This sermon is part of our 2024/5785 High Holiday sermon series,
featuring sermons by alumni of Clal’s clergy training programs.
My Israeli cousin Shiri is one year younger than I am. She got married early, and was pregnant with her third child when Havi and I were expecting our first. Eyal was born one week ahead of our daughter Noa. He grew up on Moshav Bet Gamliel, near Rehovot. After high school, Noa went to Israel for a gap year. Eyal came from Israel to do a gap year in Baltimore as a (“Shinshin,” shnat sherut–year of national service). I saw him at the AIPAC conference that year among a throng of his students, his smile big and bright.
Noa went to college. Eyal went to the army, became an officer in the Tzanhanim, the paratroopers. He went into battle and into Gaza soon after October 7th. When I visited Israel in early December on a rabbinic solidarity mission, Shiri was buoyant. She had just heard from Eyal after weeks of a communication blackout.
In January, Eyal was killed in battle, and our family, like so many Jewish and Israeli families, was thrust into darkness and mourning. The national catastrophe had become a personal one.
I was in Israel again for Temple Beth Am’s solidarity mission, landing a few days after shiva for Eyal ended. I went straight from the airport to Shiri’s home. There I met, and embraced, and bore witness to a broken soul. Still in the early stages of incredulity that, yes, Eyal was gone and would always be gone.
Shiri’s tears evoked for me the matriarch Rachel, symbolizing the mother of all Israel, as remembered by the prophet Jeremiah as our ancestors were sent to their deaths and into exile.
But when I think of Shiri’s resolve amidst unspeakable pain, her voluminous, wise, clear, and evocative writing about her grief, but more so about her son since he was killed, I realize that Shiri is not Rachel, refusing to be comforted. She must mourn. But she must also be comforted. She has five other children and two grandchildren to love. And she has Moti, her husband. And she has a life, a family, and a nation–all of which need her attention. She is giving it, as much as is possible. And she is holding on to as many potential sources of comfort as possible.
After Eyal’s death, almost overnight different groups began to create and dedicate things in his name. Blessing cards for lighting Shabbat candles. Editions of siddurim and books of Psalms. And…stickers. On my laptop, since that day, is a rectangular sticker. Eyal’s face stares at me every time I open it up. He is dressed in uniform, carrying heavy equipment. But what stands out in the picture is his smile.
And adorning the sticker is something Eyal used to say all the time:
He didn’t just say it. He lived it. It’s a pithy aphorism when life is light and breezy. It becomes a certain spiritual command when invoked, posthumously, in relation to Eyal’s life, and in relation to those who mourn him. How can Shiri mourn, b’hiyukh? With a smile? But if she is mourning Eyal, how can she not?
Some version of this personal, spiritual, and national challenge sits before each one of us, as we tremulously take our first breaths of this new Jewish year, praying it will relieve and eclipse some of the horrors of this past Jewish year – the worst Jewish year in most of our lifetimes. The State of Israel is at war, with hateful and well-armed enemies at and near her border. And also at war with those enemies’ deranged apologists in our country, on our campuses, in the UN and beyond. The most sanguine of Israelis that I know are finding optimism to be elusive, if not impossible.
And here in the U.S., in California, and even in L.A., there is a heavy sense of foreboding. Jews, myself included, have found themselves removing obvious signs of Jewishness, or replacing kippot with baseball caps, or wondering if the Chanukkah menorah should not be placed in a front-facing windowsill this year. I spoke about antisemitism on Rosh Hashanah a few years ago, as it seemed, then, to have reached a frenzied peak. How wrong I was, and we all were, and how quaint that time seems now.
I have come across many peers and congregants and family members pondering the following question, with only a medium sense of hyperbole: Is it time to leave? And when and how would we know if it were? And where would we go?
In my little corner of the earth, these questions emerged from many people when I posted on Facebook about an aching juxtaposition. In the span of a few days I officiated at the funeral for two survivors of the Shoah, who had lived most of the last eight decades of life both scarred but rather justifiably convinced that the era of Hitler was over. Forever.
