The Grandparents of the Father of Zionism Have Come Home

The Herzl family plot on Mount Herzl has been filling up for 77 years.

Theodor Herzl was reinterred there in 1949. His parents and his sister Pauline were brought there as well. The bodies of his two eldest children, Pauline and Hans, came from Bordeaux in 2006. The remains of his grandson Stephen Norman, who died by suicide in Washington in 1946, followed in 2007. Only one member of the family is still missing. Trude, Herzl’s youngest daughter, was murdered by the Nazis in Theresienstadt in 1943, and her remains were never recovered.

On Wednesday, Shimon Leib and Rivka Herzl, the grandparents of Theodor Herzl, were reinterred on Har Herzl. More than a century after their deaths, the State of Israel has fulfilled one of the last wishes contained in Herzl's will and another chapter of the family's journey has reached its destination. More accurately, it has come home.

The Torah repeatedly speaks about the central place where the Jewish people would gather, but it never identifies Jerusalem by name. Instead, it calls it, “Ha-makom asher yivchar Hashem – the place that God will choose.” (Devarim 12:5) We don’t know the exact location, but we do know, “L’shichno tidreshu u’vata shamah – Seek God’s presence and come there.”

We don’t know where we are going, but we know that we will get there.

The destination is left unnamed, because every Jew is expected to discover it. Jerusalem is not merely a city on a map. It is the place to which the Jewish soul is drawn. For nearly two thousand years, we face toward it in prayer, end the Seder and Yom Kippur with "Next Year in Jerusalem," remember it at every wedding, and mourn it on Tisha B'Av. Long before we could point to it on a map, we knew where "there" was.

U'vata shamah - you will come there. This week, Herzl's grandparents finally did. It is not merely a family matter. Their reinterment is a statement of Jewish mission and a commentary on continuity.

Many recall Herzl as the assimilated Viennese journalist and intellectual. A man of tremendous vision who declared “Im tirtzu ein zo agadah – If you really want it, it is no dream,” and who accurately predicted the birth of the Jewish State. He was a man whose children drifted from Judaism, two of whom were baptized, whose family line ended in heartbreaking tragedy. But that is not the whole story. Herzl did not invent Zionism from thin air.

Shimon Leib Herzl was born in Zemun, Serbia in 1805, the son of a rabbi. He served as gabbai in the Sephardic synagogue of Rabbi Yehuda Alkalai, one of the religious pioneers of modern Zionism. Decades before political Zionism existed, Rabbi Alkalai was preaching that Jewish redemption would begin when Jews returned to their ancestral homeland. Those ideas were discussed around the Herzl family table, and some contemporary scholars conclude that Herzl's own implementation of modern Zionism was influenced by these ideas.

President Isaac Herzog spoke at the reinterment ceremony about inheritance. He said, “Dreams are not bequeathed in writing. They pass at the Shabbat table, they pass in the living room, they pass in the story a grandfather tells his grandson.” Herzl may have strayed from the religious life of his ancestors, yet something remained alive within him – an inheritance deeper than memory, an inheritance stronger than assimilation. That may be why this reinterment feels so profoundly moving. The grandparents who helped plant the dream have now been gathered into the reality their grandson helped create.

There is another lesson here.

The Torah does not simply say, “U’vata shamah - You shall come there.” It first says, “leshichno tidreshu – Seek God’s presence.” Coming home is not merely about arriving at a destination. It is about seeking a Presence. The return to Zion was never intended to culminate with passports, parliaments, or even sovereignty. Those are extraordinary achievements, but they are not the destination. They create the possibility for something greater: a society shaped by Judaism, families that transmit Jewish values, and a nation striving to make God's Presence felt in the world.

Herzl built the road home; we must decide what kind of home we will build.

That challenge feels especially urgent today. Oded Feuer, who directs the World Zionist Organization’s Herzl Center, noted, “Zionism is again being attacked from all sides. And the first answer to those attacks is within ourselves. Strengthening our Jewish identity will help us give answers, though not everyone who attacks is willing to get an answer.”

Since October 7, we have been under attack, and we have also pushed back. Jews who had felt distant have begun asking deeper questions. People have put on tefillin or lit Shabbat candles for the first time. Others have discovered Hebrew or a renewed connection to Israel and the Jewish people. Around the world, countless Jews have realized that Jewish identity is not simply an ancestry to remember when it is threatened. It is a life to be lived every day. That is u'vata shamah.

