Before Shabbat

You may ask yourself, “What is that beautiful house?”
You may ask yourself, “Where does that highway go to?”
And you may ask yourself, “Am I right, am I wrong?”
And you may say to yourself, “My God, what have I done?”

David Byrne’s lyrics to “Once in a Lifetime” have been rattling around in my brain lately. Not just because it is an exquisitely composed melody. It’s about the disquieting realization that strikes us from time to time: whatever tools we’ve used to better understand the world in which we live, are utterly inadequate.

This is a crazy time, one for which we’re utterly unprepared. How do we find our way forward? How are we to understand the current war in Iran and Lebanon? Are we supposed to be cheerleaders? Do we care about the way it all began? Is the Israeli incursion into Lebanon “the right thing?” Are the actions by the military in Gaza and the obstructing of food aid justifiable through our American Jewish lens?  What about the current Israeli settlers’ actions in the West Bank?

Facing so many questions, you may ask yourself, “How do I feel about this?” Or, “How is this ever going to end?” Maybe you wonder, “Is this good or bad for the Jews?” There’s also concern: Will we be blamed, from both the left and right, for this war? Is our role in America to become apologists for Bibi? Will American Jews become pariahs?

The chorus in the song repeats over and over again: “Same as it ever was,” in a highly ironic, almost mocking way. Because nothing is the same as it ever was. We are in utterly new territory, and there are no signposts ahead.

I had hoped that after the Israel-Hamas ceasefire was signed last October, the temperature would die down. I so wanted to see the region slowly de-escalate, so that life could slowly return to normal for all parties. The possibility of a March 2026 trip to Israel looked promising, so we booked it, never imagining that there would be, once again, travel bans and missiles and air raids and destruction.

I don’t have too many answers, just more questions. I’m worried about how all of this will pan out: for America, American Jews, Israeli Jews, Arabs, Palestinians, Persians – in fact, the whole world! As fuel prices soar and as the war becomes less and less popular in the USA, what will this all look like?

Not having answers is uncomfortable. Most of my life has been spent offering wisdom to navigate life’s rapids. Facing this tsunami, I find little guidance from the American and Israeli news I read.

But, for what it’s worth, I can venture a few thoughts. First, keep informed. I know – I know – reading the news feels like a Charley horse is inbound. But get over the cringe and the ache and read. Listen. Watch. And then consider. You will probably not find answers to the questions I posed earlier, but you’ll know why the Strait of Hormuz is so important, and how Lebanon is falling apart, and how it is that Iran still has armaments, and what Israelis are doing amid all this.

Second: Come to your temple. Feel the warmth of the family, the sense that we’re going to get through this – whatever this is. Third: have faith in our millennia of training for hard times. We know a lot about struggle and pain. We know it’s dark, and we also know: Or Hadash al Tzion ta-ir. A new light will shine upon us. I know that sounds vaguely Messianic, but it’s really all about faith. Same as it ever was.

My father came to America from Berlin in 1941. He had spent months with other children from his German-Jewish orphanage, hiding out in France, waiting to be smuggled to Portugal through the auspices of Œuvre de Secours aux Enfants — the Children’s Aid Society, known as OSE — one of the most remarkable rescue networks of the Holocaust. Like his peers, my father knew what it felt like to be hunted. He knew hunger, and the cold of a French winter, and the fear that attended every day — because he was a Jew.

He never told me any of this directly. I pieced it together years after he died, fragment by fragment. And it left a deep, lasting mark on me — as the son of the sole survivor of the Stern family, as a Jew, and as an American.

Six years ago, in Charlottesville, Virginia, white supremacists marched with lit torches, chanting *Jews will not replace us.* They wanted to frighten us. They wanted to assert their dominance, to drive us back behind locked doors and shuttered windows. Beneath their chant was an old and ugly theology: that Jews are a superseded people, that we have been cast aside by history, that we are nothing. They were, in their way, echoing arguments that serious philosophers once made — that Judaism had no living future, that we were frozen relics of a dead past.

Our history has always had other ideas.

I became a rabbi with an unwavering belief in the destiny of the Jewish people. We have survived empires that tried to erase us, ideologies that tried to philosophize us out of existence, and violence that tried to finish the job. We are not only here — we are alive, generative, and irreplaceable. This is my inheritance. This is my truth.

