Before Shabbat

A Pink Guitar

On Instagram, there is a man known as Plumes. He wears a jaunty cap, carries a pink Epiphone guitar, and travels to farms, zoos, and wildlife reserves worldwide to sing for animals. Horses, foxes, cows, lemurs, meerkats, tigers, and seals become his audience. He performs no screaming solos or rock covers. Instead, he plays quiet melodies—oldies and gentle songs—in a calm, cool voice while sitting in very close proximity to creatures who cannot possibly understand his words. And yet, they listen. They are mesmerized. Somehow, across the barrier of species, a man with a pink guitar communicates something profound.

I confess that I am not naturally an animal person. The dynamics of how creatures experience the world has never been a category of particular curiosity for me. But watching Plumes strum for a tiger—sitting peacefully behind a fence, making no demands, simply offering music—I found myself arrested by a larger question: What do these animals hear? What language are they receiving? Every species apprehends sound differently. Many creatures can hear frequencies that are entirely beyond the human range. And yet they all listen, transfixed by the same vibrations that move us.

Several years ago, a colleague shared a story that crystallized this truth. He visited someone on a memory unit—a resident in advanced stages of Alzheimer’s disease who had become almost entirely mute. The disease had stolen her words, her recognition, her ability to engage with the world through language. Faced with this profound wall of silence, my colleague made an intuitive choice. He decided to sing the Shema and V’ahavta.

As he chanted those sacred prayers, something extraordinary happened. The resident’s eyes opened wide. She began singing. For nearly two years, until her death, they sang together at every visit—prayers, melodies, songs from her past—creating islands of connection in an ocean of cognitive loss.

This woman was not cured by music. Her Alzheimer’s did not disappear. But this use of music is now a standard of Alzheimer’s treatment. Neuroscience explains what happens: music accesses memory and emotion through entirely different neural pathways than verbal communication. Even as the disease devastates the brain regions responsible for language and factual memory, the areas that process music remain relatively intact far longer. Patients who cannot recognize their own children sometimes weep at the sound of a beloved song. We are quite literally wired for music at the deepest level of our being.

My colleague recognized something profound: when language fails, music remains. When the mind fragments, melody holds. In the Jewish tradition, we understand this instinctively. We do not merely recite our prayers—we chant them, sing them, give them music. The Shema is not just words; it is an experience of sound and soul joined together.

What Plumes offers to animals and what my colleague offered to a woman with Alzheimer’s are expressions of the same fundamental truth: music transcends boundaries. It does not require shared language, shared cognition, or even shared species. It requires only the willingness to offer it and the capacity to receive it—capacities both far more universal than we typically imagine.

Think of what this means. In the presence of music, a tiger and a man sit together in peaceful attention. In the presence of song, a mind shattered by disease recognizes itself again. In the presence of melody, we remember that we are not alone, that our experience of beauty and longing and joy can be shared, that something in us resonates with something beyond ourselves.

This is not sentiment. This is neurology, biology, and spirit converging to tell us the same story: we are creatures made for connection. Music is one of the primary languages through which that connection speaks.

As we gather today to celebrate the installation of our new cantor, Gabe Snyder, we are not simply welcoming a skilled musician; we are also welcoming a dedicated leader. We acknowledge that Cantor Snyder does what Plumes does and what my colleague’s voice did: opens a channel through which the human spirit can speak and be heard.

In our tradition, music is not an accompaniment to prayer. It is not filler or pleasant background. It is part of the very substance of our spiritual life. When we sing Shabbat prayers together, we are participating in something that transcends the merely intellectual. We are vibrating together, remembering together, hoping together.

Gabe brings to this sacred work not only technical excellence but also his gutte neshumah—a good soul. And it is the soul that music truly conveys. It is the soul that moves across all boundaries: between human and animal, between the intact mind and the fractured one, between strangers who suddenly find themselves singing in unison.

We do not know what the seal heard when Plumes played the pink guitar. We do not fully understand what language passed between them. But we know something essential occurred—a moment of connection, of openness, of one being offering itself peacefully to another. This is what music does. This is what our cantor will continue to do, week after week, bringing the vibrations of our tradition into our sanctuary and into our souls.

I don’t know if he plays for his cat, but we’re all ears.

One day, in my early adolescent years in the mid-1960s, a thought burst forth from some deep corner of my soul that truly rearranged my sense of the Universe. I was sitting outside at the bus depot in Middletown, waiting for a 10 am NYC-bound Greyhound. I don’t know what it’s like now, but in those days, the station was a small house repurposed into a rather decrepit bus stop. The plain, slightly seedy look of it all didn’t bother me. It was a beautiful day, with wispy white clouds moving gently across the sky, and I was about to visit an old friend.