Coming home is not only boarding a plane to Ben Gurion Airport. It is returning to Jewish purpose. The Herzl family journey reminds us that Jewish continuity is rarely linear. One generation may drift while another returns. Children may disappoint while grandchildren rediscover. Seeds planted quietly can blossom decades later in ways no one could have imagined.

The Jewish story has always been one of seeking and returning - to God, to Judaism, to the people, to Israel. The grandparents of the father of Zionism have finally come home. For us, the seeking and returning continues.

Eat, Be Satisfied, Create Blessing

We all know the tune.

Whether in school, at camp, or around the Shabbat table, the opening paragraph of birkat hamazon (bentching) is sung to the same familiar melody. (Now, you’re singing it in your head, too…) Have you ever wondered where that tune comes from?

Around 1942, cantor and educator Moshe Nathanson composed the melody while serving as music director at Camp Achvah, one of America's first Hebrew-speaking summer camps. According to camp lore, after hearing campers enthusiastically sing the closing of birkat hamazon to a lively tune borrowed from the Hansel and Gretel operetta, Nathanson decided the opening deserved its own spirited melody. The campers loved it. The tune quickly spread to Orthodox schools, yeshivot, camps, and eventually Jewish tables across the world. Already in the 1950s, Rabbi David Eliach of the Yeshivah of Flatbush remarked, "They were singing it in all the yeshivas."

Think about it. Jews disagree about almost everything - pronunciation, politics, and even which kugel is best. Yet for generations, Jews from every background have pounded the table and joyfully sung the very same melody after a meal. Why? Because birkat hamazon is far more than a blessing. Bentching provide us with an opportunity to elevate one of the most important things in Judaism: food.

V’achalta v’savata u’veirachta - You shall eat, be satisfied, and bless. (Devarim 8:10)

This verse technically teaches us the obligation to recite birkat hamazon. But perhaps it teaches something much deeper. Notice the progression. The pasuk is not only relevant to one’s particular meal. It provides a powerful perspective on Jewish food. When we eat, we should enjoy, and create blessing.

The Torah doesn't envision food as an end in itself. Eating culminates in blessing. Not only blessing God, but creating blessing into our homes, our relationships, and our communities. That may be one of Judaism's greatest contributions to civilization. Many religions have viewed the physical world as something to escape. Judaism embraces it. We eat. We celebrate. We enjoy the world Hashem created, but we refuse to leave the physical merely physical. Food is never just food.

Kashrut is one aspect of the holiness of food. We can only eat certain foods. We need to keep meat and milk separate, and we check for the Orthodox Union (or other) label. Our tables also afford us an opportunity to elevate food. The Shabbat meal is transformed by Kiddush, challah, zemirot, family, and guests. Holiday meals become expressions of simchat Yom Tov, joyous Judaism.

Even classic Jewish foods carry religious significance. Gefilte fish wasn't merely a culinary invention that may have had economic benefits in using the whole fish. Preparing it by removing the bones helped avoid the halakhic issue of boreir, the prohibition of separating the bad from the good on Shabbat. Cholent tells an even richer story. During the Middle Ages, the Karaites rejected the Oral Torah and interpreted the prohibition against fire on Shabbat literally, refusing to eat hot food. Rabbinic Jews answered not only with sources and arguments but with steaming pots of cholent. Every hot Shabbat lunch became a declaration of faith in the oral tradition. Only Jews could turn a stew into theology.

Jews don’t merely mark holy occasions; we taste them. It’s a mitzvah to eat at a brit and the wedding feast. Capping off Torah study with a siyum creates a mitzvah meal that even allows for eating meat during the Nine Days. Even our moments of grief are accompanied by food. Shiva and bagels, anyone? The real rule is that the first meal for mourners returning from the cemetery is called the seudat havra'ah, the meal of consolation. Long before psychologists coined the phrase "comfort food," Judaism understood that a warm meal prepared by caring friends nourishes not only the body but also the soul.

Food elevates, food celebrates, food comforts, and sometimes food builds communities.

