Hamas’s rockets kept coming, fired strategically from amidst the homes, schools, hospitals, and shelters of the innocent and unarmed, turning all the citizens of Gaza—especially their children—into literal human shields for those who seek to kill as many of Israel’s citizens as possible, ultimately to wipe her completely off the map. The air strikes gave way to a ground operation, increasing the death toll on both sides. In response, anti-Semitism once again reared its ugly head all over the world, most especially, though unsurprisingly, in Europe, in acts ranging from the thinly-veiled to the shockingly overt. Perhaps the most terrifying discovery of this latest chapter was that of an intricate network of underground tunnels connecting Gaza to various sites inside Israel’s border; tunnels constructed from cement and electricity supplied by Israel herself, in the name of improving living conditions in Gaza, when it was under no obligation whatsoever to do so. These tunnels, Israeli intelligence would soon learn, were to be used in a massive Hamas operation of mass murder and kidnapping planned for today - Rosh HaShanah 5775. Thank God above, and the Israel Defense Forces here, that these tunnels have been destroyed. And yet, as the summer’s clashes finally came to a halt, for however long that halt will last, we are left to wonder if an actual end will ever be in sight.

Then the focus of the world shifted abruptly, as Malaysian Airlines Flight 17 was shot right out of the Ukraine sky, killing all 298 passengers and crew members on board. As international inspectors fought through red tape and obstruction to try to make sense of it all, we heard the stories of families ripped apart, of brothers and sisters, sons and daughters, fathers and mothers who kissed loved ones goodbye, never to see them again, reminding some of us of what happened here in our beloved city just over 13 years ago.

We looked up through those empathetic tears to see the rise of ISIS, the so-called “Islamic State,” targeting the Yazidi people in their ruthless efforts to “purify” Iraq and her neighbors of non-Islamic influences. And then we saw the devastating grief of our own American families, those of James Wright Foley, a freelance war correspondent during the Syrian Civil War, and Steven Sotloff, a Jewish journalist from Miami, the grandson of Holocaust survivors, both beheaded on video, for all the world to see. And once again, the specter of another armed conflict, of more American servicemen and –women risking their lives on the ground in Iraq, is very real and very scary, yet another thing that keeps us up at night.   

And when our focus circled back around to our own backyard, we watched the powder-keg of racial tension ignited by the police shooting of yet another unarmed black teenager, this time in Ferguson, Missouri, when Officer Darrell Wilson shot and killed18-year-old Michael Brown. In the days and weeks that followed, we saw the non-stop coverage of the protests and rioting, the police brutality and teargas, the deployment of the National Guard by the governor. And we were confronted with the sobering truth that when it comes to race relations in our fair republic, we still have miles to go before we sleep.                

And just when we had had enough of all the bad news coming from every corner of the globe, just when we couldn’t possibly take any more of it, then came word of Robin Williams, one of the most beloved actors and personalities in our history, taking his own life, giving in to the engulfing darkness of depression. As a nation shattered by his death recalled their favorite and most meaningful Robin Williams moments, we prayed that perhaps some good could come from his passing, slowly beginning to peel away the stigma and shame associated with the disease of depression. In these ways, and many others, may his memory be for a blessing.

The 18^th century rabbi Simcha Bunim of Peshishka is credited with a simple, yet wonderful teaching. He taught that everyone must have two pockets, with a note in each pocket, so that he or she can reach into the one or the other, depending on the need. When feeling lowly and saddened, discouraged or disconsolate, one should reach into the right pocket, and, there, find the words: "For my sake was the world created." But when feeling high and mighty one should reach into the left pocket, and find the words: "I am but dust and ashes."

My friends, in so many ways, 5774 was a long and excruciating night of the soul. And so, it seems to me, what we all need is a nechemta. A nechemta is a consolation, a source of comfort to conclude a difficult or upsetting passage, a warm blanket for just such a cold and sleepless night as this past year. We need it, don’t we. We’ve been forced to reach repeatedly into the pocket that tells us we are but dust and ashes. We’ve been beaten down emotionally by an onslaught of negativity, an endless reel of hopelessness playing again and over again in our minds, asking if there is any hope for tomorrow, yet fearful of receiving an answer; leaving us both desperate for the release of sleep, and yet terrified of what dreams, or nightmares, may come. For our hearts, for our souls, for our general well-being, we need to know that the sun will rise tomorrow, that its rays will gradually banish the darkness, if only for a while, that it will be a new day for each and every one of us. We need to know, if only for a moment or two, that the world was indeed created for us. And when we turn off the news and look around us, we can see that there is plenty of hope to comfort us and light our way after all.