Another bus bound for Providence was idling as passengers boarded. I looked at the scene, the line of people slowly wending their way into the bus, handing over suitcases and bags. That’s when it struck me. These people I was watching —high school-age kids like me, college students, adults, men and women, and a few young toddlers —were all sharing this moment in time together. And I would never see them again. Ever. This was it.

At first, this thought was disconcerting. It exemplified the true randomness of existence and the sheer vastness of the Universe. Everyone in line had a story, but I would never hear them. We were destined to be total strangers. And more: even if you have a friend circle of 100 people, and you know some of their relatives and relations, the number of people you know is infinitesimally small once you realize that there are 8 billion humans on earth. We live in a world surrounded by the unknown.

These numbers and the tiny circles we inhabit make the people we do know and love even more important. To be known and to be loved are the foundations of humanity. We recognize that loneliness and disconnection can be traumatic and profoundly distressing. We may not know every member of our temple community, but when we gather, we share certain familiar stories that draw us closer.

I know that social media is rightly criticized for creating algorithms that draw people of similar opinions together, excluding a proliferation of other thoughts and possibilities. Pockets of conspiracy, lies about everything from the earth is flat to the moon landing was faked to vaccinations are bad and cause disease, to Jews are seeking to supplant the power of white people, all these and more are all toxic. The astonishing array of ideas in the world can keep us humble and always inquisitive.

But these algorithmic siphons don’t just channel the grotesque our way. Sometimes they bring enlightenment and insight. A few days ago, Jack DeJohnette died at age 83. Perhaps you don’t recognize the name. However, if you listened to jazz, DeJohnette was a legend —a truly iconic master drummer. He did things I found transcendent: beautiful, caustic, gentle, explosive, riveting: all in one tune.

Jack DeJohnette was not only a master technician but also deeply spiritual, a true artist who understood Music as a path to transcendence. In an interview, he once said, “”Music is a spiritual thing. It’s about touching people’s souls, helping them grow, and connecting them to something greater than themselves. He lived that philosophy in every performance, every recording, every moment behind the kit.

I went to hear him play years ago with the Keith Jarrett Trio at Jordan Hall in Boston. I mentioned this to a jazz drummer friend of mine, who expressed some envy over this upcoming gig. He said, “Jack is a supreme musician. If you want to know who keeps it all on track, listen to what he does with his cymbals.” I was skeptical but paid close attention to DeJohnette’s performance. And my friend was right. DeJohnette led the way with dexterity, grace, and muscle. It wasn’t just good Music – it was sacred.

My Instagram, Facebook, and TikTok feeds were filled with clips from performances by DeJohnette and comments from hundreds of jazz fans and musicians, all mourning the death of a truly great man. I found myself within a group of strangers – all sharing a dual sense of loss and appreciation. And it felt so good. Like singing together. Like praying together. 

rehhayim

A month has passed since my sister Marta’s funeral, yet the entire event still feels surreal. Part of me remains frozen in that first raw moment of loss. One image refuses to fade: looking down at her coffin at the bottom of the grave as I tossed in a handful of earth. I’d performed this same ritual as a rabbi so many times at so many services.  I did it at my mother’s funeral, and my brother’s too, but this time carried a sharper poignancy. Perhaps it was my heightened sense of vulnerability, my intimate knowledge of the disease that took her. Or perhaps it was simply the weight of having aged—of standing closer to the end than to the beginning.

There’s no celebration in this proximity to death, no prize or ticker tape parade. I know there are Jews who view this life as a prosdor, an antechamber to the olam ha-ba, the world to come—where God acknowledges our suffering and rewards our souls with eternal life, where we shed our pain and receive blessings and grace.

I wish I could embrace this traditional vision of what follows death. Marta endured more than her share of pain and suffering. If anyone deserved the gift of wholeness and an afterlife of ease, not to mention a parade and a tiara, it was my sister. But I don’t believe that’s her destiny—or mine.

When we go, we’re gone. Period.

Yet fragments do remain. The sound of Marta’s voice chanting Kol Nidre. Our duet version of Magen Avot. Her raucous laughter. These still play in my mind with perfect clarity. We delighted in each other’s company, and these recollections have no expiration date. They may never disappear.

But other things will inevitably fade. It’s the nature of spacetime itself—entropy flowing into chaos. The universe expands faster than light, pulling everything apart. Eventually, complete darkness will reign, with no sources of light, temperatures near absolute zero, particles separated by vast and ever-growing distances. No organized structures or processes will be possible. Time itself will become meaningless because nothing will change. Humanity will likely be long extinct by then, but the point remains: everything that’s put together eventually falls apart.

In the meantime—before oblivion—I hold both the sadness of loss and the warmth of love. Like all of us, I balance the blessings and curses accumulated over a lifetime. The juggling act can be exhausting, heartbreaking. Just yesterday, I spoke with a young woman about her upcoming wedding. When I asked about her grandfather, who died ten years ago, she didn’t just cry or tear up—she wept, genuinely wept.

