Relationships that Transform and Prepare Us for the Season

Since last Sunday, we have entered a particularly meaningful period in the Jewish calendar. According to Rabbi Alan Lew, during the ten weeks from Tishah b’Av to the end of Sukkot, we move from deep mourning over the destruction of the central home of Jewish tradition (the Temples in Jerusalem) to the joy of dismantling other homes, the temporary booths we construct for Sukkot. Over the course of this period (which represents a fifth of the year!), we journey from destruction to rebirth to joy. We deconstruct ourselves, ask difficult questions, evaluate who we are, and begin to rebuild on foundations we hope will be more solid, enabling us to come closer to who we truly aspire to be.

T’shuvah – the process of self-reflection, repentance, and redirection – is central to the experience of these ten weeks. Rabbi Sharon Brous speaks of a Jewish dialectic that, on the one hand, emphasises justice and the rigour of honestly confronting our failings and, on the other, holds an infinite optimism in our ability to return to the best version of ourselves. On this Shabbat – known in our tradition as Shabbat Nachamu – we begin to rediscover the possibility of allowing the past to inform our conduct without defining it; of recognising our errors without letting them dictate our future; of seeking redemption despite, or because of, the path that brought us here.

This week’s haftarah (the prophetic reading) speaks to the potential for this reconstruction and opens with these words:

“Comfort, comfort My people (Nachamu nachamu ami), says your God.
Speak tenderly to Jerusalem and declare to her that her term of service is over, that her iniquity has been expiated.” (Isaiah 40:1–2)

At the other end of the t’shuvah process is our ability to accept apologies and to truly forgive. How often do we go through life holding on to grudges, unable to free ourselves, bound to the pain of what has been? T’shuvah and forgiveness are complex and difficult, especially when we feel lonely or vulnerable. Those who feel abandoned may find it harder to recognise their own faults or to forgive others, as if clinging to one’s own righteousness might somehow compensate for the pain of feeling isolated.

This Shabbat, which is not only Shabbat Nachamu but also Tu b’Av – the Jewish day that celebrates love – offers an opportunity to draw strength from love as we prepare for the introspective and evaluative processes the coming months will invite. These are also moments to reflect on how we love and how we are loved. Do we truly give ourselves, with all our energy, in the loving relationships we cultivate, whether with parents, siblings, friends, romantic partners, or even with ourselves? What does it mean to love in this way? Is it something we wish to strive for? And if not, what other expressions of love might we want to embrace?

This week’s parashah offers two paradigmatic examples of love. First, it recalls the giving of the Decalogue, the Ten Utterances that God spoke at Mount Sinai. Many rabbinic commentaries understand this moment as a mystical marriage between God and the Jewish people, offering insight into how love can manifest. The first Tablets, symbols of this sacred union (akin to rings), were quickly shattered following the episode of the Golden Calf. According to Rabbi Art Green, this outcome was inevitable: the Tablets, carved and inscribed by God alone, contained no human element. It was a union in which there was space for only one voice, a relationship in which the individuality of the people of Israel was not yet acknowledged.

According to one tradition, Yom Kippur marks the day when Moses descended from Mount Sinai a second time, carrying a new set of Tablets, this time carved by Moses and inscribed by God. These Tablets, the result of a partnership between the human and the Divine, endured as a symbol of a covenant in which both sides were seen, heard, and validated. And you – do your loving relationships honour who you truly are?

The second paradigmatic example of love in this week’s parashah is the Sh’ma Yisrael, perhaps the best-known verse in the entire Torah. Its first paragraph teaches: “You shall love ADONAI your God with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your might.” (Deut. 6:5) Commenting on this verse, Rabbi Jeffrey Salkin writes: “Love doesn’t mean affection. It means a deep, powerful connection that binds Jews to God through the mitzvot.” Does the love you feel for others also move beyond emotion and take the form of concrete, real action in the world? Do you feel that others care for you not only in what they say, but in how they behave?

Mutuality in relationships enables us to feel safe enough to acknowledge our vulnerabilities and to engage in authentic processes of t’shuvah and forgiveness. May we, on this Shabbat, find strength in loving and being loved, with respect and recognition, with listening and validation, so that we might open ourselves to the possibility of being transformed within and through the relationships we build.