And yet within those days there was essentially a pogrom. On Pico. Vicious vigilantes, blocking Jews from entering their own synagogue, inciting violence, spewing hatred. Is it time to leave Pico? How would we know if it were? Is it time to take our Judaism underground, lived more subtly and quietly? It seems unfathomable that versions of those questions are salient, and in the mouths, or stuck in the guts, of so many of us.
But here we are. We don’t choose the historical moments through which we live. What we can choose, what we must choose, is how we live through them. Maybe, inspired by Eyal, b’hiyukh. Somehow, with a smile.
I returned to Thoreau a bit this summer, inspired by the verdant landscapes, still lake waters, and nature’s particular heartbeat that pulsates in the Northeast. And I returned to this lovely quote, which seems especially poignant this year: “However mean your life is, meet it and live it; do not shun it and call it hard names.” I wonder how Shiri would respond to that goad. How could she call Eyal’s death anything less harsh than it so obviously is? And yet, again, how would Eyal face catastrophe if he were forced to? Thoreau continues, “Love your life, difficult as it is…”
Thoreau was articulating transcendentalist truths. To live with equanimity is the only way to live. To live otherwise is to be dead while still breathing. Thoreau and Eyal.
Thoreau continues: “You must live in the present, launch yourself on every wave, find your eternity in each moment. Fools stand on their island of opportunities and look toward another land. There is no other land; there is no other life but this.”
I am inspired by Thoreau. But finding it hard. It is both ontologically true that there is no other life but this. And impossibly hard and depressing that this is what life has come to, especially for our people.
Two stances, both fallacies, keep dancing in my head, and each of them gets more traction than they deserve. One fallacy, trumpeted by well-meaning but paranoid chicken-littles, goes something like this: Because things are bad, Auschwitz is around the corner. Contemporary antisemitism is ineluctably going to turn into genocide.
While I don’t know the future, I think the proposition, as a prediction, is patently absurd. No future mimics any specific past.
The other fallacy, wielded by those attempting to simply shoo away, or dismiss, true evil is that we must be headed towards Nazism and Auschwitz in order for our circumstances to be considered bad, woeful, worrisome, and worthy of more attention and alertness than we ever imagined would be due.
I don’t think we are headed for the gas chambers. But our world is meaningfully scarier than it once was.
In late August I was invited to be a rabbinic “witness” to a focus group being conducted with Jewish students about to head back to their campuses. These students represented a very intentional demographic, geographic, and political cross-section. Their testimony terrified me, on their behalf and on all our behalf.
“Who feels completely safe on campus?” Only 3 of 23 raised their hands. “What does it feel like to be Jewish on campus?” “Scary…Unsettling…It is a full-time job I did not sign up for.” One Berkeley student told of her roommate putting keffiyehs on her door, and brazenly cooking pork on her dishes. She complained to the university. The administration did nothing. A student at Harvard found out about a walkout for Palestine that would take place in his economics class. When it was announced and initiated, they shouted, “If you stay seated, you are complicit in genocide.” The administration did nothing.
So we are not on the precipice of the Warsaw Ghetto or Auschwitz. But I have never felt more unsteady as a Zionist, and as a Jew. Eyal…I am supposed to live even this moment, b’hiyukh? With a smile? Eyal and Thoreau might say, especially this moment. Not to be willfully blind to the morass around us. But to force our way, and our light, through the palpable darkness.
You know the quintessential Jewish telegram, right? “Start worrying. Details to follow.” There is a whole sub-genre of Jewish wit that is based on the kvetch. If you know the punchline “Oy vas I toisty,” then you know what I mean. Or the one about the waiter who comes up to a table of Jewish women and asks ‘Ladies, is anything ok?’”
But there is something else quintessential about the Jew, beyond our penchant for giving a well-earned geshrai (complaint, cry) when we assess our pitiable history and our current circumstances. The other quintessence is Biblical and riffed on by the great sages. V’hai bahem. Live in them. All these mitzvot, obligations, and burdens? The ones that I, God, impose on you for their spiritual power? And the ones your enemies will bring down upon you for sport, or for cruelty? V’hai bahem. You must find a way to live through them. That is Eyal’s message to Shiri from the grave, for it was his message throughout his young life.
And the message courses through our present, and our past.
