Before Shabbat

I am a TikTok patron. There, I said it. Some of you may scoff. Some may wonder, “What – exactly! – is a TikTok?” And some of you may wish to high-five me.

TikTok is a social media platform of short-form videos, usually under 2 minutes. I won’t wade into the controversy over its alleged threats to American security. I won’t dissect the Congressional bill passed last March demanding Chinese owners sell TikTok to U.S. interests within 9-12 months or face a nationwide ban. I certainly won’t analyze the executive order signed on the president’s first day that paused enforcement for 75 days. And just recently, the president extended TikTok’s Saturday deadline by another 75 days to find a new owner, pushing the final reckoning to mid-June.

I’m relieved that TikTok has another reprieve. I don’t pretend to grasp the political calculus behind it – especially amid escalating tariffs and U.S.-China competition. But I confess: I’m captivated by TikTok. The hypnotic cascade of stories flowing one after another, utterly without pattern or logic, curated only by mysterious algorithms tracking my interests, is mesmerizing. Yes, some content is vapid. Some is pure sensationalism. Yes, it has devoured hours I might have spent reading. But…

TikTok opens unexpected windows into diverse worlds. I stumble upon explanations of cosmology. Debates about Zionism. The secret to a perfect sear on steak. The craftsmanship behind an authentic Hasidic sable shtreimel. More importantly, I glimpse the raw humanity of strangers – their suffering and their triumphs.

Last week, my “for you” feed surfaced a video of Bubba Cashman, a boy of perhaps six. He navigates the world in a specialized walker, his legs braced and immobile. He lives with severe spina bifida, a birth defect where the spine and spinal cord form improperly during fetal development. His father Chase instructs him with unflinching directness. There’s no coddling here. Chase teaches Bubba to maneuver his walker over a curb – a maneuver requiring him to lift the walker’s front while leaning back to prevent falling forward, all without the use of his legs.

I’m transfixed because Chase refuses to sugarcoat reality for his son. Bubba absorbs his father’s lesson with grave intensity, then tries and tries again. The sheer force required to lift his body is staggering. Each attempt brings him tantalizingly close before he fails. And then fails again.

The exhaustion and frustration etched on this child’s face is unmistakable. After perhaps the sixth attempt, he breaks. Tears flow as he reaches toward his father. But Chase doesn’t immediately rescue him. “It’s hard. I know it’s frustrating. The world is not always going to be set up for you.” Only when Bubba is truly spent does Chase lift him from the walker and envelop him in an embrace so genuine it pierces through the digital divide.

The human condition isn’t about glory and reward. Often it’s about unbearable struggle. It’s what drives parents to flee persecution, traversing deserts and swollen rivers with children on their backs in pursuit of freedom. It’s the mud from which we fight to rise, the bondage from which we break free. It echoes the words we recite upon completing a book of Torah: Hazak, Hazak, ve’Nithazek. Be strong, be strong, and so shall we all be strengthened.

One father’s fierce determination to prepare his son for an unaccommodating world challenges each of us to persist, to rise above our circumstances and glimpse, even fleetingly, the indomitable human spirit. Bubba’s struggle illuminates the Passover story we retell: from the depths, we will rise.

Attending the CCAR convention, an annual international gathering of Reform rabbis, is a long-established rite of passage. It is here that classmates and colleagues touch base, share stories from the trenches, describe their successes, compare workloads (“How many weddings did you officiate last year?”), and study and pray together—though rabbis tend to avoid morning minyanim, except for the large service on the convention’s first morning.

In years past, rabbis who felt overwhelmed, under siege, or utterly burnt out rarely shared their struggles. They feared appearing as failures in their colleagues’ eyes. Such vulnerability was considered distasteful, or as we say in Yiddish, “pahst nischt.” This “I’m fine” machismo has diminished since women began serving as rabbis. They were less burdened, though not immune, to concerns about saving face while drowning. This shift has transformed the Reform rabbinate.

The convention offers a window into other evolving trends. We observe newly ordained rabbis and absorb their fresh perspectives on life and the rabbinate. It’s both invigorating and humbling to recognize what exceptional humans they are and how fortunate our movement is to attract such compassionate, intelligent people to Reform Judaism. Many are remarkably young—younger than my own adult children. This realization is simultaneously sobering and reassuring.