Shabbat Shalom

Dvar Torá: O que "amar ao próximo como a nós mesmos" pode nos ensinar hoje? (ACIB)

Há alguns anos, o New York Times publicou um artigo na coluna Modern Love que teve grande repercussão. A autora, Mandy Len Catron, relata um experimento baseado num estudo acadêmico: ela e um conhecido sentaram-se frente a frente e responderam, uma a uma, a 36 perguntas pessoais, seguidas por alguns minutos de contato visual direto. O objetivo era induzir intimidade — e, quem sabe, amor. Surpreendentemente, funcionou. Os dois, que não estavam romanticamente envolvidos antes, acabaram apaixonados.

O que esse experimento sugere é que o amor não é apenas algo que “acontece” conosco. Ele pode ser construído. Podemos deliberadamente criar conexões emocionais — com tempo, atenção e vulnerabilidade. E se isso vale para o amor romântico, por que não também para o amor ético?

Esse é justamente o convite — ou o desafio — que aparece na parashá desta semana, em um dos versos mais conhecidos de toda a Torá:

“Amarás ao teu próximo como a ti mesmo. Eu sou ה׳.” (Levítico 19:18)

Mas essa frase tão familiar é, na verdade, profundamente desconcertante e nos deixa com muitas perguntas. Como se pode mandar alguém amar? O que, afinal, significa amar o próximo? E quem é esse próximo? E por que a equivalência com o amar a você mesmo?

Vamos tratar de duas destas perguntas hoje...

A primeira pergunta -- O que significa “amar como a si mesmo”? Maimônides, no Mishnê Torá, oferece uma resposta eminentemente prática. Amar o próximo, segundo ele, não é um sentimento passivo, mas algo que se concretiza em ações. Ele escreve:

“Amarás o teu próximo como a ti mesmo — isso significa que tudo o que você deseja que os outros façam por você, faça você por seus irmãos e irmãs.”

Para Maimônides, amar o próximo é visitar os doentes, consolar os enlutados, acompanhar os mortos, celebrar com os noivos, ajudar em necessidades concretas. É, portanto, uma mitzvá ativa, incorporada na rotina da vida comunitária. O amor, aqui, não se limita à esfera da emoção: ele se realiza através do cuidado.

Nachmânides, o Rambanm por sua vez, reconhece que pode ser impossível amar o outro com a mesma intensidade com que amamos a nós mesmos. Mas ele propõe uma exigência igualmente desafiadora:

“Devemos desejar para o outro tudo o que desejamos para nós — e fazê-lo sem reservas.”

O problema, segundo Nachmânides, é que o ser humano tende a manter a vantagem: deseja o bem ao outro, mas desde que isso não o iguale a si próprio. A Torá, então, exige o contrário: que desejemos plenamente o bem do outro, mesmo que isso signifique abrir mão da nossa superioridade.

O rabino Shmuel Goldin resume essa ideia com uma frase marcante:

“A Torá não está exigindo o impossível — apenas o extraordinariamente difícil.”

Essa leitura nos convida a pensar o amor não como um sentimento natural, mas como uma orientação interna para desejar, de forma verdadeira, o florescimento do outro — e agir em consonância com esse desejo.

Por fim, Erich Fromm, no livro The Art of Loving, diz que o “amor é uma atividade… é principalmente dar, não receber” De acordo com ele, no ato de se dar, não perdemos, sacrificamos ou abrimos mão daquilo que nos é precioso. Amar é expressar nossa vitalidade, é desejar o crescimento e a plenitude da pessoa amada. Mas ele adverte: “Se um indivíduo ama apenas os outros, mas não a si mesmo, ele não ama de verdade”.

A segunda pergunta -- Quem é esse “próximo” que somos instruídos a amar? Pela tradução usual, “próximo” pode indicar alguém emocionalmente próximo de mim; já em outras versões, traduzido como “vizinho”, o termo pode sugerir quem está fisicamente próximo. Mas, no fundo, a pergunta essencial permanece: a quem se aplica essa obrigação? Apenas aos judeus? Também aos não judeus?

O contexto imediato do versículo parece apontar para uma limitação do mandamento -- amar apenas quem tem já faz parte do grupo. Os versículos anteriores falam sobre não tratar com indignidade os membros do teu povo, não odiar teus irmãos, repreender os membros do teu povo, não guardar rancor e não se vingar “de alguém do teu povo”. 