When the torchbearers shouted Jews will not replace us, I knew my answer: No. You will not replace us.

After centuries of fear and coercion, we will not knuckle under to threats and epithets. We will not hide. We will not make ourselves smaller. We will not be silent. We will not live by the rules of ignorant, hateful people. We will continue to embrace life, dignity, and the hard work of hope — because hope is stronger than fear, and always has been.

The attack at a synagogue in West Bloomfield, Michigan last week was sickening. It is a reminder of how quickly hatred moves from ideology to violence, and of how the twisted logic of antisemitism links Jewish lives everywhere to events in Israel, as though we are collectively guilty, collectively exposed, and collectively responsible for whatever grievance the hater carries. This is the oldest lie. It is also, still, a dangerous one.

I won’t pretend I know how to cure the world of antisemitism. I don’t know how to reach people who have no interest in understanding Jewish life, Jewish history, or the complexity of Israel and the Diaspora. It feels large and ominous. I won’t minimize that.

What I know is this: we are not passive. TBA has security in place every time we gather — not because we live in fear, but because we refuse to be naive. Our team is trained to respond. Our doors are secured. After the Michigan attack, Newton Police reached out promptly to reaffirm their commitment to our safety, and I am grateful for that partnership. We will continue to review and strengthen our procedures, as we always have.

But security is not our identity. Community is. Hope is.

My father was hidden by strangers, smuggled across borders by people who risked their lives because they believed Jewish lives mattered. He made it. He came to America and he built something. His story is my story. And his survival — partial, painful, improbable — is the reason I stand here, writing these words, refusing to be afraid.

So yes, I am sad. Yes, I am angry that we are navigating this in 2026. But I am not afraid. I am more committed than ever to our presence in this world — visible, strong, and full of purpose.

We stand together. No one will ever force us into hiding again.

I’m composing this late Thursday afternoon. And because my mother’s DNA surges in my marrow, I’d already be at the airport for our 8:30pm flight to Israel. I’d be poking around the duty-free shop looking for bargains — which, if you know anything about such places, is the one thing you won’t find. Unless you smoke.

As our tour group—the Hell or High Water team—arrived, we’d hug, greet, and decide where to eat in the E Terminal at Logan.

But now, everyone knows the conflict in the Middle East has ruined our plans. The Hell or High Water team was hit hard. And I feel it.

I love going to Israel. I love being inside that extraordinary old/new land, the one that makes me feel like I’m home. My Hebrew starts flowing. My awareness of Jewish wisdom and Jewish shortsightedness sharpens. I can’t get enough. I want to look at all the shades of Israelis — Ethiopians, Swedes, Yemenites, Russians, Anglos — all speaking Hebrew, all loving and hating and pushing and embracing each other. I’m really going to miss that.

More than that, though, what makes me saddest is that I don’t get to share Israel with our group. I don’t get to introduce the first-timers to that kaleidoscopic tumult the moment you walk into Ben Gurion. I don’t get the thrill of watching this land reveal itself through their eyes. I won’t get to walk through the Old City with them, won’t get to witness their awe at the Wall, the Dead Sea, the maktesh, Tel Aviv, Yad Vashem, or…

We plan to reschedule, but right now, I’m simply feeling the loss. The HHW team is just delayed—not deterred.

In the meantime, my key concerns revolve around understanding what this conflict will ultimately bring: Will it end in peace and reconstruction, or further destabilize the region? Will Iran move away from extremism, or intensify it? Is this Israel’s opportunity to address the Iranian nuclear threat, or could it result in even graver consequences? Wars are unpredictable, shaped by accidents, personalities, and changing fortunes. The outcomes are not set; I am left questioning, uncertain, and searching for clarity.

The deepest question I have right now concerns Americans’ appetite for this current conflict. The majority of Americans do not approve. More critically, how many of them believe that Bibi pushed Trump into it? Because if this entanglement grows costly in treasury and in American lives, the possibility of antisemitism rising on the dark wings of the historical imperative to “blame it on the Jews” becomes a specter to fear.

Sitting in my chair, far from Jerusalem, I’m staring through lenses clouded by the fog of war and the haze of the unknown. As the tech asks me at my eye doctor’s office, “Is this one better? Or is this one?” And I say to him – and to you – I can’t tell… I honestly can’t tell.