Rabbi Efrem Goldberg shared an extraordinary story about an Orthodox shul that came about because of a chicken. A man named Azriel had an elderly neighbor named Janet, who told him she prepared for Shabbat by driving several miles to buy kosher challah and, while at the same shopping center, also bought a (non-kosher) rotisserie chicken. Azriel was perplexed by why she cared enough to shlep for the challah but wasn’t also buying a kosher chicken. Seeing an opportunity to help, he began purchasing a kosher rotisserie chicken for her each Friday.

Janet happened to play mahjong each week with Charlotte, the president of a once-thriving Conservative synagogue whose membership had dwindled dramatically and was considering closing. Charlotte mentioned that she wished she knew someone in the growing Orthodox community who might be interested in sharing or preserving the building. Janet smiled and said, “I know exactly who you should call. The man who brings me a kosher chicken every Friday.”

That introduction led to a conversation that eventually led to the Orthodox community assuming responsibility for the synagogue campus, preserving decades of Jewish history while filling the building once again with vibrant Jewish life. A rotisserie chicken became a shul.

V’achalta v’savata u’veirachta. We eat, we enjoy, and we bless.

The blessing is not limited to the words we recite after a meal. Genuine blessing is what our meals produce. Jewish food should nourish more than our bodies. It should strengthen marriages, welcome guests, teach children, comfort mourners, celebrate milestones, deepen faith, and build friendships. Jewish food can even build a shul.

Maybe birkat hamazon resonates so deeply and is sung so energetically because the success of a meal is not measured by how full we are when we get up from the table but by how much blessing leaves the table with us.

Eat. Be satisfied. Create blessing.

The Most Important Words in Judaism

                                                                                                                               Art by Sefira Lightstone

How loudly do you recite Shema?

The common – and recommended – practice is to recite the first verse of Shema out loud. (Shulchan Aruch 0c 61:4) While many of us are more reticent when it comes to davening loudly, we shouldn’t hold back when it comes to “Shem Yisrael Hashem Elokeinu Hashem Echad.”

These six fundamental words accompany a Jew through every stage of life. They are whispered into the ears of newborn babies. Parents teach them to children before bedtime. They are recited every morning and every evening. They conclude Yom Kippur. They have been spoken by Jews marching to their deaths and by Israeli soldiers running toward danger.

The Shema is the closest thing Judaism has to a national anthem, a mission statement, and a declaration of faith all rolled into one.

I vividly remember the Shema recited by the Kaliver Rebbe, Rabbi Menachem Mendel Taub (1923-2019), when he visited my Yeshiva in Israel more than 30 years ago. Born in Transylvania, the Rebbe was deported to Auschwitz three days before Shavuot 1944, where his entire family was murdered. He was a victim of chemical burning experiments carried out on his skin by the notorious Dr. Joseph Mengele that led to his noticeable lack of a beard. For over 70 years, the Rebbe traveled around the world addressing audiences about the power of Shema and would lead the assembled in saying it in unison out loud, often with a tune. He explained that he made this commitment in Auschwitz:

“The Nazis were literally throwing Jews into fires. I heard Shema Yisrael being sung by a young boy and I turned to God and said, ‘Let me live, and I will say Shema Yisrael with the living.’”

Recently, especially since October 7, various initiatives have started aiming to have as many Jews as possible all over the word recite the first verse of Shema at the same time each day. The idea is to unify Jews around the most powerful expression we have to add holiness to the world while bringing people together. (You can join one such effort HERE.)

What gives these six words such extraordinary power?

We usually think of the Shema as Judaism's declaration of faith. The Talmud describes it as Kabbalat Ol Malchut Shamayim, our acceptance of God's sovereignty. We are careful about its laws: saying it before the proper time expires, avoiding interruptions, covering our eyes, and concentrating on every word. But perhaps we sometimes become so focused on how to say the Shema that we forget what it is asking of us.

The key lies in the very first word: Shema.

We often translate Shema as “Hear, O Israel,” but that hardly captures the richness of the Hebrew. Rabbi Doron Perez points out that Shema may be one of the most complex words in the Torah. It means to hear physically, to listen attentively, to understand intellectually, to internalize emotionally, to empathize deeply, and ultimately to accept and act upon what has been heard. That’s a lot packed into three letters.