Isso tem levado muitos comentaristass a argumentarem que o mandamento se restringe aos israelitas bíblicos — ou, numa leitura contemporânea, apenas aos judeus.

Essa leitura alega também que nossas obrigações são mais fortes para com aqueles de quem somos próximos. A doença de uma criança vivendo em outro continente não tem o mesmo peso emocional que quando o meu filho fica doente. Da mesma forma, pessoas vivendo na rua da minha cidade cortam meu coração muito mais do que o conhecimento de que pessoas vivem na rua do outro lado do mundo. Em uma passagem talmúdica que fala da nossa obrigação de ajudar quem precisa, isso é expresso da seguinte forma:

se houver escolha entre uma pessoa judia e uma não judia, a pessoa judia tem preferência; entre uma pessoa pobre e uma rica, a pessoa pobre tem prioridade; entre os pobres da própria família e os pobres em geral da cidade, os da família vêm primeiro; entre os pobres da própria cidade e os de outra cidade, os da própria cidade têm prioridade.[1]

No entanto, há fortes argumentos internos à própria Torá para uma interpretação bem mais ampla para a obrigação de amar ao próximo: Levítico 19:33–34, apenas alguns versículos depois, diz:

“Quando estrangeiros residirem com vocês em sua terra, não os oprima. Eles serão para vocês como os cidadãos, e você os amará como a você mesmo, pois vocês foram estrangeiros na terra do Egito. Eu sou ה׳ seu Deus.”

Mesmo em uma leitura estreita, o estrangeiro -- que em linguagem bíblica representa todas as pessoas vivendo em situação de opressão -- é colocado no mesmo nível legal e moral do cidadão israelita. A obrigação, desta forma, seria, pelo menos, de anar todos os israelitas e todos oss oprimidos. 

Além disso, podemos argumentar que, num mundo em que os israelitas interagiam quase exclusivamente com seus pares e com os estrangeiros residentes, os dois mandamentos juntos — amar o “próximo” e o “estrangeiro” — abarcam praticamente todos com quem se convivia. Nesta linha de raciocínio, o rabino britânico Louis Jacobs escreveu:

“Em uma sociedade distinta, na qual os israelitas vivessem junto a não-israelitas, as implicações do mandamento geral se estenderiam para incluir também estes.”

Finalmente, o versículo termina com as palavras “Eu sou ה׳” — uma frase que, como muitos comentaristas sugerem, indica que esse amor é exigido não por afinidade ou conveniência, mas por princípio. Porque TODA a humanidade, segundo a tradição judaica, foi criada b’tzelem Elohim, à imagem Divina, o mandamento de amar não pode se restringir a um grupo. Ele é, por definição, universal.

Em um livro no qual argumenta que o amor — por Deus, pelo próximo e por si mesmo — está no centro da teologia e da prática judaica, apesar de muitas vezes ter sido negligenciado ou marginalizado, Shai Held analisa a passagem do Talmud mencionada acima, que estabelecia prioridades para nossas obrigações de ajudar quem precisa:

O comentarista talmúdico Menahem HaMeiri observa que, implícita na afirmação de que nossas obrigações com x “têm precedência” sobre nossas obrigações com y, está a ideia de que temos obrigações com ambos — x e y. Por exemplo, damos prioridade a um parente pobre, mas ainda assim temos a obrigação de ajudar outra pessoa necessitada da nossa cidade. Para HaMeiri, é especialmente importante destacar que, embora os pobres judeus tenham precedência sobre os pobres não judeus, é de forma inequívoca uma mitzvá e uma exigência moral ajudar ambos. [2]

No mesmo livro, Shai Held, refletindo sobre a obrigação de amar ao próximo como a si mesmo, escreve:

Podemos aprender a sentir compaixão ou preocupação diante do sofrimento de um grupo étnico desprezado por aqueles ao nosso redor “por meio de esforços de imaginação e empatia — esforços para conceber como seria estar no lugar dessas pessoas, enfrentar suas lutas, viver suas batalhas.” Em outras palavras, enxergar ou não os membros de uma minoria alvo em toda a sua humanidade depende, em grande medida, das decisões e compromissos que tomamos — ou deixamos de tomar. [3]

Essa reflexão se torna ainda mais urgente em tempos de conflito. Com frequência, vemos lados opostos de um embate — especialmente quando atravessado por dor e violência — incapazes de enxergar o sofrimento do outro. Choramos as perdas “do nosso lado”, mas nos tornamos indiferentes às vítimas do “outro lado”. Quando isso acontece, falhamos no cumprimento do mandamento de amar o próximo como a nós mesmos.