Within a few days after students moved into their dorms, a Harvard student found her mezuzah ripped off her door frame. The response? The Jewish community could have had a vigil. Recited Psalms. Investigated the incident and tried to identify the perpetrator. All those have merit. But the first thing that happened? A campus rabbi gathered a gaggle of Jews to hang dozens of new mezuzot on Jewish students’ doors. When Israeli writer and social media influencer Hen Mazzig tweeted about this, his line was, “For every person who hates your Judaism, love it 10x harder.” V’hai bahem indeed. And hang that mezuzah with a smile.
As the summer bore on, and the news out of Israel got worse, I reached out to many friends and relatives, many of whom with children in the army within Gaza. I was texting David Keren, a name known to some of you. He was the director of Nativ when I was on that gap-year program in 1990, and has remained a dear friend and beloved mentor. He is the most modest and sweet-faced hero you could meet. I texted him mid-August: “How are you all doing?” He responded within seconds:
His response might land like a platitude, as if he were not saying much. But he was saying so much. He was saying our enemies will not define or overcome our lives. No matter how much grief we face, personal and national, we will respond with light and splendor. No matter how much death, we will respond with life. No matter how many of my children are serving in Gaza, I will play with my grandchildren (spoil my grandchildren – give them ice cream when it’s not technically a dessert night) and raise them to be proud Jews, proud Israelis.
And let it radiate, infectiously. As Eyal would.
I want to return to a teaching I shared this summer, as a Taste of Torah in one of the shabbat bulletins. I am sure you all read it, digested it, memorized it… But still I want to return to it. It has to do with King Hezekiah of ancient Israel. And the context for the phrase nahamu nahamu ami, “Be comforted, be comforted my people,” that begins the Haftarah we read the shabbat after Tisha B’Av. In the previous chapter, Isaiah has told King Hezekiah that there will be ruin coming to this land. But not now, not in his generation. His reign will be tranquil. He and his loved ones will be okay. His descendants will suffer, but Hezekiah’s rule will be one of thriving and peace. Hezekiah is clearly mollified by this prophecy. Whatever may happen will be far in the future, so he is secure in his life and leadership.
How should we assess Hezekiah’s response? We could take a cynical approach: Hezekiah should have used the warning to shepherd his people towards teshuvah, repentance, in order to potentially divert the upcoming calamity. But we can read it generously, too. It seems that Hezekiah is aware that history undulates. There are eras of calm and eras of turmoil. Why not relish a prophecy that suggests that our miniscule slice of the historical arc will be one of relative serenity? If we apply the nahamu nahamu words from the next chapter to this read, then Isaiah is basically harnessing Hezekiah’s realistic stance, and thus buoying the people by telling them that God’s message, at least in the here and now, is, “You can be comforted, my people. You will be OK, regardless of what may befall future generations.”
We could use that brand of comfort now. Doom does seem to hover. And many of our people are suffering, and are in grief. And…we have a spiritual and perhaps national obligation to live every moment for its full potential. And to live every Jewish moment with pride, attention, intention, intensity, awareness that, today, even today, this community thrives.
Today, we launch a new Jewish year, and it is and certainly can be replete with blessings. It is undoubtedly the case that our people will continue to suffer in the future. We don’t need the prophet Isaiah to tell us that. But right now? Can’t we, oughtn’t we, channel David Keren and enjoy our grandchildren? And channel Isaiah and Hezekiah: yes, there may be woe and mourning in the future. But today? If all is well, why not revel in it? And be comforted? And, like Eyal would, do it with a smile.
This is a worrisome time. Some sort of ongoing, and amplified, woe is almost certainly coming to the Jewish people and to Israel. But today itself? Look around. If there is tranquility surrounding you, embrace every kernel of it, without always or only worrying about what may be in the future. And if you want to know your loftiest role in this drama? It is to find someone struggling more than you are, and offering/nehama/comfort to them.
At some point during Elul, Gabbie Fried, who works in our communications department here at Temple Beth Am, asked me about pre-HHD social media posts. “Rabbi, can we be upbeat? Can we do sweet and silly and schticky videos of the clergy and office preparing for Rosh Hashanah?” She was basically mimicking the meme, “Too soon?” I said to her, even now. Especially now. We must live our best and biggest lives, our most gorgeous and intentional and public and unapologetic Jewish lives. b’hiyukh. With a smile. (And with a healthy dose of schtick.)
