Rosh Hashanah 5785

Study Peace 

Rabbi Shoshana Leis 

I often wonder why we don’t read the story of the creation of the world on Rosh Hashanah. 

In today’s reading, Genesis 21, Sarah is blessed to give birth to Isaac in her old age, and soon after, she watches Isaac play with Ishmael, the son of Hagar.

Fearing for Isaac’s future, Sarah insists that Abraham send Hagar and Ishmael away. Though heartbroken, Abraham complies, and Hagar is left in the desert with her child, facing what seems to be certain death. But in that moment of despair, God intervenes, showing Hagar a well, saving her and Ishmael. Ishmael would go on - as promised - to become the ancestor of the Islamic nation, a reminder that even in exile and rejection, there is the possibility for new beginnings.

Dr. Judith Schmidt writes: “the story is a reflection of our world today, where divisions seem insurmountable, where people are cast out, and where the “other” is too often pushed aside.”

In a bold reimagination of the moment, Judith’s demonstrates that the first step in change is to imagine that change, creating it with our language in the spaces in between the text- the written script.  

In Judith’s midrashic dream, Sarah and Hagar sit together at Miriam’s well, reflecting on their shared pain, their broken hearts bleating like shofars to Ahavah Rabbah, the Great Love. 

Sarah and Hagar listen to the cries of those who have been cast out, and work together toward a world where no more children are sacrificed to the divisions we create. 

Later in the Torah, Isaac and Ishmael come back together to bury their father Abraham. But they don’t actually talk, let alone wipe one another’s tears.  Neither do the rivaling Jacob and Esau when they come together in Genesis 33: there is a brief embrace or a possible neck biting thing (an interpretation based on dots over the letters.) And then they go their separate ways… no model of sustainable peace, no true reconciliation.  

What doesn’t make it into the text - or the headlines we watch every day- are hardened hearts softening into broken hearts. 

Looking at the story on the surface we can’t make out the voices of softened broken hearts. Peacemakers don’t make the headlines. 

Rabbi Charna Rosenholtz, teaches that igniting our imagination is key to building resilience in a rapidly changing world. Btzelem Elohim not only means being created in God's image; it means having the imagination to create.

In the days and weeks after October 7, there wasn’t space for Jewish collective imagination; Sarah and Hagar remained separate. For Jews, our hearts shattering was made worse by the deafening silence and even celebration of the October 7 massacre  in the halls of Ivy League institutions! Many of us felt betrayed and abandoned. 

One of my Christian colleagues, when I pushed him to respond to my question- why the silence?- admitted that there was some shared sentiment in his church that we deserved it. 

If you ever doubted anti-semitism, here it is. 

Many relationships shattered in an instant, yet some have been strengthened or newly formed. As soon as he realized what our community needed (to be held by non-mourners like at a shiva) Rev Hal Roark opened his church to us to have a public adapted shiva as a community. He covered the mirrors, and even covered security! 

PCS member David Benattar came over to me right afterwards and said: “We need to reach out to our Muslim neighbors tomorrow.” David - even though he had lived for many years on a kibbutz near Sderot one of the cities that was attacked - did not wait to return to the work of finding a new way forward.

When the rabbis in the Talmud reject “eye for an eye,” they are admitting that vengeful  feelings may arise yet when this happens we should imagine a different way forward. When the well of pain and fear is deep, thankfully we have an even deeper well of core teachings, principles, practices, values and role models to support us and to lean into. 

On October 16, Yuval  Noah Harari, a historian and author, wrote: “it is the job of outsiders to help maintain a space for peace. We deposit this peaceful space with you, because we cannot hold it right now. Take good care of it for us, so that one day, when the pain begins to heal, both Israelis and Palestinians might inhabit that space.”  

In February, I traveled to Israel on a trip led by the Jewish Education project. There I saw first hand the impact of the atrocities of October 7 on a changed Israel including the fear of displaced Israeli families who can’t/couldn’t return home.  Oriana and her family were seeking refuge at the hotel we stayed in in Tel Aviv. “There was no place to hide my children.” She shook with tears telling me about her fear of being in her home.  Oriana is a third generation peace activist living at Kibbutz Nir Am. She has since returned to her home near the border of Gaza where she used to teach yoga to her neighbors. 