O amor ético que a Torá propõe não é automático, nem confortável. Ele exige esforço, imaginação, humildade. Ele nos convida a sair da bolha de nossos afetos naturais e a nos comprometer com o reconhecimento da dignidade humana — mesmo quando isso nos custa.

“Amarás o teu próximo como a ti mesmo. Eu sou ה׳.”

Que essa frase não seja apenas um ideal recitado, mas um compromisso vivido — em nossas relações pessoais, em nossa comunidade e nas escolhas que fazemos frente à dor do outro.

Shabat Shalom!

 

[1] Talmud Bavli Bava Metzia 71a

[2] Shai Held, Judaism is about Love, posição 135/524 (Kindle)

[3] Shai Held, Judaism is about Love, posição 109/524 (Kindle)

Dvar Torah: This Is Our Fire — Faith Without Withdrawal

Many years ago, I visited a village in Brazil where Indigenous people were living. The community’s chief welcomed us on his porch and began speaking about their traditions, culture, and the challenges they faced in modern society. As he spoke, a woman—visibly drunk—appeared. She interrupted him, declaring, “Don’t believe what my brother tells you. He’ll say we are Native Brazilians, but we’re not. Native people are lazy. We’re hard-working people.”

Then she walked away.

That moment has stayed with me ever since. It revealed something profoundly painful: the extent to which prejudice can be internalised. That woman had absorbed the harmful stereotypes directed at her people and turned them inward, believing that the only way to assert her value was by denying who she was. Her self-worth, in her own eyes, could only be affirmed by separating herself from her own identity.

During my time here in Johannesburg—short as it has been—I’ve witnessed a parallel dynamic. I’ve been surprised by how often people are puzzled when they meet someone, like me, whose parents were both born Jewish, and who nonetheless identifies proudly as a Progressive Jew. There is an assumption, often unspoken but sometimes explicitly stated, that Progressive Judaism is a second-rate form of Jewish identity, a refuge for those who "couldn't make it" in Orthodoxy. This idea is not only mistaken—it is deeply damaging.

Let me say it clearly: Progressive Judaism is not a consolation prize. It is not a fallback option for those who found Orthodox conversion too long or too burdensome. It is a bold, ideological choice—a way of living as Jews in honest dialogue with the world we inhabit.

Progressive Judaism affirms the spiritual dignity of women’s voices. It embraces the love between people of all genders as sacred and holy. It welcomes religious leadership without regard to gender. It finds holiness not only in silence, but also in the sound of musical instruments lifting our spirits. It recognises the spiritual value of closeness and intimacy, of celebrating life with those we love.

More than anything else, Progressive Judaism is committed to machloket leshem shamayim—sacred questioning. It sees idolatry not only in golden calves, but also in the rigidity of ideas that are never allowed to be challenged. It honours tradition not through blind repetition, but through studied engagement and conscious choice.

If these are your values, then you belong here. Regardless of your background, your lineage, or your journey—welcome home.

Rabbi Nancy Wiener once wrote about Liberal Judaism in the United States—what we might call Progressive Judaism here in South Africa:

“To be a liberal Jew is to live in a world of choices. To be a liberal Jew is to be held responsible for your actions. To be a liberal Jew is to strive to make every aspect of your life a reflection of your values. To be a liberal Jew is to believe that you are inextricably linked to your ancestors, yet bound to the contemporary Jewish community, responsible for transmitting a meaningful and responsive Judaism to generations to come.”[1]

In this week’s Torah portion, we read of Nadav and Avihu, the sons of Aaron, who bring an eish zarah—a “strange fire”—before ה׳ and are consumed by Divine flame. Their fate is shocking, but not uniformly seen as a condemnation. In Midrash Tanchuma, Moshe responds by telling Aaron: “Now I see that they were greater than you or me.” According to this view, their deaths were not a punishment for wrongdoing, but a sign of their extraordinary closeness to the Divine. Their souls were so drawn to God that they could not remain tethered to this world—an idea echoed in certain mystical traditions as well.