There’s the story of Peter Frates, former captain of the Boston College baseball team in 2007, diagnosed at the age of 27 with ALS. But rather than let his condition define him, he girded his inner strength and set out to conquer his disease, saying in a recent interview, “For me, it was, ‘Okay. Here’s what we’re dealing with. Let’s go to work.’” He earned an audience with the Food and Drug Administration in Washington in March of 2013, where he said to them, “I ask of you: let’s speed up the process, let’s work together, and let’s make this disease a thing of the past.” Two months later, he married Julie, whom he’d met 8 months before his diagnosis, walking her down the aisle despite normally being almost entirely confined to a wheelchair. Over the summer, a friend of Pete’s introduced something called the Ice Bucket Challenge, to raise awareness of ALS and funds to find a cure. Suddenly, athletes all over Boston, then all over the country, then celebrities and everyone everywhere, even former Presidents, began to take part. The result? As of September 17^th, the Ice Bucket Challenge had raised over $114 million towards eradicating this terrible affliction. And, by the way, Pete and Julie welcomed a baby girl, Lucy Fitzgerald Frates, into the world on September 1^st. Pete’s father John said that her birth was “the perfect ending to the miracle month of August.”

There’s the story of Austin Hatch, the 19-year-old college freshman from Indiana. At the age of 8, Austin survived the crash of a plane piloted by his father, in which his mother and two siblings were killed. Eight years later, he was once again the lone survivor of another plane crash which took the life of his father and stepmother, leaving Austin in a medically-induced coma. This brave young man, a 6’6” high school basketball star, suffered such a traumatic brain injury that he literally had to re-learn how to walk and talk. Keeping his parents close to his heart all throughout the long and difficult recovery process, he said, “I can hear their voices in my head when I face a difficult situation. My dad and mom raised me to be an uncommon man. The uncommon man gets up at five in the morning to go work out, to get stronger, when no one else is. It takes an uncommon man to do that when no one is looking.” Asked by Maria Shriver what answer he had come up with to the question, “Why me?,” he told her, “The time that you could spend wondering and thinking why me?,’ that’s time that you could've spent working your tail off to get better.” Securing a full scholarship to the University of Michigan, his late mother’s alma mater, he was able to fulfill his lifelong dream of playing basketball for the Wolverines just a few weeks ago. On July 25^th, he tweeted, “"Y do bad things happen 2 good ppl?" has no answer. What we should ask is "what do good ppl do when something bad happens 2 them?”     

And then there’s the story of you. Of each of us, of all of us together. Chances are, you have come through something difficult, something challenging, something deeply trying at some point in your life. In the past month or year or decade, every single one of us here tonight and everyone we know, has endured, has made it through something, whether it’s an exhausting bout with cancer, the mending of a broken friendship, or the conquering a personal fear. I can’t tell you how often I’ve sat with many of you in my study and found myself saying, “You are so much stronger than you think you are.” And that’s the truth. Certainly stories like those of Peter Frates and Austin Hatch can inspire and motivate us to reach our highest potential. But let us not forget that we too–each and every one of us–have tremendous strength within ourselves to nourish our souls and others’ as well.      

In the morning, Jacob is blessed. The mysterious ish gives him the new name of Yisrael, because he has struggled with God and with humanity, and he has prevailed. Having found the strength within to make peace with himself, he comes face-to-face with his brother Esau, falling into a tearful embrace that is probably my favorite part of the entire Torah. Following this beautiful reunion, we read, Vayavo Ya’akov shalem ir Sh’chem, “Jacob arrived at the city of Sh’chem shalem, whole, complete, at peace.” For all he has been through, all that has haunted his dreams and his waking life, every troubling thought that kept him up at night, and even the wrenched hip socket he now hobbles upon, Jacob has arrived on the other side of the river shalem, whole, at peace, with a renewed hold on life, and a hopeful outlook on whatever the future may bring.

On this Rosh HaShanah, may we be as Jacob our patriarch. May we be honest with ourselves about where we have been, as individuals and as a community, even as we struggle to make meaning of it all. When we feel much more like dust and ashes, may we remember that, for each of us, for all of us, was the world created. May we know in our heart of hearts, in our most difficult hours, that hope is always there, that hope never dies, that the darkest hour is just before the dawn. And may each of us, all of us, enter through the gates of this new year like Jacob, like Yisrael, shalem—whole, complete, and at peace, with ourselves and each other.