Judaism's defining declaration does not begin with the word “believe.” It begins with the word “listen.” That is no accident. At Sinai, the Jewish people did not see God. They heard God's voice. Revelation entered the world through listening. The Radziner Rebbe, Rabbi Yaakov Leiner, observed that sight reveals only the exterior of things, while hearing penetrates beneath the surface. Seeing tells us what something looks like; listening allows us to discover what it means. Faith begins not with certainty but with attentiveness.

That is why Shema is far more than the opening word of Judaism's creed. It is Judaism's first and most enduring life lesson. Listening is at the heart of our relationship with God. Before we can respond, question, or even believe, we must first learn to listen.

Listening is equally at the heart of what it means to be a mensch. Stephen Covey famously wrote, “Seek first to understand, then to be understood." It is remarkable how closely that echoes the Torah's message. Too often we listen only long enough to formulate our response, offer advice, or defend our position. Genuine listening requires setting aside our own perspective long enough to understand someone else's.

Every meaningful relationship depends on Shema. Healthy marriages, strong friendships, parents and children, teachers and students, Rabbis and congregants. One of the greatest gifts we can give another person is the feeling that they have been genuinely heard.

Shema is Judaism's defining prayer because it teaches us that listening is not merely a communication skill; it is a spiritual discipline. This message may be more urgent today than ever before. We live in an age overflowing with information but starved for attention. Social media, podcasts, videos, and endless notifications compete for every waking moment. Everyone has something to say; few people truly listen.

The Shema offers a quiet but profound counterbalance to the cacophony around us. Close your eyes. Block out the noise. Listen for God's voice. Listen to the people you love. Listen to those with whom you disagree. Listen to the quiet voice of your own soul. And say Shema out loud!

Let’s try to hear ourselves recite the words and internalize the message. The Shema is certainly Judaism's declaration of faith. It is our credo and our affirmation that God is One. The words are also an invitation to deeply engage in the sacred activity of listening to advance a world of more spiritual, religious, and emotional engagement. Perhaps the first and most fundamental obligation of every Jew is contained in that very first word.

Shema…

One People, Many Paths: A Menachem Av Reflection

One unintended consequence of artificial intelligence is that so many things now look alike.

Browse synagogue flyers, school announcements, and community emails these days and it’s hard not to notice. AI has made them polished, attractive, and professional. It has also made many of them surprisingly similar. It’s hardly a communal crisis, but it is a reminder that efficiency can sometimes come at the expense of personality.

Artificial intelligence tends toward sameness. Judaism celebrates individuality within a common covenant  

Rabbi Moshe Tzvi Weinberg, in a talk entitled A United Nation of Unique Jews, suggests that this may be one of the enduring lessons of Shabbat Chazon, the Nine Days, and Tisha B’Av. When we think about the destruction of the Beit HaMikdash, we have been taught to focus on sinat chinam, baseless hatred, and the need for ahavat chinam, unconditional love. We remind ourselves to be kinder, more patient, and more united.

All true.

But there is another dimension we often overlook. The challenge is not simply learning to love one another. It is learning to appreciate one another because we are different.

Like every parent, our Father in Heaven is pained when His children refuse to get along. The Midrash (Tanna D’Vei Eliyahu 28) teaches that what Hashem desires most from His children is that they love and respect one another. Perhaps that is why we call this month Menachem Av. During these weeks we ask God to comfort us. But perhaps we also have the ability - and responsibility - to bring comfort to our Father by treating one another as brothers and sisters despite our differences.

The Maharsha notes that the twenty-one days of the Three Weeks parallel the twenty-one days from Rosh Hashanah through Hoshana Rabbah. That means Tisha B’Av corresponds to Shemini Atzeret, the day on which Hashem says, “Kasheh alay preidatchem - It is difficult for Me to see you leave.” After weeks of standing together before God, He asks for just one more day. That expression may be applied to Tisha B'Av as well. Tisha B’Av reminds us of what happens when we no longer want to be together. Accordingly, the Three Weeks are not only a season of mourning. They are the Jewish season of getting back together.

Yet unity does not mean uniformity.

The Gemara (Berachot 58a) teaches that no two people think alike and no two people look alike. The Tosefta adds that no two people even sound alike. Difference is not a flaw in creation. It is one of God’s greatest gifts. The Gerrer Rebbe observed that nobody is offended because another person has a different eye color. Why, then, do we become offended when someone thinks differently? We readily accept physical differences. Why are intellectual and spiritual differences so much harder to embrace?