Nadav and Avihu’s path of withdrawal is still followed by many: a religious life of withdrawal, asceticism, and self-denial, in pursuit of spiritual transcendence. But that is not the path of Progressive Judaism.

We believe that holiness is not found only in some lofty realm beyond, but here—in this world. In the words of Abraham Joshua Heschel, to be religious is to live in radical amazement, to stand in awe before the mystery and wonder of existence. We encounter the sacred not by retreating from life, but by engaging with it fully—through the laughter of children, the struggle for justice, the beauty of a sunset, the dignity of the marginalised, and the daily acts of compassion and courage that define human goodness. The task of Progressive Judaism is not to escape the world, but to transform it—to let our amazement lead us to responsibility, and our wonder give rise to ethical action.

Ours is not the path of Nadav and Avihu. Ours is the path of those who walk with open hearts and open minds, who refuse to abandon the world, and who insist that Judaism must speak in the voice of justice, compassion, and relevance.

Progressive Judaism is not a diluted tradition—it is a powerful expression of Judaism’s most enduring truths. It is not a fire that consumes, but a flame that illuminates.

May we continue to walk proudly in its light.

Shabbat Shalom!

[1] Wiener, Nancy H. Beyond Breaking the Glass. CCAR Press, 2001. p.1

The Fire That Consumes and the Fire That Iluminates: A Jewish Reflection on Religious Fundamentalism

In Parashat Sh’mini, two young priests, Aharon’s sons, Nadav and Avihu, bring אֵשׁ זָרָה, aish zarah, a “strange fire” before ה׳ and are instantly consumed by Divine flame. The Torah does not tell us exactly what their sin was, only that they acted in a way not commanded by God [1]. Their death is jarring, a moment of tragedy interrupting what was meant to be a day of joy, the inauguration of the Mishkan.

Across generations, our sages struggled to understand this story. Rashi quotes Rabi Ishmael suggesting they entered intoxicated [2]. Kohelet warns: “Do not be overly righteous… why destroy yourself?”[3]. Their sin, it seems, lay not in rebellion but in excess, in zeal untempered by discipline or humility.

In our time, Rabbi Donniel Hartman has written powerfully about what he calls “God-intoxication” – the idea that when religious people become so consumed with serving God that they forget their responsibilities to other human beings, faith turns from a source of goodness into a source of harm. He warns:

“For the God-Intoxicated person, the awareness of living in the presence of the one transcendent God demands an all-consuming attention that can exhaust one's ability to see the needs of other human beings. This religious personality is defined by strict non-indifference to God. The more we walk with God, the less room we have to be aware of the human condition in general, and consequently, our moral sensibilities become attenuated.” [4]

This Shabbat, as we read of Nadav and Avihu, the world also mourns the loss of Pope Francis, a man who spent his papacy challenging the assumption that religious leadership must come wrapped in certainty. Wikipedia+1 His courage lay not only in what he affirmed, but in what he dared to question. He opened space for dialogue where others closed doors. He sought holiness not in doctrinal purism, but in compassion, justice, and service.

In many ways, Francis embodied what Jewish tradition upholds as its ideal religious leader: one who walks humbly with God [5], who fears arrogance more than doubt, who sees every human being as b’tzelem Elohim, created in the image of God.

The death of Nadav and Avihu reminds us that religious zeal and certainty, when not grounded in humility and restraint, can lead to disaster. The life of Pope Francis reminds us that religious leadership, when imbued with empathy and doubt, can lead to healing. Together, they offer a stark moral contrast between the fire that consumes and the fire that illuminates.

As Jews, we do not turn away from passion in our service of God. But we are taught to balance zeal with discernment, certainty with inquiry. We light sacred fire, the fire of Shabbat candles, of Torah study, of protest against injustice, not to burn ourselves or others, but to bring light unto the world.

May the memory of Pope Francis be for a blessing. And may we, in our own traditions, continue to resist the dangers of fundamentalism, not by rejecting God, but by putting love, humility, and human dignity at the centre of our service.