Rachel Goldberg-Polin  is the mother of Hersch who was killed last month in Gaza after almost a year in captivity. 63 days after her son was abducted by Hamas terrorists, Rachel Goldberg-Polin, wrote a poem “One Tiny Seed.” In the wake of unimaginable loss,  she writes about the tears of mothers— both here and across the divide. Rachel imagines gathering   tears and planting a seed of hope, wrapped in fear, trauma, and war. Could it be, she wonders, that one day, mothers on both sides will sit together in peace, their sons living long lives? The dream she paints is not a naïve fantasy—it’s an invitation for us to envision what could be possible if we choose compassion over dehumanization. 

Vivian Silver was a peace activist who lived in Kibbutz Beiri and  believed that the only way to bring about real change is through trust, reconciliation, and cooperation. In 2000, she helped create the Arab-Jewish Center for Equality, Empowerment and Cooperation,which  grew to be one of the largest nonprofit organizations in Israel devoted to equal rights and created jobs in impoverished Arab communities and brought Arab and Jewish young people together to volunteer. Vivian was murdered by Hamas terrorists who entered her home  on October 7 while she was texting with her son, saying goodbye and trying to maintain her humor. Vivians  son, Yonatan Zeigen, spoke at her funeral, surrounded by Jews and Arabs who came together not only to mourn her loss but to continue her legacy of peace. “Being a peace activist doesn’t protect you from being killed in war,” he said. “But it can help prevent future wars.” His words are a powerful reminder that peace is not the absence of conflict; it is the active pursuit of justice and reconciliation. After his mother’s horrific and violent death, Yonatan kept repeating a parable he liked to tell his children: Every person has two wolves inside them. Which survives? The one you feed. Hope or despair, peace or war. To feed the hope, that is his work.  Yonaton even imagines orchestrating a mock peace negotiation, a televised spectacle, to help people imagine what it would look like to have government leaders come to the table in good faith. Finding a way starts with imagining a way. 

The events of 10/7 shattered progressive partnerships here in the states, but new ones are forming. 

Here in NY there is a glimmer of hope for progressive partnerships.. in june, Representative Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez hosted a livestream entitled “Antisemitism and the Fight for Democracy” in collaboration with leading experts on combating antisemitism. Whatever your feelings about  AOC, this meeting is important as it signals to progressive leaders nationwide to find a way to acknowledge anti-Semitism even while  criticizing the Israeli government. 

Here in Westchester I am grateful to be part of a group of local leaders who found each other at first through countering one another’s response to 10/7 and then finding a way to talk. 

Our group includes Reverend -Hal Roark of Grace church in Ossining, a community organizer and Episcopal priest.  -Nada Khader, Executive Director of WESPAC Foundation  -Sister Ola Nosseir Founder of Our Common Beliefs: her vision is to share the commonality of the Abrahamic faiths from the Islamic perspective with the hope of bringing love and harmony between Muslim  Christian and Jewish neighbors.

-Lisa Genn, lawyer by training community organizer and social justice and peace activist.

We named the group over lunch in my dining room. Finding a Way is based on Suffs the musical “how can we find a way where there isn’t one…”.. 

How can we find a way when there isn’t one? 

Finding a Way aims to find a way to unite people despite their differences, and is working together for the shared values of peace and justice for all. In the face of war, trauma, and suffering in Israel/Palestine, we resist hopelessness and futility by convening during these challenging times. We acknowledge that we have different lived experiences and will explore common ground through dialogue, study, music and prayer, highlighting the universal themes and core values that we share from our various sacred texts and shared humanity.

Finding a Way includes descendants of Abraham, Sarah, and Hagar, as well as people of other faiths and no faith. We plan to gather regularly for study, reflection, action and fostering social connections across differences. 

The tent of our synagogue is wide, with diverse views on Israel. Some of us are consumed by fear and despair, while others are questioning our faith and identity.  The community agreements we use when we gather for dialogue have supported us to continue our conversations. 

What I hope unites us is the core value of building inclusion and true community: a Jewish community where we can be who we are. The future of our synagogue depends on how truly inclusive we can be. building a pluralistic community involves openness to difficult conversations and a commitment to truth seeking.  

Some of the principles I’ve discovered for the work of peace, reconciliation and healing over the past year include:

• The greater the challenges in the world, the greater our need to restore ourselves, to seek peace, both within and beyond. Shabbat is our practice for restoration and renewal.  