It struck me then: humans possess this extraordinary capacity to love and grieve simultaneously. This is why parents cry at their children’s B’nai Mitzvah and weddings—life and death collide in a place so deep it defies identification. How many times has someone said, “I don’t know why I’m crying”? But I know: it’s Eros and Thanatos wrestling for our attention.

A part of my memory book is gone forever. Marta knew me like no one else could—we swam in the same womb, shared a lifetime of understanding. Now my sister Joan and I continue forward, carrying Marta’s laughter in our hearts, until our own end of time.

This morning is stunning. Autumn has arrived in full—the leaves brilliant with color, the air sharp and clean, promising the first frost any day now. I’ve seen seventy falls, and somehow each one still catches me off guard. You’d think the cycle would feel predictable by now, but the seasons just keep surprising me. 

Maybe you’re like me—reveling in this shift, feeling energized by the cooler air and changing light. Or maybe the chill feels a little ominous to you, a reminder that winter’s coming whether we’re ready or not. Either way, here we are at this beautiful threshold, taking in whatever comes. 

Against this gorgeous backdrop, I keep checking the news from Israel. Where nature moves with simple elegance, human affairs remain heartbreakingly complicated. But today there’s real hope: it looks like the hostages might finally come home, and the fighting might actually stop. After two years of this nightmare, we can almost see the end. 

I’m cautiously hopeful. President Trump’s unorthodox approach seems to have broken through where others couldn’t. Like Nixon going to China, sometimes it takes an unexpected person to make the impossible happen. I’m pretty sure no other US president in living memory could’ve done it. I know this because they’ve all tried – and failed. 

But what must it be like for those hostages—returning from two years of darkness back into light? From torture and starvation to safety and love? I can’t begin to imagine that journey. 

I’ve caught myself wondering if I would have survived. At my age, with my health issues, probably not. I doubt I would have made it through even those first brutal hours. It’s a sobering thought. 

What kept them going in that darkness? Did they pray, sing songs they remembered, hold onto poems in their minds? What small grace notes allowed them to stay human when everything was designed to break them? I hope they’ll share their stories when they’re ready. 

There’s so much to learn from this terrible chapter—about power and technology, about revenge and what it costs us. The reckoning will take years. 

The prophet Micah imagined a time when “nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more.” It’s an almost unbearably beautiful vision—that we might finally see killing innocents for what it is, no matter the justification. Will we get there? Honestly, I don’t know. But I keep hoping we’ll evolve past our hunger for power and possession, choosing instead the extraordinary beauty that’s right here, available every single day. 

For now, fall is here—and that’s enough. 

rehhayim

My to-do list for the High Holy Days is long and challenging. It involves a series of tasks: organizing my HHD binders, reading and rereading my sermons and editing them yet again, planning Rosh Hashanah dinner, figuring out what tie to wear… Lots of quotidian tasks to check off.

But there’s more to contemplate as we move into the new year than what cut of brisket to buy. As I scan this familiar checklist, I realize something essential is missing. The to-do list needs to be expanded to include matters of the spirit. As Socrates said, “The unexamined life is not worth living.”

I know that Socrates wasn’t Jewish, but this statement is so… so Jewish! Both Greek and Jewish wisdom traditions understand that self-reflection isn’t merely a philosophical exercise—it’s a sacred duty. Each one of us is gifted with a body and a soul. And we have the extraordinary power of consciousness. Which means we are not prisoners of the superficial world; we are not held captive by the day-to-day tasks alone.

As this Jewish year of 5785 draws to a close, we are invited to contemplate larger truths. We can enter the deeper waters of meaning and substance. This is what they call liminality—living in the shifting ocean between “who I was” and “who I might become.” It’s turbulent water, which is why we’re tempted not to wade in, to avoid this sometimes frightening dimension of truth and joy and failure and disappointment. It’s easier to stay on the surface, skimming along with our practical concerns.

But the most beautiful aspects of our lives emerge when we go deep, when we can acknowledge the totality of our being. What would it mean to ask ourselves: Where have I grown this year? What relationships need tending? What dreams have I deferred, and why? It’s all here: the truth and the lies, the sacred and the profane. To avoid examining our lives is to leave the best stuff on the table. Don’t miss the opportunity to be more present in your own body. Don’t miss the chance to see just how amazing you are.

This is a time to forgive others and to forgive yourself. It’s not a natural act—forgiveness takes tremendous courage and true transparency. But it is so worth it.

So I’ve added another item to my to-do list: “Examine life—with courage, with compassion, with curiosity.” I hope you’ll add it to yours too.