For, like Jacob, we will prevail.

Now let’s go to work.

AMEN.  

So Much More Than Sh'mot - Reflections on Our First Ever Teen Exchange Program

This Shabbat begins the book of Sh’mot, the book we call Exodus. It is the seminal story of the Jewish people, of our freedom and redemption, the leaving of Egypt for the Promised Land of Israel. Two weeks ago yesterday, ten of our teenage chalutzim, or pioneers, along with Hope Chernak, Linda Minton, and myself, embarked on an Exodus of our own, the first ever Teen Exchange program between Shaaray Tefila and our partner congregation in Haifa, Ohel Avraham and the Leo Baeck Education Center. But Exodus is the Greek translation of Sh’mot. What it really means is “names.” And the sh’mot, the names of our chalutzim are Talia, Jordyn, Lauren, Lauren, Hannah, Samantha, Julia, Bernie, Jack, and Jack. Brave, adventurous souls, most of whom had never been to Israel at all, they had no idea what was in store for them.
   
And the honest answer is: neither did we. Sure, Hope and Rabbi Dagan and Lital and Rivi had worked for hours upon hours upon hours crafting an incredible itinerary. We knew that all of the activities planned all over Haifa, Jerusalem, Akko, Tzfat, and Tel Aviv would be wonderful. We had no doubt. But how would our teens connect with theirs? What if they didn’t connect at all? We literally had no idea what to expect.

But, after all the careful planning, to quote my favorite group Phish, “the trick was to surrender to the flow.” And from the moment we cleared customs and came through those sliding doors, there, waiting for us with balloons and signs and warm smiles and open arms, were most of the Israeli delegation. We learned their sh’mot, their names: Adi, Alice, Shir, Rinat, Noa, Rotem, Yuval, Noy, Yuval, Itay, Itamar, and Maayan. And then we got to know them, the people behind the names, their lives, their stories, their families, and how they came to be living in Israel, in Haifa. At the end of our first full day there, having spent the day in the Druze Village of Daliat El Carmel, we shared Havdalah with the students and their parents, all crowded cozily together in a small tea lounge. As it turns out, that Havdalah was more than just the separation between Shabbat and the rest of the week. It was, in fact, for all of us, a separation between the people we were when our plane landed at Ben-Gurion, and the people we were about to become.

Over the next ten days, we acquired a lifetime of knowledge—about ourselves, about each other, about what it really means to be part of the worldwide phenomenon that is the Jewish people. We established and deepened our own personal connections with the land and the holy sites that have bound Jews together for thousands of years. We learned that some things are universal, like shopping and Facebook and Doritos and terrible hip-hop and that hand-clapping game that I have no idea what it’s called. We learned that a lot of things are different, like the Knesset as compared to Congress, like the fact that anyone can sit in on a Supreme Court case, like what high school kids are thinking about and concerned with in the years immediately following high school. We learned that count-offs, in any language, are utterly useless. We learned that sweet talk and charm can get you an awful lot in the Machne Yehuda market of Jerusalem, for just a shekel, or even less. (Ask Bernie, he somehow came back to us with a fish head in a bag!) We learned that photobombing, the act of sneaking yourself into others’ pictures, is in fact a skill, dare I say, an art form, and one in which I am nearing levels of mastery. We learned that ten minutes following a full meal is exactly the time to begin looking towards the next time you’ll be eating, that Bamba and Bissli are addictive, and that Krembo, the Israeli version of a Mallomar, is even better than a Mallomar. (Sorry, Linda).

And yet, as wonderful and enriching as all of that knowledge is, that alone cannot conjure the magic of deep, intimate personal connections we were so blessed to witness among the students. Something else was at play, some invisible hand, and of course, for me, that’s God, making things happen in a way that is so, so much greater than the sum of the parts. And standing in front of the congregation at Ohel Avraham, the same exact place where I had stood just a year ago as part of a small delegation of dreamers, sharing words in lashon ha-kodesh, the holy language of Hebrew, and looking out over the interwoven, yet seamless tapestry of Israeli and American students, I was absolutely overwhelmed with emotions, and had to fight back tears throughout the rest of the evening. To have the opportunity to see our dreams come true, right before our very eyes, was something I will cherish in my heart for the rest of my life. 