• We need to accept that there isn’t one way to be and feel ready. You can discover the reasons and the capacity to do the work as you go. Have self-compassion for wherever you are in the process. 

• We must reject the binary framing of conflict. This conflict cannot be reduced to simple sides. Doing so perpetuates the problem. Empathy and compassion exist across the spectrum, and we must seek the partial truths in others, even in those with whom we deeply disagree.

• It’s in all of our best interests that all are safe and free; our destinies are bound together. 

• The mitzvah of seeking peace isn’t like other mitzvot which are like gems in a path in front of you. You have to seek for it and pursue it (psalm 34) 

I often wonder why Peace studies are not at the core of every Israel trip and every Jewish curriculum. Why don’t we prioritize seeking peace as a central dimension of Jewish life? 

Ary Hammerman, published an opinion piece in the Forward, entitled “I’m a Jewish day school student. We need to learn Palestinian history.”

"Many young Jews feel alienated from Israel due to a one-sided education that overlooks Palestinian experiences. Including both perspectives can help foster a more nuanced understanding of the conflict and promote empathy and dialogue.” 

Rabbi Yehuda Kurtzer reminds us our tradition lacks the framework for navigating modern power dynamics. We are untethered, facing new terrain, but that’s precisely why we must use our imagination—like Sarah and Hagar at the well—to create new possibilities.

Let’s explore these questions together in the new year. 

Jill Liflander, a Jewish Educator and Artist, (Miceforpeace.com) recently attended an event with Vivian Silver’s son Yonaton Zeigen with the Parents Circle Families Forum- Bereaved Israelis and Palestinians for PEACE. 

“I was extremely nervous; I clothed myself in Israel blue from head to toe. 

"My job is to listen," I repeated to myself as two Israelis and two Palestinians sat down on the stage with a moderator. "That's my only job. To listen." Everyone on that stage had suffered a brutal loss of a family member during what feels like the endless conflict between Israelis and Palestinians; a son, a mother, a child, a sister. And everyone on that stage had traversed to hell and back to reach a place where they were able to seek reconciliation and peace. I winced. My heart caught in my throat. I listened. I really listened.  I cried. The moderator left us with an assignment to try to do things a little differently in our lives. 

Afterwards, I stood outside staring up at the full moon. My heart blossomed with a peaceful feeling that I didn't know even existed. Maybe now, I'm sharing that possibility of peace with you.“

So why do we read the Torah portions about Sarah and Hagar, Isaac and Ishmael? 

Perhaps for this moment.  So that our response can be imaginative and new, rooted in our history but not stuck there.  

And so every heart can blossom with the possibility of peace. 

I will close with a poem by 

Puerto Rican Jewish poet and activist Aurora Levins Morales

“Red Sea”

“We cannot cross until we carry each other,

all of us refugees, all of us prophets.

No more taking turns on history’s wheel,

trying to collect old debts no-one can pay.

The sea will not open that way.

This time that country

is what we promise each other,

our rage pressed cheek to cheek

until tears flood the space between,

until there are no enemies left,

because this time no one will be left to drown

and all of us must be chosen.

This time it’s all of us or none. “

May this new year be one where we stretch out of our comfort zones to seek peace, and to create a future rooted in justice, dignity, and hope for all people. 

Shana Tovah.

Sermon: Sea of Tears

Erev Rosh Hashanah 5785

Shanah Tovah.

This evening, as we gather to welcome the new year, we carry with us the weight of profound tragedies—the unspeakable violence and loss we witnessed on October 7th. The attack on Israel, the subsequent war with Hamas, the pain and grief that has swept across so many lives, feels overwhelming. All of the pain through the past year for so many. How can we hold all this suffering? How do we move forward when our hearts are broken, and our spirits are worn down?

Let me share with you a story that speaks to this very question, a story about two great Hasidic masters: Reb Yitzchak Vorker and Reb Menachem Mendel of Kotsk. Though they were the best of friends, their paths in life were different—one might even say opposite. For the Kotzker, truth was the most important thing in the world. He believed that if you weren’t living in alignment with the absolute truth, then nothing else mattered. But for the Vorker, loving other people was the most important thing. In everything he did, Reb Yitzchak embodied boundless compassion for others.

Despite these differences, their friendship was deep, a reminder that love and truth are not opposing forces but two facets of the same divine reality. This friendship brings us to the heart of the story I want to share with you tonight.