These younger rabbis speak extensively about work-life balance, discussing when they do and don’t check emails or texts. They establish time off as sacred and draw clear boundaries between professional and personal life. Frankly, I believe this approach benefits them, their families, and their mental health.

When I was ordained forty years ago, we were cautioned against even mentioning work-life balance. Such inquiries might lead search committees to question our dedication to their congregation’s welfare. It could suggest divided loyalties or insufficient seriousness about the rabbinate itself.

So much has changed throughout my four decades of service. I remember watching the alter kakers—our senior colleagues—congregating at the back of meeting rooms in their signature blue blazers and neckties. I often wondered how they experienced the evolution—or sometimes lack thereof—of Reform Judaism and its rabbinate. The inclusion of gay and lesbian congregations, the acceptance of patrilineal descent, and the welcoming of interfaith couples represented seismic shifts during their careers.

And now, I’ve become one of those alter kakers. I proudly wear the traditional blue blazer while having abandoned the tie. I listen attentively to younger voices. I observe colleagues positioning themselves for influence within the CCAR. I wonder how this generation of younger rabbis evaluates the challenges ahead. There is tremendous turbulence on the horizon: addressing rising antisemitism, assessing the long-term damage to Zionism and democratic Israel, countering the drift away from democracy toward authoritarian intolerance and Christian nationalism.

I fear a certain complacency in their outlook toward the future. Only fourteen rabbinic students are entering HUC this year—fourteen students across two campuses! My entering class, as I recall, numbered seventy-five. What does this precipitous decline portend for our movement’s future? What does it suggest about the long-term availability of Reform rabbis?

These questions of sustainability and transformation demand our immediate attention. We must reconsider our position in the broader world. While continuing to uphold the Reform movement’s commitment to social justice, we must reassess who our allies have been and who they will be going forward. This is not the time for business as usual.

Maybe the alter kakers still have something to say from the back of the room.

I was deeply honored to receive an invitation last year to the Newton Muslim Community’s iftar, held at the American Legion Hall in Newton. Their vision was to extend a welcome to members of the non-Muslim community as a way of educating us while exemplifying openness and hospitality. The gathering included Newton’s mayor, the superintendent of schools, public school teachers, representatives from Newton Police and Fire, city councilors, and other city employees. And of course, there were Muslims from Newton, many first-generation Americans from an expansive tapestry of nations: Indonesia, Pakistan, Syria, Jordan, the West Bank, Iran, and many more lands.

Last year, amidst the Gaza War and the accompanying pain, anger, loss, and antisemitism, I was incredulous that such an event could even happen. But I was assured by the event’s founder and primary organizer, Amira Elamri, that it would be fine. Amira (whose son spent a couple of years in our temple preschool!) is an extraordinary human—empathic, kind, and utterly determined. She promised this iftar would succeed because the event would not be about politics but rather a sincere sharing of holy time.

We non-Muslims were there to join fellow Newtonians of the Muslim faith in their break-fast, to feast with them, and to give thanks together for the things we all yearn for: peace, faith, and hope. What could possibly go wrong? Well, everything could.

But as Amira promised, the first Newton Muslim Community’s iftar was a magnificent event with no sharp edges. The prevailing atmosphere was one of mutual respect. I know there were Muslims there who had lost family in the Gaza war. I know there were Jewish guests still grieving the horrors of October 7th. Many guests had strong opinions and thoughts. Others couldn’t point out Gaza or Sderot on a map. The point is that all of us, to varying degrees, set aside our differences to break bread together and see the humanity in everyone present.

When I received an invitation to this year’s iftar, I did not hesitate to say yes. Though it meant missing a temple board meeting—the first I’ve missed except for health issues—I believed that representing our temple and, more broadly, the Jews of Newton was that important. But that was before Israel voided the ceasefire after Hamas refused to accept Israel’s modified terms. Two days before this year’s iftar, the IDF bombed parts of Gaza, resulting in many casualties, including innocent lives. As I returned to the American Legion Hall, I wondered if I would still be welcomed without reservation.

The emphatic answer was, of course. The participants once again implicitly accepted a covenant of understanding when we RSVPed. We all acknowledged why we were there: to learn, to feast, to respect. There were many returnees and some new guests as well. The food was, again, plentiful and delicious. The program again included music and teaching.