Shabbat Shalom,

[1] Lev. 10:1
[2] Rashi on Lev. 10:2
[3] Ecclesiastes 7:16
[4] Donniel Hartman, Putting God Second: How to Save Religion from Itself, p. 46.
[5] Micah 6:8

Dvar Torah: A Faith Beyond Proof – From First to Second Naïveté

Tonight’s sermon is in dialogue with my column in this week’s AdKan, where I asked what some may find to be a provocative question: What if the Exodus never happened?

In that piece, I summarised what most contemporary archaeologists tell us: that there is no direct evidence of a mass Israelite presence in ancient Egypt, no archaeological trace of hundreds of thousands of people travelling through the wilderness, no record of Pharaoh’s armies drowning in the sea. This is not news in academic circles, but it still challenges many of us who grew up believing that the Exodus was not only sacred, but historically verifiable.

I mentioned how, in 2001, a prominent rabbi in Los Angeles gave a Pesach sermon in which he openly raised that question. He told his congregation that the Exodus, in the way it is described in the Torah, probably did not happen. And the reaction was intense—some were deeply appreciative of his intellectual honesty, while others were shaken. The discussion went so far as to land on the front page of the Los Angeles Times.

And I also mentioned the work of Richard Elliott Friedman, whose book The Exodus offers a nuanced and respectful suggestion: that while the large-scale Exodus may not have occurred, a smaller group—perhaps the Levites—did leave Egypt, and brought with them a memory of slavery and divine liberation. Over time, that memory was adopted by the wider Israelite community, becoming the foundational story we now tell each year.

But as I wrote in the column, and as I want to explore more deeply tonight, the question that really matters is not about historical certainty. It’s about how we understand truth.

Elie Wiesel once wrote, “Some events do take place but are not true; others are, although they never occurred.” It’s a striking sentence—and one that I believe every religious person should sit with for a while.

Wiesel’s words remind us that there are different kinds of truth. Some truths can be weighed, measured, confirmed by excavation or DNA. But others live in stories, in rituals, in values that shape our lives. The Exodus, whether it happened as written or not, is one of those stories. It has shaped Jewish identity, Jewish ethics, and Jewish theology for more than three thousand years.

But how do we hold onto a story like that—lovingly, meaningfully—once we know that it may not have happened in the way we were first taught?

Here I want to turn to the French philosopher Paul Ricoeur, and his idea of the second naïveté.

Ricoeur describes three stages in our relationship with sacred stories. The first is what he calls first naïveté—a stage of uncritical belief. As children, or even as adults entering a religious tradition, we accept the stories at face value. The sea split. The manna fell. The bush burned. No questions asked.

Then comes the critical stage. We grow older. We study. We ask hard questions. We read biblical scholarship. We encounter contradictions. We learn that many cultures have flood stories. We discover that the Torah may have been written by multiple hands across generations. For many, this critical stage is painful. Some try to retreat to the certainty of literalism. Others walk away from religion altogether, believing that if the stories aren’t factually true, they must be meaningless.

But Ricoeur offers a third possibility: the second naïveté. This is not a return to innocence, but a movement forward. After the struggle, after the questions, we learn to read the stories again—not as newspaper reports, but as carriers of profound symbolic and ethical truth. We are no longer asking, Did this happen? We are asking, What does this mean? What does it teach me?

This is a religious maturity that does not ask us to lie to ourselves about history, but neither does it allow cynicism to rule. It invites us to re-enter the story with open eyes and full hearts.

This is what allowed us to sit at the Seder table with integrity. We could say, as the Haggadah does, “In every generation, each person must see themselves as if they came out of Egypt”—not because we were pretending, but because we were participating. The “as if” is not a disclaimer; it is the point. Pesach is, essentially, about re-commitment.

The Exodus story becomes a lens through which we see the world. It teaches us to stand with the vulnerable. It teaches us to remember where we came from. It teaches us that redemption is possible, but never easy. These are truths that do not need to be excavated. They need to be lived.