Before I conclude with the beautiful words written by one of our Israeli students, I need to say thank you. Thank you to the Israel Engagement Committee, for starting to dream some two years ago, and for choosing so wisely to partner up with Ohel Avraham and the Leo Baeck Education Center. Thank you to Linda for spending her winter vacation with a few adults and 22 teenagers, and for taking thousands of pictures. Thank you to our students, our brave chalutzim, for blazing the trail that we hope will be traveled by Shaaray Tefila teens for many, many years to come. And thank you, lastly, to Hope and Rabbi Gabby Dagan, Ohel Avraham’s amazing spiritual leader, and now a very very dear friend of mine. As I said in Haifa on that last Shabbat, I sometimes receive too much credit for this amazing adventure, simply because I’m the rabbi accompanying them. The truth is that none of this—and I do mean none of this—would have happened without Hope and Rabbi Dagan, who is with us tonight. Even though Hope couldn’t be here tonight, as she’s out of town celebrating her birthday, it’s so important that you know how wonderful she is.
  
Here are the words written by Adi Chen, a teen from the Israeli delegation, in a note for our whole group upon our leaving:

“Dear brothers and sisters, my new brothers and sisters,

I’m not a religious man, yet it’s quite amazing that I met you on the same Shabbat that Joseph gets to know his “lost brothers.” If we think about it we all are brothers and sisters, that life and events had separated us before, but this past week we got a chance to make a reunion of brothers and sisters. Only people who are brothers and sisters, as you are to me, could connect with each other and feel so close, so related, as we did this past week. Just yesterday, after the party, Jack M. told me that he feels he has known me so much more than a week. That is the essence of being sisters and brothers—to be connected without being physically together.

There is a song in Hebrew that is called Rikma Enoshit Ahat, which means “One Human Tissue.” We are all “one human tissue.” This week I began to learn about a different culture, and yet that you are kids just like me. The differences on the one hand, and the shared identity on the other hand, is amazing to me.

From now on, you are all part of my “human tissue”—different, yet the same.

It’s funny that the week you leave is the week that Israel (Jacob) leaves his children. I’m sure that you will be part of Israel forever and ever, and that wherever you will be, we will be for each other.

I say to you today only L’hitraot, meaning “we will see you again.” This is not goodbye!

Love you and already missing you all, my new family,
Adi Chen”

L’hitraot. “See you soon.” Not just in March, when it will be our turn to host our newfound Israeli family. But hopefully, the powerful connections forged on this sacred pilgrimage will inspire us to create and deepen our own relationships, with Israel and her people, for the rest of our lives.

AMEN.       

Israel and the Struggle Within - Vayishlach 5773

Truth be told: I never got into wrestling. It was just never for me. No disrespect to those of you who did or perhaps still do. I had friends growing up who would come into school on Tuesday chomping at the bit to unpack all the drama of Monday Night Raw. A close friend of my brother’s would always play Jeopardy on the computer with us using the name Ric Flair. And my cousin David, as a little boy, would refer to his younger brother Jacob as Jake the Snake, while adoring, as he would say it, “Bwutus the Barber Beefcake.”

So I get it. I get the appeal as kind of a soap opera for men and boys. But it’s not for me.

The one time a year where I get into wrestling is this week. It’s this week on the Jewish calendar where we read one of the most well-known passages in all of Torah, in Parashat Vayishlach. It has been twenty years since Jacob last saw his twin brother Esau, when Jacob and his mother Rebekah conspired to steal from Esau the innermost blessing of their father Isaac. Not the first time Jacob increases his gains at his brother’s expense, Esau is a crushed and broken man, who vows to kill Jacob once their father dies.

And now, it is the night before the brothers are to see each other for the first time since that fateful day twenty years earlier. They each have brought with them all of their families, all of their servants, all of their soldiers, all of their sheep and cattle and belongings. Uncertain of Esau’s intentions, of whether he still bears on his shoulders the weight of that terrible, yet justifiable grudge, Jacob lays down to sleep by himself near the Jabbok River. But he doesn’t sleep much. Instead, we read that “a man wrestled with him until the rise of dawn.” Talk about a steel cage match; Monday Night Raw is only three hours! And it would have gone on even longer. The man says to Jacob, “Let me go, for dawn is breaking.” But Jacob refuses, saying, “I will not let you go unless you bless me.” Learning Jacob’s name, the man says, “No more shall you be called Jacob, but Yisrael, Israel, for you have struggled with God and with human beings, and you have prevailed.”