My fifteen-minute drive to the temple offers the perfect opportunity to absorb at least part of a podcast. I appreciate good podcasts—the information they provide, the repartee between host and guest, or among multiple hosts. (Though I dislike the standard format where people talk and laugh simultaneously, often referencing inside jokes or contemporary cultural memes that leave me, a 71-year-old baby boomer, in the dark.)

My favorites include The Daily, Ezra Klein, Pod Save America, Unholy: two Jews on the news, The Rewatchables, Ask A Spaceman! and Straight No Chaser. This list is hardly exhaustive: my friend, Claude Anthropic says that there are between 3-5 million podcasts in English alone. But these seven cover a wide range of my interests and they make me feel like I’ve learned something on my way into TBA. From current events to social commentary to Jews to jazz with some cosmology thrown in: it’s a snapshot of my brain.

But this morning was different. After all, today is a big day. This is the inaugural Shabbat for the ELC and there’s a rumor that the talking hallah will make an appearance.  It’s the first Shabbat that we return live and in person, and as always, accessible through the TBA livestream. We have a guest musician, the inimitable Elana Arian, joining me and Cantor Snyder to share her magnificent music. It’s the official board installation for TBA’s lay leadership team. Such good and propitious events!

So I decided to come to the temple accompanied by music for inspiration. I chose something that surprised even me: a live recording from the 1965 Newport Jazz Festival by my favorite jazz quartet: John Coltrane, McCoy Tyner, Jimmy Garrison and Elvin Jones, performing the melody, One Down, One Up.

It is not a mellow, ease into it piece. It is blue-hot and assertive. It captures the sound of soulful energy and drive. It is captivating and, at times, breathtaking. And let me warn you if you dare to click on the link. It is edgy and not a beginner’s jazz tune – beware!

I selected this admittedly avant-garde piece because I’m feeling the urgency of the moment. I’m feeling so much angst about the state of our world, the state of Israel, the state of our nation. I’m feeling enormous joy about being at the threshold of a new year, one we always pray will be good and sweet. I’m feeling gratitude and caution about being in treatment for bladder cancer (5 down, one to go!). In other words, there’s a lot of chaos and emotion going around… and this is all reflected in Trane’s outrageous soprano solos.

I’m trying to remind myself that I was not forced onto the roller coaster, that I signed up of my own free will – unless there’s no such thing as free will, but that’s another meditation. This roller coaster has no signposts or explanation. There’s no telling when the ride ends. But before it does, the precipitous rise and fall of the tracks, the sudden upside-down twists and turns, the feeling that the bottom’s falling out, the click of the uphill ascent, and even the occasional span of peaceful travel, well, that’s what we get. Or, as James Taylor sings it, it’s just a lovely ride.

It’s good to be back.

I have no start date for a first Passover memory. But I can trace the first inklings of Pesach via my sense of smell. Whenever the kitchen begins to fill with the aromas of brisket, chicken soup, and matza balls, I am transported to another time, a naïve, preverbal Edenic realm.

In psychoanalysis, this concept came to be known as thalassic regression. It is understood as a metaphorical way of representing the primal human need to return to a state of comfort and security, often associated with early infancy, the mother figure, and the return to the womb. It can be interpreted as a broader symbol of the desire for a sense of oneness and wholeness.

Yep. That’s it, alright. The scent of matzah balls cooking, tightly sealed in the pot of soup, and the saltwater perfectly represent the womb. And the karpas, dipped in the salt water, all lead to life renewed. I am pointed back to the earliest moments of peace and serenity. This is remarkably meaningful and metaphorically delightful because these feelings of wholeness and wonder are central to the Passover experience. Finally, achieving redemption after wandering and slavery leads us to joy.

I know. Of course, there are plenty of Pesach symbols of woe and bitterness, like maror and haroset. But you don’t have to wander too far to find

The messages of Passover are so multi-layered and dynamic. On one level, we revel in our origin story from ancient times that defines who we are: a people who emerged from the bottom of the heap and rose to the top. A people redeemed by God then accompanied to the Promised Land. Zoom in a bit, and we see a story of individual struggle, ripping off shackles of spiritual and physical enslavement: addiction, PTSD, depression, and more. If our forebearers, with their limited sense of self, could nonetheless get it together to see a future, then why not us? And then there’s the ongoing saga of a broken world and our obligation to help fix it. In our privilege, our bubble of relative prosperity and safety, don’t we have the obligation to pay it forward? Passover reminds us of our covenant with God and our fellow human beings. As the great Jewish poet Emma Lazarus wrote in 1883, “Until all of us are free, none of us are free.”

Whatever your first memory is of Passover, I hope it’s a good one. The scent of holiday food and the promise of gathering around the table inspire you. Whether your seder is 4 hours or 25 minutes, the very fact that you’ve decided to make the time to reflect on all of these is, well, dayeinu.

The Stern Gang wishes you a zissen Pesach, a sweet Passover!

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.