Before Reb Yitzchak Vorker left this world, he made a promise to his son and his friend, the Kotzker Rebbe: he would return from the World Above and tell them how things were in Heaven. But weeks passed, and neither his son nor the Kotzker heard anything. Worried, the son approached Reb Menachem Mendel and said, "I haven’t heard from my father. Could something have happened to him in Heaven?"

The Kotzker, too, had been expecting to hear from his dear friend. So, in the way that only holy ones can, he ascended to the heavens to search for Reb Yitzchak. He went from place to place—through the palaces of the tzaddikim, visiting the greats: Rashi, Rambam, Rabbi Akiva, and even Moshe Rabbeinu. But everywhere he went, they told him, "Yes, Reb Yitzchak was here. But he didn’t stay. He went on."

The Kotzker continued searching, and eventually, the angels directed him to a dark forest, saying, "If you keep walking, you will come to a vast sea. There, you will find him." Sure enough, the Kotzker passed through the thick, forbidding forest and arrived at the shore of a massive ocean. And there, standing at the edge of the water, was his dear friend, Reb Yitzchak Vorker, leaning on his staff, staring out at the waves.

"Reb Yitzchak!" the Kotzker cried, "My holy friend, what is this place? What are you doing here?"

“Reb Yitzchak!” he cried, “My holy friend, what is this place? What are you doing here?”

The Vorker turned to him and said, “Ah, Mendel, don’t you recognize this ocean? This is the Sea of Tears—the ocean of tears. Every tear that has ever been shed from suffering, from heartbreak, from loss, is collected here. When I heard the cries of this ocean, I could not bear it. I made a vow that I would not move from this place until God had mercy on His people, until every tear is wiped away and all this pain is turned to joy.”

And so the Vorker remains, refusing to leave the Sea of Tears until redemption comes.

This story strikes deeply because it reminds us of the immense pain carried by our people, by all people. There is a sea of tears around us—filled not only with the suffering of the past but with the cries of today. The tears of those who lost loved ones in the October 7th attacks, the tears of those displaced, those living in fear, those who feel forgotten. And not only them—the world is filled with suffering, with tears shed for injustice, for war, for loss, for heartbreak.

As we stand at the edge of this sea, we might feel tempted to do what Reb Yitzchak Vorker did—to stand still, to feel the weight of the world’s pain, to vow never to move until all is healed. But here is where we must be careful.

The Vorker’s response was one of deep empathy—so deep that he felt he could not move. But the question for us is: how do we feel the suffering of the world without becoming paralyzed by it? How do we, in the face of such overwhelming pain, still find the strength to act, to change, to heal?

We cannot turn away from the ocean of tears. Judaism teaches us that to be fully human, fully alive, is to feel the pain of others. “Do not stand idly by the blood of your neighbor,” the Torah commands. Our tradition is filled with stories of tzaddikim, of prophets, who wept alongside those who suffered. We are called to feel, to cry, to care. But we are also called to act.

Thich Nhat Hanh, the great Zen master, teaches us that miracles are nothing extraordinary. “The real miracle,” he says, “is not to walk on water but to walk on the earth in peace.” We are not asked to transcend the pain of this world. We are asked to walk through it, to live in it, but to keep moving forward, to keep bringing peace.

How do we do that?

First, we acknowledge the suffering. We don’t look away. We stand, as the Vorker did, at the edge of the sea and listen to the cries. But we also remember that we are not alone. We stand with each other, with our community, with all those who seek healing and justice. Together, we can support one another, lift one another up, and carry each other through.

Second, we act. It may feel small in the face of such overwhelming tragedy, but every act of kindness, every step toward justice, is a ripple in the sea of tears. We are not obligated to complete the work, but neither are we free to desist from it. Whether it’s reaching out to those in need, standing up for justice, or simply being there for a friend in pain—these actions matter.

Finally, we cultivate resilience. The work of healing the world, of turning tears into joy, is long and hard. But we are a people who know how to endure. Netzach, the ability to persevere, is built into our tradition. We may not see the end of the sea of tears, but we can keep swimming, keep moving, knowing that each step we take brings us closer to redemption.

As we enter this new year, let us stand together at the shore of the sea of tears. Let us feel the pain of the world, but let us also commit to action, to healing, to hope. May this year bring healing to the broken, comfort to the grieving, and strength to those who continue to fight for a better world.

Shanah Tovah. May we all be inscribed for a year of peace, health, and renewal.