This is it. This is the moment where we, as the Jewish people, get our name. We are bnei Yisrael, the children of Israel. The land promised to our ancestors as a holy land, a land flowing with milk and honey, is Eretz Yisrael, the land of Israel. And, of course, the modern Jewish state on that land, M’dinat Yisrael, takes its name from this story as well.

So you can imagine how recent events in that part of the world have added new layers to this powerful, seminal moment from our Torah. In the three weeks since we last gathered together, the government of Israel decided enough was enough, that 12 years and more than 12,000 long-range rockets fired upon its citizens, upon its men, women, and children, could no longer be tolerated. And so Israel launched Operation Pillar of Defense, a series of intricate military strikes on the storehouses of Hamas’s weapons and ammunition, as well as those masterminding and executing these terror attacks on Israeli civilians.

On the one hand, let me say this: I fully and completely support Israel’s right to defend herself and her citizens, just as I would support that same right for any nation of the world. If right now, here in New York City, we were being assailed by dozens of rockets fired from a specific location we knew, by people we had identified as terrorists bent on our destruction, do you think people here would simply turn the other cheek and let it go for 12 days, let alone 12 years? Not a chance. Imagine several times a week hearing sirens go off in your town, disrupting your attempts at making a living, your children’s schooling, your infants’ daycare, allowing you and your family, in some places, just 15 seconds to get to the nearest shelter. Imagine the onset of facial twitches and tics caused by the blare of those sirens, a post-traumatic stress disorder that never goes away because of each day’s fresh trauma, teenagers who wet their beds because over a decade of fleeing rocket attacks to a shelter has so stunted their growth that they are developmentally equivalent to toddlers. Would you want your government to sit back and do nothing beyond just hoping and praying that, somehow, it all just blows over? No. Way. Yet, in a display of astounding hypocrisy, that is exactly what so much of the world expects Israel to do. And by the way, it should be noted that Israelis, famous for not being able to agree on much of anything, were overwhelmingly in favor of this operation, to the tune of almost 90 percent.

On the other hand, there is the ever-important question underlying it all: will this help Israel make peace? Is this, in the long run, the right move? Or is the current pattern of rockets-rockets-IDF operation-cease-fire one that will beleaguer Israelis and Palestinians for years to come? After all, as my favorite music group says, “If you can heal the symptoms, but not affect the cause, you can’t heal the symptoms.” Is Israel trying to heal the symptoms without going to the heart of the issue? Will anything really be accomplished if we can’t move beyond the status quo? How can there be progress while fingers are endlessly pointed, where each side paints the other as unwilling to negotiate at best and the spawn of evil at worst?

The answer? I don’t know. But perhaps the first Israel can help us out. See, the Rabbis wanted to know, like we do: just who is this man who wrestles with Jacob? Is it some sort of messenger of God? Is it the guardian angel of Esau? Esau himself? Maybe Jacob’s entreaty to be blessed hints that it’s his father Isaac, from whom he stole the blessing meant for Esau. Maybe it’s a dream in which he grapples with all of these ghosts of his checkered past conflated into one daunting opponent.

But what I believe, what I see when I read this text, is that the man with whom Jacob struggles so passionately is none other than Jacob himself. At this crossroads of his life, both figuratively and literally, Jacob is blessed with the opportunity to reflect upon his life until now, to put himself and his deeds on trial, so to speak. His wrestling is a coming to terms with the motivations behind and the results of his actions—good, bad, and everything in between. It’s an honest and thorough evaluation of who he’s been, who he is, and who he hopes to be, in which everything is on the table and nothing is hidden away. And while he comes away physically injured, walking with a limp, we read in the verses immediately following the beautiful reunion with Esau that Jacob arrived in Shechem, the next city of his journey, shalem—whole, intact, complete, and at peace.

And so I pray that it is for us: for the State of Israel and her people to struggle amongst themselves and with their neighbors to eventually achieve a true and lasting peace. But also for all of us, all of b’nei Yisrael, the children of Israel, to learn from our shared namesake, and remember, no matter how vehemently we may disagree on the paths to peace, no matter how heated our debates and arguments may be, that it stems from the passion and fervor and love for Israel that we all share, that common bond we all feel to the depths of our hearts and souls. And I pray that, like Jacob becoming Israel, each of us, all of us, will be strengthened by the struggle, within and without, so that we arrive at our destination shalem—whole, intact, and at peace, with ourselves, with our community, and with our neighbors.

AMEN.