And that brings us to our current religious moment. I believe that Judaism today must be built not on first naïveté—not on insisting that every word of the Torah is literal truth—but on the kind of faith that has walked through the desert of doubt and come out the other side. A Judaism that is not afraid of scholarship, but also not paralysed by it. A Judaism that reads critically, but prays with heart. A Judaism that tells its stories not to make us feel superior, but to make us more compassionate.

We are not commanded to prove the Exodus. We are commanded to remember it. Not to win arguments, but to build character. Not to be archaeologists, but to be just.

So tonight, I invite each of us to take that step toward second naïveté. Let the story live in you—not as a fact to be verified, but as a calling to be answered. Even if we were not there, the story is still ours. Even if it did not happen, it can still be true.

Because, as Wiesel taught us, some events do take place but are not true—and others are, although they never occurred.

Shabbat shalom and chag sameach.

What if the Exodus Never Happened?

Each year at Pesach, we gather around the Seder table to retell a story of liberation. We recall our ancestors’ suffering in Egypt, their miraculous escape from bondage, and their journey towards freedom. But what if it never happened?

The question may seem unsettling, even sacrilegious. Yet it is one that many contemporary Jews—especially those engaged in historical scholarship—cannot avoid. The overwhelming consensus among archaeologists today is that there is no clear material evidence to support the biblical account of the Exodus: no signs of mass migration through the Sinai, no evidence of Israelites dwelling in Egypt in the numbers or under the conditions described in the Torah.

This tension between tradition and archaeology was dramatically brought to light over twenty years ago when a prominent rabbi in Los Angeles raised the issue in a Pesach sermon. He asked his congregation whether it would matter if the Exodus were not historically true. The reaction was so intense that it landed on the front page of the Los Angeles Times. [1] Clearly, the question touches a deep nerve.

Scholar Richard Elliott Friedman, in his book The Exodus, offers an intriguing possibility. While acknowledging the lack of large-scale archaeological evidence, he suggests that a smaller group of people—possibly Levites with Egyptian connections—might indeed have left Egypt and brought with them a memory of slavery and divine liberation. This memory, over generations, became the Exodus narrative we know today.

Whether or not such a proto-Exodus occurred, Friedman’s point is crucial: the power of the story lies not in its provability, but in the moral and spiritual truths it conveys.

At its heart, Pesach is not only a celebration of freedom, but a call to responsibility. “You shall not oppress a stranger, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.” This commandment appears over and over in the Torah, and it is grounded in the Exodus experience—not as a historical report, but as a foundational narrative that shapes Jewish ethics.

The enduring power of Pesach is not in whether archaeologists can confirm it, but in its demand that we identify with the vulnerable and refuse to become Pharaohs when we are in positions of strength.

This year, may our storytelling renew our commitment to justice.

Chag haCherut sameach. Happy Festival of Freedom!

[1] https://www.latimes.com/archives/la-xpm-2001-apr-13-mn-50481-story.html

Dvar Torah: Work in Progress! Why Our Seder Plate Was Never Meant to Be Frozen in Time

Yesterday we held our Junior Seder for families with children and it was great — tell the families with young children you know, so they can take advantage of it, next year! That said, when, right at the beginning of the Seder, I began presenting elements that have been added to Seder plates in the past 50 or 60 years, the parents looked at me as if I were speaking gibberish.

New elements? On the Seder plate?! Their eyes seemed to say. “This is a tradition our ancestors have practised without any change since we left Egypt!”

Well… not quite. The Seder is a work in progress, and many of its most recognisable elements were added slowly over the centuries. Until the destruction of the Temple in the year 70 CE, Pesach was significantly different, centred around animal sacrifices — specifically the sacrifice of a perfect yearling lamb, reminiscent of the first celebration of Passover, still in Egypt.

After the destruction, rabbinic sages had to forge new practices. The Seder that developed was partly inspired by the Greco-Roman symposium, a social and intellectual gathering centred on wine, conversation, and a festive meal. The symposium involved reclining on couches, asking and answering questions, drinking multiple cups of wine, and engaging in storytelling.

As the Seder evolved, this influence became clearly visible in rabbinic texts, where it takes on many features of a symposium. The table ritual of the Seder, first described in the late 2nd or early 3rd centuries in the Mishnah and the Tosefta, echoed the etiquette and table fellowship of the Greco-Roman symposium.