There is one Judaism, but it is lived by many kinds of Jews. Each of us has our own derech.

The Modzitzer Rebbe understood Yosef’s instruction to his brothers of “Al tirgezu ba’derech - Don't delay on the way" as a warning not to become agitated by another person’s derech. Every Jew has a different path. That is one reason I’ve never liked the expression “off the derech.” Everyone is on a derech. The question is not whether someone has a path, but where that path ultimately leads.

The Torah itself celebrates this diversity.

The Ramban asks why the Torah repeats the offerings of each of the twelve nesi’im instead of simply telling us they all brought the same gift. The Midrash explains that while the offerings were identical, each leader invested them with a unique intention and spiritual meaning. The ritual was identical. The inner world was completely different.

My davening is not your davening, even if we recite the very same words. My mitzvot are not your mitzvot. That diversity is not a weakness of Judaism. It is one of its greatest strengths.

Too often we imagine that Jewish unity means everyone thinking alike, practicing alike, praying alike, or approaching Judaism alike. That was never Judaism’s vision. Judaism doesn’t ask us to become more alike; it asks us to become better at liking one another. Unity isn’t the absence of differences. It is the decision that our differences are not greater than what we share.

Several years ago, Yossi Klein Halevi suggested a powerful Three Weeks exercise. Think about the Jewish community with which you most disagree. Then identify one authentic Jewish value that community contributes to our people. Appreciate the settlers’ love for the Land of Israel, the peace activist’s longing for peace, the Satmar volunteers caring for Jewish patients in hospitals, or Reform rabbis striving to keep assimilated Jews connected to Jewish life.

We need not compromise our convictions. But we should recognize that the Jewish story is richer because different Jews emphasize different dimensions of it.

One question has always fascinated me. Why is it that Jews so naturally come together in moments of crisis? When tragedy strikes, when Israel is under attack, or when a fellow Jew is in danger, our differences suddenly seem much smaller. Why should it take pain to remind us that we belong to one another?

That is the challenge of Menachem Av. If tragedy can unite us, maturity should unite us as well. We shouldn’t need enemies to remind us that we are family.

As we mourn the destruction of the Beit HaMikdash this Tisha B’Av, may we learn that God’s dream for the Jewish people was never one path for everyone. It was one people walking many paths toward God. 

One people, many paths, one Father. 

Welcome to the City of Refuge

What do we do with people who have caused terrible harm but never intended to? Do we simply excuse them because it was an accident or do we define them forever by their worst moment?

Three thousand, three hundred years ago, the Torah proposed a third way. Welcome to the City of Refuge.

This week’s parsha introduces us to the remarkable institution of the Ir Miklat, the City of Refuge. Six cities strategically located throughout the Land of Israel where someone who accidentally caused another person's death could flee. At first glance, the concept feels distant and dated. What could an ancient sanctuary for accidental killers possibly teach a society with police, prosecutors, and prisons?

Quite a bit.

The accidental killer occupied an uncomfortable middle ground. He was not a murderer, but neither was he entirely blameless. He had no malicious intent, yet someone had died because of his actions. The Torah recognizes a difficult truth that our culture often struggles to hold at the same time. Intentions matter, but consequences matter too.

Too often we swing between two extremes. Either someone is completely excused because "it was an accident," or they are forever defined by their worst moment. The Torah charts a wiser path. The person was required to leave home. A terrible tragedy had occurred. Life could not simply continue as before. The situation demanded reflection, growth, and accountability. Yet the Torah also insisted that this individual deserved protection. Justice could not become vengeance. Human dignity had to be preserved even after profound harm had been done.

That balance is extraordinary. The ir miklat was not a prison. It was a place of rehabilitation. The accidental killer lived among the Levi’im, surrounded by Torah teachers, and a community devoted to spiritual growth. Removed from familiar routines and influences, he was given the opportunity to rebuild himself from the inside out. His exile was not merely punishment; it was education. It was therapy. It was teshuvah.

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks observed that Judaism is a culture of guilt rather than shame. Guilt says, "I did something wrong." Shame says, “There is something wrong with me." If I did something wrong, I can repent, repair, and change. If I believe I am my worst mistake, there is little room for hope. The ir miklat embodies this insight. It never minimizes the tragedy, but neither does it allow tragedy to become a person's permanent identity.