This year, Amira asked me to bring a high school student from TBA to share their Yom Kippur fasting experience at the iftar alongside Muslim and Christian students who would share their traditions and fasting practices. I invited Matthew Welch, son of Robin and brother of Sam, to share his thoughts. He was a tremendous success! With humor and sincerity, Matt provided insights that honored his family and the Jewish people. The Boston imam and his wife, who sat at our table, were very impressed; so was I.

The key is twofold. The first step is to gather discerning, caring people who acknowledge that there are differences between us—fundamental differences. These differences highlight the historical and cultural divides that separate us. The second step is to find foundational principles, ideas, and ideals that we share and readily agree on. We don’t claim to represent all the people of our communities. We don’t seek to make global statements. We start with the humans in the room. We connect. We feast. We hear the sounds of prayer. We respect. We live together—with differing ideologies, but with mutual respect.

It happened. I was there. I was blessed.

Ray, a seasoned and successful carpenter, was about to retire. When he informed his employer of his plans, the owner was genuinely saddened. For many years, Ray had been his most loyal and diligent worker, consistently producing outstanding work—from the house’s framing to the finest bathroom trim.

“I’m going to miss you, Ray,” the owner said. “But do me one last favor. Build me one more house.”

Ray agreed; what else could he say? But his heart wasn’t in it. This became clear as construction began. He took shortcuts and used inferior materials. His focus shifted from craftsmanship to mere completion. Ray knew how to hide sub-par wiring and plumbing under particle board. He used cheap paint and poor-quality lumber.

When the house was completed, the employer came to inspect the work. He said nothing while looking around. When he finished, he handed Ray the keys and said, “This is your house; it’s my gift to you.”

Ray was shocked by the generosity of his soon-to-be former employer and deeply embarrassed because he knew he had done poor work, far below his usual standard. He kept thinking, “If only I had known, I would have made sure everything was done right.”

This, of course, misses the deeper point. Certainly, from a self-interested perspective, had Ray known the house would be his, he might have spent more on better materials. But that’s not the real lesson. The moment we begin to approach our work with pure self-interest, without compassion or commitment to excellence, we diminish both ourselves and the divine spark within us.

We have little control over much of what happens in our lives. Natural disasters, incorrectly called “acts of God,” can alter our lives forever. A mutating cell can cause cancer. A drunk driver can wreak havoc. A school shooter can cause profound pain and loss. The list is endless. What remains within our power is to be our best selves and make meaningful, ethical choices.

Robert Sapolsky, the provocative neuroscientist and philosopher, challenges this perspective. He argues there’s no “best self”—just a self essentially predetermined to act as we will in the world. Sapolsky contends that humans have no free will and, therefore, no real choices. He rejects the notion of a homunculus—a little person inside our brain making free decisions independent of biological causation.

Of course, there is no literal homunculus pushing buttons. Instead, we have conscience: that inner faculty guiding our moral judgments and behavior. It functions as an internal evaluative mechanism that helps us distinguish between right and wrong beyond mere rational calculation.

Sapolsky suggests that conscience isn’t about making choices but rather reflects a complex interplay between our genes, hormones, neural activity, developmental history, and cultural context. Yet this reductive view fails to capture the lived experience of moral deliberation.

Conscience is what reminds us how to be a mensch—a person of integrity and honor. It forces us to consider difficult things that complicate our lives. Once we begin to care about others, we feel compelled to respond to their needs.

Ray simply wanted to finish his project. He forgot that the work of his hands represented his soul. When we do careless work, when we roll our eyes and show indifference toward others, we diminish our own humanity. Every good deed counts. Every daily act of service matters.

I recently learned that during WWII, the postal service in England neither canceled nor postponed mail delivery. Despite tremendous hazards and genuine danger, mail carriers continued their routes—not to be heroes, but simply to fulfill their duties with integrity. Each day presents us with this choice: to do the right thing, to give our best regardless of recognition or reward.

Our conscience calls us to this higher standard—not because it will benefit us, but because it’s who we are meant to be.