Not surprisingly, some of the earliest elements of the Seder recorded in rabbinic documents were the four cups of wine. While not explicitly termed "reclining," the Mishnah reflects the influence of the symposium through its emphasis on reclining on couches. The practice of asking questions was also present; the Mishnah describes the parent initiating discussion with four observations — similar but not identical to the later Four Questions (Ma Nishtanah). The Mishnah also outlines the principle that the Passover story should begin with disgrace and end with praise. Furthermore, several ritual foods are mentioned in the Mishnah and in the Tosefta: maror, matzah, karpas, and bitter lettuce dipped in charoset, according to the Tosefta.

The Talmud (compiled in the fifth and sixth centuries) expanded upon these ideas, engaging in scholarly debate over various aspects of the Passover ceremony—such as the number of wine cups and the appropriate blessings. While these discussions elaborated earlier concepts, the first known Haggadah in a more complete written form is part of the Seder of Rav Amram Gaon of Babylonia, compiled around the year 860 CE. This book, which included the prayers for the entire year, marked a major step in codifying the Passover liturgy.

The first stand-alone Haggadah appeared almost five centuries later, around 1320, and originated in Spain. It was still handwritten. The first printed Haggadah followed in 1486, also in Spain. [1]

Some of the songs in the Seder are also later additions. The earliest full text we have for Dayenu comes from Seder Rav Amram in the 9th century. However, Echad Mi Yodea first appears in Ashkenazic Haggadot of the 16th century and in non-Ashkenazic Haggadot only in the 19th century. [2] Chad Gadya is also from the 16th century. One might assume the traditional melody for Ma Nishtanah is ancient, given its widespread use across Jewish communities. I was surprised to learn that Ephraim Abileah, a Russian composer and son of a chazan, wrote it only in 1936. [3]

The 20th century witnessed a significant diversification of Haggadot, as various Jewish movements sought texts that resonated with their contemporary realities. The Reform movement created Haggadot reflecting modern sensibilities and American identity. Kibbutzim in Israel developed secular Haggadot emphasising nature, communal values, and national independence. The Jewish labour movement in America crafted Haggadot with socialist and progressive themes. Even within more traditional frameworks, Haggadot began to include reflections on the Shoah and the establishment of the State of Israel—connecting the Passover narrative to pivotal events of the time. This period saw an increase in the dynamism of the Haggadah text, continually adapted to express the evolving ideologies and historical experiences of Jewish communities around the world.

So… despite what some may have learned in school, the Haggadah is not a closed document, and the Seder is not a finished ritual. One of the guiding principles of the Seder is:

בְּכָל דּוֹר וָדוֹר חַיָּב אָדָם לִרְאוֹת אֶת עַצְמוֹ כְאִלּוּ הוּא יָצָא מִמִּצְרַיִם,

שֶׁנֶּאֱמַר וְהִגַּדְתָּ לְבִנְךָ בַּיּוֹם הַהוּא לֵאמֹר, בַּעֲבוּר זֶה עָשָׂה ה' לִי בְּצֵאתִי מִמִּצְרַיִם

“In every generation, a person should see themselves as if they had personally left Egypt, as it is written: ‘And you shall tell your child on that day, saying: This is what ה׳ did for me when I came out of Egypt.’” [4]

The only way to achieve this is to bring our own lives into the ritual—to speak about our personal struggles, the ongoing fight for freedom in our times, the need to act for the downtrodden in our streets. We must speak about the persecutions we’ve endured—the Pharaohs under whom we have suffered—and also about the moments when we acted like Pharaohs. To examine what imprisons us—individually and as a community—and how we might break free.

Like Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur — set at a healthy distance of half a year from Pesach — this is an opportunity for personal growth, not merely an obligation to repeat ritual that may feel rote or disconnected. If your family’s Seder currently lacks meaning for you, I’d love to talk with you after the service. I’d be glad to offer ideas to help renew your tradition.

The story of Pesach is the foundational narrative of the Jewish people, and its annual celebration invites us to revisit what it means to be Jewish in today’s world.

Will you accept that invitation?

Shabbat Shalom.

[1] Vanessa Ochs, The Passover Haggadah (Lives of Great Religious Books)
[2] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Echad_Mi_Yodea
[3] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ephraim_Abileah
[4] Mishnah Pesachim 10:5