The purpose of the ir miklat was never simply to remove someone from society. It was to prepare him to return to society as a different person. Perhaps that is why the modern Hebrew word “miklat” means a shelter, a place of protection during moments of danger. One enters when confronting danger and then exits once the situation has passed. Over the past three years, we have become quite familiar with this space. We all need a miklat. Not because we have taken a life or to escape incoming missiles, but because every one of us needs a supportive shelter. A space that offers protection and, simultaneously, a chance to grow.

The Torah's vision extends beyond the individual. The accidental killer remained in the city until the death of the Kohen Gadol. The Talmud asks what connection there could possibly be between the High Priest and an accidental tragedy hundreds of miles away. The Sages answer that the Kohen Gadol should have prayed that such tragedies would never occur during his lifetime. Whether understood literally or symbolically, Judaism is teaching that leaders - and indeed all of us - share responsibility for the moral and spiritual climate we create. We are not responsible for every accident. We are responsible for building communities that cultivate awareness, cherish life, and care for one another.

The Sages took the idea one step further. The Talmud teaches, “Divrei Torah Koltin - The words of Torah themselves provide refuge.” Long before miklat came to mean a bomb shelter, Torah taught that our deepest refuge is often spiritual. Torah creates an inner sanctuary where perspective replaces impulse, wisdom tempers emotion, and genuine growth becomes possible.

The Torah even commanded that the roads leading to the cities of refuge be kept in excellent repair. Bridges were built, obstacles removed, and at every major intersection signs pointed the way with the words, “Miklat! Miklat!" The Lubavitcher Rebbe saw in those signposts a timeless lesson. It is not enough for places of refuge to exist; people have to know how to find them.

Ours is a generation with no shortage of people searching for refuge. So many people are looking for meaning, community, hope, or simply a place to begin again. Our task is not merely to belong to communities of Torah; it is to become signposts ourselves, making the path to Jewish life, faith, and belonging visible and inviting.

Today we hear a great deal about creating "safe spaces." Often that means places where people are protected from criticism or discomfort. The Torah's vision of a safe space is profoundly different. An ir miklat did not protect a person from responsibility. It protected him while he accepted responsibility. It was a place where he was safe enough to confront himself honestly, to learn, to change, and ultimately to emerge a better person.

The ir milkat may be the Torah's most overlooked city, yet it remains one of its most enduring ideas. It challenges us to create a community that lives up to its lofty goals. A place where justice is tempered by compassion, accountability leads to growth, and every person is given the opportunity not to escape the past, but to build a better future. In a world that often demands punishment without mercy, the Torah offers a more difficult and ultimately more redemptive path.

Welcome to the City of Refuge. I think you'll find it's a place where all of us belong.

The First American Rabbi

“I dwell in complete isolation, without a teacher or companion…Under these circumstances…I wonder whether a Jew may live in a land such as this.”

These words were written more than 180 years ago by Rabbi Abraham Rice, the first ordained Orthodox rabbi to settle in America. His lament captures the tension between Torah life and modern freedom, between communal cohesion and individual choice, and between unwavering commitment to Halakhah and the lived reality of a diverse Jewish community. Nearly two centuries later, Rabbi Rice’s frustrations and, even more importantly, his response remain remarkably relevant.

Most people know that Jews first arrived in North America in 1654. Far fewer realize that no ordained Orthodox rabbi settled here until 1840. Historians often refer to those 186 years as the “Reverend and Cantor Age,” when Jewish communal life was led by cantors, reverends, and knowledgeable lay leaders rather than traditionally ordained rabbis.

Rabbi Abraham Joseph Reiss, later Americanized to Rice, changed that forever. Born around 1800 in Gochsheim, Germany, he studied under leading Torah scholars of his era. He was deeply rooted in classical Torah learning and Halakhic discipline that assumed a cohesive, tradition-bound Jewish society. In 1840, Rabbi Rice and his wife Rosalie boarded the Sir Isaac Newton and arrived in New York. He served briefly in Newport, Rhode Island, but soon moved to Baltimore, where he became rabbi of Congregation Nidchei Yisrael, one of the earliest Orthodox congregations in America.