“The play’s the thing” comes from Shakespeare’s Hamlet (Act 2, Scene 2). It’s a commonly used phrase applicable to several contexts. Most immediately, it refers to the state of our temple. Wherever one looks, it is impossible not to see that the play’s the thing, or to put it more plainly, signs of Cinderella are everywhere.
In our main foyer is a massive poster of Cinderella’s Castle. It’s part Disney and part Wes Anderson. You can’t miss it. On the left is the boardroom. Usually, that space is filled with deliberations and arguably momentous debates. Now, it’s the men’s dressing room, where Medieval finery abounds. There are tunics, doublets, feathered caps, and tabards, along with snack dishes filled with various sweets or salty treats. When actors aren’t on stage, they eat unhealthy food (except for the virtuous few who bring containers of things like melon or celery).
Our café is now the costume workshop and women’s dressing room. It’s filled with chemises, gowns, and kirtles. I’m told the women actively snack on the same hazerai the men eat. It is barely-contained chaos in the best tradition of community theater.
The social hall is completely transfigured from B’nai Mitzvah Pepsi-Coke-Dr Pepper deejay readiness to an actual theater. A massive stage is surrounded by pipe and draping, illuminated by a professional lighting company. The sets are vast and impressive.
Even the bimah is serving Cinderella. The children’s costumes share space with the quick-change outfits for the cast. Props are on a back table, and various theater accouterments are on display. There, too, it is slightly, wonderfully chaotic.
You may ask, “Why does our temple sponsor big Broadway shows that, save for Fiddler on a Roof, have no Jewish content?” You may ask, “Why do we turn the temple upside down to put these plays on?” And the answer to both questions is simple: The play’s the thing!

We pull together seasoned temple play participants into an immediately solid, bonded cohort. And then we add new temple members and other congregants who want to check out what the fuss is all about. We roll this snowball of singers and dancers and stage crew and artists and painters and seamstresses and detail people and temple staff all together, and out pops a play. And out pops a new micro-community of congregants who didn’t know each other before but now have a connection of love and time and effort, and collaboration. It builds temple strength and cohesion. It also defines us as a community that wants to sing and dance together.
And it does more. For participants, our temple plays often become transformative. People discover hidden talents, overcome fears, build confidence, and find their voices. The process can be compelling for kids who want to find a way out of their shyness. It also engages congregants who may be introverted or unsure how to engage at TBA. It’s a sturdy bridge to deeper self-understanding.
Shakespeare understood that even a light comedy could reveal the truth and elicit genuine emotional responses. Cinderella is a tool to expose reality rather than simply entertainment. The discarded stepchild who wants to be loved, who teaches a group of patrons that kindness works. The political intrigue of the powerless versus the powerful. The manipulation of a population. Not to mention the idea that dreaming can make impossible things possible every day.
The play’s the thing.

When I was five or six I came into the possession of a spyglass..  It wasn’t the real thing, just a plastic toy with plastic lenses. It may have come from a Halloween pirate costume, but its origin is ultimately wrapped in the vicissitudes of time. I do remember looking through it and being amazed. The magnification was laughably low, but it did work.  I could see things up close that were far away. What a concept!

With that spyglass, I could peer more deeply into my world. I could look out the window at the trees and the front yard. I could use it to stare at the tv screen and wonder why it looked so strange (now I know I was looking at pixels…). I couldn’t get enough of the thing.

One day, I picked up the spyglass and inadvertently looked through the wrong end. What? Everything looked so far away! I remember being utterly confounded. The same device that pulled things closer now pushed them so far away. I now know that wasn’t magic, just physics. But at the time, it laid out an existential dilemma: how can one thing offer two opposite perspectives in the same form?

Maybe I didn’t phrase it that way, but the confrontation with reality was real: I remember holding that spyglass and thinking – hard! – about this tangible example of duality. It hadn’t yet occurred to me that I – or anyone – could hold multiple truths, contradictory emotions, and values.

Recalling this moment in my young life, it occurred to me that being Jewish is like owning a spyglass. Sometimes, we look through the small lens, and we immediately see what must be done. We Jews are a people of the present tense. We see what needs to get done, so we rise up and do it. In such times we understand that life mandates we focus on the here and now.

But then sometimes we look through the larger objective lens, and everything is miniaturized, distant, and vast. In that moment, we are not seeing anything up close. Instead, we have an utterly aspirational vision. We look into the distance and imagine what is yet possible. It is a messianic perspective.