It seems that a version of this sermon has been given, across centuries and cultures and circumstances, from time immemorial. For name a time when a person, a people, has not suffered and worried about the future. By happenstance, the book on my nightstand towards the end of the summer and during Elul was Eric Maria Remarche’s masterpiece novel on WWI, All Quiet on the Western Front. The imagery is brutal. The reality of living in the trenches in WWI? I really don’t want to think about it. But the human wisdom seeping through those pages, forged by Remarche’s own experience as a German soldier, is illuminating.
At one point he writes, “Terror can be endured so long as a man simply ducks. But it kills, if a man thinks about it.” He is advocating a certain essential denialism that permits any person to live through circumstances that could be paralyzing. We all engage in such utilitarian, necessary denialism all the time. We push to the edge of our consciousness truly mystifying, unanswerable, overwhelming questions.
Like where the edge of the universe is.
What is the true purpose of life?
What really happens, if anything, after we die?
How can Shohei Ohtani hit that many homers while stealing that many bases and how long before he is a Yankee?
We have evolved well enough to be able to ponder such gargantuan notions. And also well enough to know that we must compartmentalize some of that enormity, and put it in a box. So you can live. B’hiyukh, with a smile.
It is the only way through grief. It is the only way through this moment. Of course we must pay attention to the reality and size of the dangers we face. Too much denialism is dangerous. But we must practice how to dart in and out. Go there. And then leave there. Go to the war and the hatred and the grief. And then go to the grandchildren. And the vibrancy of this community. And our own breathing. And the smile on Eyal’s face.
There is an aspect of the Hatikvah, Israel’s national anthem, that exposes how vulnerable our sense of well-being is. And how it is not at all a guarantee that smiles can be sustained. Od lo avdah tikvateinu. We translate that line as a defiant triumph: We have not yet lost our hope. What’s hidden in that defiance is the Od lo. The “not yet.” Meaning…it could happen.
We could yield to despair. We have enough reason to. We could lose hope. Because of Eyal. And Iran. And because of campus encampments. And because of Pico pogroms. And because no place has ever shown itself to be safe for Jews forever. We could submit to all of that. But we dare not. We proclaim we will be a generation of Jews that continues to shout to the world, whether or not they are listening, Od lo avdah tikvateinu. We have not lost our hope. Hiyuniuteinu. We have not lost our vitality. Hiyukheinu. We will not lose our smiles.
Two images frame and nearly bookend this past Jewish year we are completing. Both images are of smiles. One is the one on Eyal’s face. The other is a picture of Eyal’s mother, Shiri. With a smile on her face. A smile reserved, less than what it could be, its full splendor amputated. But it is a smile nonetheless.
She smiles as she holds her newest granddaughter. Born in the broken but also beautiful Jewish State in 2024, born to a father still mourning his brother. To a Savta still mourning her son. This baby one day will smile, and every time she does perhaps she will know she is honoring her uncle. Her namesake. I say farewell and bestow honor on my cousin Eyal.
May Eyal’s smile be an inspiration.
Is it time to leave? No. It is time to live.
Shanah Tovah.
Rabbi Adam Kligfeld has served as Senior Rabbi of Temple Beth Am in Los Angeles since 2009. A graduate of Columbia with a degree in History and Psychology, and a graduate of JTS’s rabbinical school, Adam first served in Monroe, NY for 9 years before moving to LA. His most recent work, in addition to shepherding a campus overhaul that saw the community dedicate an award-winning, light-filled, in-the-round sanctuary in 2019, has focused on interfaith relationship-building (mostly with local Muslim communities), as well as integrating Jewish thought, practice, and nomenclature into meditation and mindfulness forms and practices that stem from the eastern faith and cultural traditions. He is married to Havi, a Couples Therapist in private practice, and proud father to Noa (23), Ayden (20) and Lev (12). He is an avid Yankee fan, an avid biker, and an avid dog owner.