What he found was something entirely different than what he was accustomed to in Europe. American Jewish life was fragmented, mostly nonobservant, and increasingly influenced by new currents arriving from Germany including the emerging Reform movement. Communal norms could not be assumed. Religious practice could not be enforced through social structure. The isolation weighed heavily on him.

Yet what defines Rabbi Rice is not the depth of his disappointment but the direction of his response. He did not retreat from the community or abandon those who were distant from observance. He built. In 1841, he established Baltimore’s first Hebrew school. In 1845, he celebrated the dedication of one of the first structures built to be a synagogue in the city. Until then, Jewish worship had taken place in rented spaces. Now there was an intentional sacred space designed for Jewish life.

At its dedication, Rabbi Rice described the synagogue not only as a house of prayer but as a communal engine of moral and spiritual influence. It is a place "where brother should meet with brother in order to inspire him to go forward in the path of righteousness.” That vision remains strikingly modern. A synagogue is not a gathering of the already perfected. It is a community in which Jews encounter one another in ways that encourage responsibility, and religious growth. 

Rabbi Rice never wavered in his commitment to halakhah, but he also understood a fundamental truth of American Jewish life. You cannot assume uniformity, and you cannot rely on coercion. You must instead build unity in the midst of difference. He often emphasized this idea in his speeches and writings:

“The only and legitimate pride which the Jew bears in his heart is this: that the Jew in the East is like the one who lives in the West; that the religion in the South must be as it is in the North; that all Israel have one Torah and one Law, and when he enters a synagogue he can say, ‘How goodly are thy tents, O Jacob,’ because all follow the same Divine Law.”

Rabbi Rice also faced the emerging practical questions of American Jewish life. When asked whether etrogim imported from the West Indies were kosher for Sukkot, he permitted them, explaining: “I wish to promote the unity of Israel in matters of religious observance.” Even in halakhic practice, he remained consistent in that fidelity to Torah and commitment to Jewish unity were not competing values. They were mutually reinforcing.

Rabbi Rice was not naïve. He knew perfectly well that Jews were not living identical or ideal religious lives, but he refused to define the Jewish people by those differences. Instead, he defined them by covenant. His aspiration was one Torah, yet his commitment was to one people. His task as a rabbi was to hold those truths together without compromising either. In this way, he anticipated the later formulation of Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik, who distinguished between a shared brit goral, a covenant of fate, and a more individualized brit yi’ud, a covenant of destiny. Jews may differ in practice, but they remain bound by history, faith, and responsibility to one another.

His rabbinate, however, was not easy. In 1849, recognizing that his congregation was not prepared to meet the baseline level of observance he required, Rabbi Rice resigned. He supported himself by running a grocery store, while continuing to teach, write, and advocate for Orthodox Judaism through The Occident, a Jewish journal edited by Isaac Leeser. He engaged vigorously in the intellectual battles of his time, defending traditional belief against the growing Reform movement. Even in sharp disagreement, he maintained an extraordinary tone. In one exchange, after strongly opposing Reform positions, he signed his letter simply, “Your friend, Abraham Rice.” That signature is not incidental. It reflects a deeper truth that disagreement need not sever relationship. Commitment to Torah does not require withdrawal from the Jewish people.

Rabbi Rice briefly returned to the rabbinate in Baltimore in 1862 but died later that year. He did not live to see the flourishing of Orthodox Judaism in America - the yeshivot, day schools, summer camps, kollels, and vibrant communities that would emerge in later generations. But his legacy is not measured in institutions; it is measured in vision. He was among the first to understand that American Judaism would require a fundamentally new kind of rabbinic leadership.

Ba-yamim ha-heim u’ baz’man haze – What was true then remains a challenge today. In America, Jewish life no longer relies on communal pressure or inherited conformity. For the Jewish people to grow and thrive, we need persuasion rather than compulsion, inspiration rather than assumption, and creativity rather than continuity alone. That is the true significance of Rabbi Rice. He did not fail because America was too difficult. He succeeded because he recognized what America would require.

Every American Orthodox rabbi inherits the same reality. We teach the eternal Torah in a culture defined by choice. We encourage greater observance while embracing Jews who are still growing. We defend halakhah while strengthening Jewish unity. We build communities that are both serious about commitment and open to those still on the journey. There are communities that choose greater homogeneity, where members share similar standards of observance and expectations. Those communities have strength and value. At the same time, there is another model, one I believe we are creating here in JCAB. It is the conviction that Jews can be united by Torah even while standing at different points along the path toward Torah. We do not lower expectations; we widen responsibility. We challenge people to grow while ensuring that no Jew is lost along the way.