Our tradition is like a spiritual spyglass through which to espy the world. And what I’m seeing through the small lens is overwhelming. This country that I love is abandoning the poor and hungry of the world who depend on us. Policy decisions are being made that endanger the health of us all. Our allies are being cast out the service entrance as undesirables while an enemy is being greeted at the front door.

I am feeling overcome and undone. I cast my eyes to the mountain through the spyglass, and I don’t see where my help will come from.  It feels confusing and overwhelming. I don’t have the ability to respond in a meaningful way. The darkness and fear I feel, as do so many immigrants and federal workers is almost incapacitating.  

These concerns are not liberal or conservative, left or right. They are legitimate Jewish responses to the world today. I don’t think it is possible to contribute to the present moment in any meaningful way while being wholly engulfed by it. We need to take some time to regain our perspective. We need to take a moment and look through the larger end of the spyglass with a Jewish eye and regain our sense of perspective that in the larger world, a bigger promise awaits us.

And then—with renewed clarity and purpose—we turn the spyglass again. We cast our Jewish eye upon the immediate world, bringing into sharp focus what must be done here and now. We see the hands that need holding, the voices that need amplifying, the wrongs that need righting. And then, grounded in both eternal vision and present duty, we get to work.

We are surrounded by extraordinary phenomena. Miles beneath our feet lies Earth’s core, whose exact composition, temperature, and gravitational intensity are still shrouded in mystery. Above us stretches a sky that opens to the cosmos, filled with remarkable celestial objects. And all of it—all of us—is permeated by dark matter, a mysterious force that physicists deem essential to understanding the Universe, though we haven’t yet proven its existence.

These massive forces that push us into realms of the unfathomable captivate me. My love for cosmology, astronomy, and astrophysics, coupled with an equal fascination for paleoanthropology and neurology, connects to a deep appreciation for the divine and endless gratitude for both my individual life and Life itself.

This brings me to today’s holiday, Tu Bishvat, the birthday of the trees. Those who grew up with even a tangential relationship to a synagogue remember Tu Bishvat – receiving that little blue pushke to fill with coins for the JNF, perhaps participating in a Tu Bishvat seder with its traditional fruits from Israel, like figs, dates, grapes, olives, and pomegranates, along with fruits we haven’t tasted in a long time.

But there’s something profound about this day, which began as a simple agricultural marker for dating when tree fruits could be eaten. It’s about the trees themselves – their essence and meaning. As Richard Powers writes in The Overstory, “No one sees trees. We see fruit, we see nuts, we see wood, we see shade. We see ornaments or pretty fall foliage. Obstacles blocking the road or wrecking the ski slope. Dark, threatening places that must be cleared. We see branches about to crush our roof. We see a cash crop. But trees – trees are invisible.”

Even now, in the depths of winter, these seemingly lifeless giants are carrying out remarkable processes. New England’s trees have evolved sophisticated survival strategies. Deciduous trees begin winter preparation as autumn approaches, gradually halting photosynthesis. The breakdown of chlorophyll reveals the hidden yellows and reds we call fall foliage. At a cellular level, they’re performing complex chemical transformations, producing natural antifreeze compounds that protect their cells from freezing damage.

What appears to be a bare, dormant maple is actually a thriving organism, temporarily conserving energy by living off stored reserves in its roots and inner bark. But perhaps most remarkable is our deep connection to these ancient beings. As Powers notes, “You and the tree in your backyard come from a common ancestor. A billion and a half years ago, the two of you parted ways. But even now, after an immense journey in separate directions, that tree and you still share a quarter of your genes…”

Today, on Tu Bishvat, take a moment to truly see a tree. Look beyond its role as shade provider or landscape feature. Notice how its branches reach toward the sky in fractals, how its bark protects it from harsh elements, and how its roots spread unseen beneath the soil in complex networks. Consider how it’s part of a larger system—providing oxygen, storing carbon, creating soil, and sheltering countless organisms.

This is a day to acknowledge trees as resources and fellow travelers on Earth’s evolutionary journey. In a universe with mysteries stretching from the quantum to the cosmic scale, trees are a testament to life’s resilience and interconnectedness. This is a day to give thanks for this Universe, filled with so much hurt and sorrow, filled with infinite beauty and intimate connections.