Rabbi Rice understood that the task of an American synagogue is not merely to preserve Torah. His experience produced a path meant to preserve Torah and the Jewish people. To strengthen commitment without weakening community. To raise expectations without erecting barriers. To call every Jew upward while making sure every Jew still knows there is a place to come home. Nearly two centuries after Rabbi Abraham Rice came to America, that remains our sacred mission.

Ki Baruch Hu: What No Curse Can Undo

According to some commentators, it was “the worst week ever” for pro-Israel activists.

Election results, headlines, and social media feeds seemed to converge into a single narrative of isolation, accusation, and pressure. It feels all too familiar. The Jewish state and those who speak up for it are once again under a global microscope, inside a tightening vice.

And yet, walking through the streets of Tel Aviv, life goes on. As always, there is tension, but there is also normality and a resilience that no headline quite captures.

Both realities are true at once. The noise is real, and so is the complicated life beneath it. Three little words from this week’s parsha can shed light on our current situation.

If Balak hires Balaam to curse Israel, it is because words have power, and words can break a people. That is the assumption behind every generation’s “Balaam moment.” If the pressure is strong enough, the narrative sharp enough, and the accusations repeated often enough, something will finally give way.

But before Balaam does anything, God interjects with a line that feels almost impossible in light of everything that follows: “Lo ta’or et ha’am ki baruch hu - Do not curse the people, for they are blessed.”

However, by the end of the parsha, the people fail. They sin. They are punished. They do not appear very “blessed” at all.

What does ki baruch hu actually mean? It cannot mean that Jews are always righteous or immune from failure. The Torah is too honest for that. God is not describing behavior. God is defining essence. The Jewish people can stumble. They can forget. They can even fall into moments of moral blindness. But none of that cancels who they are.

The essence of a Jew remains intact even when behavior does not reflect it. Sin may cover or conceal that essence, but it cannot redefine it. Goodness is not something a Jew acquires; it is what a Jew is.

The Jewish mission begins long before Balaam. It begins with Avraham, who is told, "v’heyeh berachah - Be a blessing." The Jewish people were never meant to be passive recipients of divine favor. We were meant to become a conduit of blessing in the world. Our mission is to introduce moral responsibility, affirm human dignity, and carry covenant and conscience into history. That calling does not disappear when Jews fail to live up to it.

This is why Balaam cannot succeed. He is not only trying to curse a people; he is trying to redefine them. And he fails not because the people are flawless, but because their essence is not up for negotiation.

The pattern has never stopped repeating itself. Every generation has its Balaams, people who look at the Jewish people and see not blessing, contribution, or covenantal responsibility; but threat, danger, and suspicion. The vocabulary changes, but the underlying motivation remains.

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks observed that antisemitism is a “mutating virus.” It changes form in every age but never disappears. It tells us less about Jews than about the societies projecting it. When a culture becomes unstable or morally uncertain, Jews often become the screen onto which those anxieties are projected.

This insight sharpens what is happening in our own moment. Israel is routinely singled out in ways that bear little resemblance to how other nations are judged. Support for Israel is recast as moral failure. Public figures gain influence by treating Jewish particularity as something suspicious rather than something that carries meaning and responsibility. This is Balaam in modern language, and sometimes it works. Not because the curses succeed, but because Jews begin to internalize them. The greatest danger is not that Balaam curses us. The greatest danger is that we begin to believe him.

We must not allow others to define who we are. We cannot spend more energy explaining ourselves than living our mission. When Jews stop believing in our own calling, we do not become neutral. We become diminished. The response is not defensiveness; it is clarity.

If we are a people of blessing, then we are called to live like one. To strengthen Jewish life with seriousness and joy, to support Israel without apology and without illusion, and to deepen Torah, community, and moral language in a culture that often forgets all three.

Balaam wanted to define the Jewish people from the outside. God defines them from within.

Ki baruch hu is not a guarantee of success or a promise of perfection. It is a declaration of essence. People may try to push us off course, but we cannot lose what we are for.

The challenge is not to answer the curses of others but to live so clearly that they no longer define us.