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.

From Fans to Players: Lessons from Knicks Mania

Go New York, go!

Did you see the pictures? Hundreds of thousands packed the Canyon of Heroes for the Knicks' ticker-tape parade. Fans boarded trains at four in the morning. Grown adults wept. Complete strangers embraced.

For non-fans, it is irrational. For the good of society, it is essential.

Arthur Brooks noted that sports fandom is one of the last great sources of social capital in America. At a time when loneliness is rising and civic organizations are declining, rooting for a team creates a shared identity that transcends politics, race, religion, and socioeconomic status. For a few hours, people stop seeing one another as opponents and begin seeing themselves as teammates. In a fractured world, fandom creates community.

Judaism has always understood that human beings were not created to live as isolated individuals. We prefer prayer in shul because “b’rov am hadrat Melech - God is glorified in a crowd.” Chazal teach that a person should never separate himself from the tzibbur, the community. The Midrash likens Israel to a bundle of reeds. One reed can be broken easily, but together they become unbreakable. We are literally better together.

The Torah's vision has never been merely personal spirituality. It is covenantal community.

There might be an even deeper Jewish lesson in sports fandom. I found an article entitled “Five Halachot of Sports Fans” which identifies some important traits we can learn from fans that can be applied to a higher purpose.

1) Knowledge - Good fans know their teams. They know the player, the schedules, and all the stats. You can’t be an ignorant fan, and the more you know, the more intense the experience is. Judaism, likewise, begins – and grows – through knowledge. The more you know, the richer the experience, and the more likely it is to be passed to the next generation.

2) Passion - Real fans are interested, concerned, and invested. They care deeply. Some fans may take it a little too far (e.g. face-painting, tattoos), but even ordinary fans show a little excitement. The best Judaism is a vibrant, passionate Judaism. After all, one of our most popular slogans is “L’chaim!”

3) Be Present - Fans love attending games, but they also follow their teams even when they don’t. Showing up is not the only way to show support. Attending in person is an important part of many Jewish rituals. At the same time, never underestimate the power of presence through a kind word, a gesture, or making sure a person knows you care even when you can’t be there in person.

4) Identify - There’s a reason people wear sports gear. It is a proud sign of affiliation and demonstratable sense of connection. You can spot a fan a mile away. We need a similar level of Jewish pride by living openly and unapologetically as Jews.

5) Consistency: Fans are there through good times and bad, through wins and losses, and even through decades-long dry spells. Jews are the “ever-hopeful people.” Af al pi she’yitmamei’a - even though Moshiach may take a while, I await his coming every single day. 53 years is nothing! Judaism is most effective when built upon small, consistent acts, patience, and steadfast faith.

As powerful and positive as fandom is, Judaism places a premium on getting in the game!

The Talmud teaches “mitzvah bo yoteir mi’shlucho,” there is greater value in performing an act oneself than sending a representative. Delegation has its place, but Judaism values personal involvement. One who bakes the matzah, builds the sukkah, or prepares for Shabbat with his own hands experiences the mitzvah differently than one who merely observes from a distance. One can’t merely be a fan.

Yesterday was Gimmel Tammuz, the yahrzeit of the late Lubavitcher Rebbe. The Rebbe had a way of communicating profound lessons through seemingly ordinary interactions. It is this ability which has made him such an enduring and inspiring leader. I am reminded of a beautiful story in which the Rebbe talked sports but taught a deep message.

Shimshon Stock’s father was friendly with the Rebbe, and Stock himself knew the Rebbe from the time before he assumed the movement’s leadership. He recalled an incident around 1951 when Stock was walking with a man and his son, both devoted Brooklyn Dodgers fans, who were in route to a game at nearby Ebbets Field. Suddenly Stock saw the Rebbe walking toward them, and he introduced the men to him.

The Rebbe started to talk to the pair, particularly the son, about baseball. The boy, assuming that the Rebbe was quite uninformed about baseball, mentioned in passing that when the team that one favors is either winning or losing by a large margin, many spectators leave the game without bothering to wait for the end.

“Do the ball players leave?” asked the Rebbe.

“Of course not,” the young man said. “They are not allowed to leave. They stay to the end and keep trying to win.”

The Rebbe smiled at the young man. “This is like a lesson in Judaism I want to teach you. When you pray, you’re playing with the team. You’re not just a spectator; you’re in the game. You can be either a fan or a player. Be a player.”

It is wonderful to be a fan of Judaism, to admire Jewish history, to cheer for Israel, and to celebrate Jewish continuity. But Jews need to do more than fill the stands. God put each of us on the roster. Some of us start, while others ride the bench. Some teach Torah, and some support Torah. Some visit the sick, and others create community. Every player matters.

The excitement surrounding the Knicks championship demonstrates the extraordinary power of shared identity. Fandom is good for society because it reminds us that we belong to something larger than ourselves. Judaism goes one step further. Cheer loudly. Celebrate community. Wear the colors proudly. But when the game that truly matters begins, don't remain in the stands. Get in the game.

Ruach Acheret: From Calev to Congressman Dan Goldman

Ten experts agree. Two disagree.

If you were standing with the Jewish people on the threshold of the Land of Israel, whose report would you trust? Most of us would follow the overwhelming majority. After all, ten distinguished leaders surveyed the land and returned with the same conclusion: Don't go. They were united. They were persuasive. And they were wrong.

The story of the spies does not end well, but in many ways, it makes perfect sense. The leaders who scouted out the land should have known better. They had witnessed the Exodus, crossed the sea, and stood at Sinai. They knew God's promise. They understood that the destiny of the Jewish people was to enter the Land of Israel. Yet ten of the twelve returned with a report designed to discourage the nation from moving forward. The people listened. A 10-2 vote can be pretty decisive.

The Torah, however, reminds us that life is not always about numbers; it’s about spirit.

God singles out Calev with a remarkable description: “V’avdi Calev eikev hayta ruach acheret imo va’yemalei acharai - But My servant Calev possessed a different spirit and remained loyal to Me...” (Bamidbar 14:24)

The two words ruach acheret contain one of the Torah's most enduring lessons. The numbers were against Calev, his opinion was unpopular, and his perspective differed from all the other respected leaders. Yet he refused to surrender his convictions simply because everyone else disagreed. God had promised the Jews would enter the land. That was good enough for him. It didn’t matter that he was essentially a lone voice. Calev possessed, literally, a different spirit and a different mindset.

Judaism has never celebrated being different for the sake of being different. Judaism celebrates the courage to remain faithful to truth when truth becomes unpopular.

The remarkable thing is that all twelve spies saw exactly the same landscape. They walked the same hills, encountered the same giants, and entered the same fortified cities. The mission itself was always going to be about perspective. “U’reitem et ha-aretz ma hi – You shall see what the land is like.” (13:18) Seeing is never merely seeing. It is filtered through our assumptions, our fears, our hopes, and our faith. The majority saw obstacles. Calev saw opportunity. The majority saw giants. Calev saw God's promise.

It is no coincidence that the portion begins with seeing and ends with seeing. It opens with “You shall see the land.” It concludes with the mitzvah of tzitzit, and the verse: “You shall see it.” The challenge is not whether we see. The challenge is how we see.

Even the mitzvah of tzitzit asks us to distinguish the thread of techeilet, blue, from the white strands. White is straightforward. Blue is nuanced. It shifts with the light. It requires discernment. Life is often more blue than white. It is complex. One person's certainty may be another person's blind spot. The episode of the meraglim is a case study in the necessity of remaining open to a different perspective regardless of what everyone else sees or says.

The Piaseczno Rebbe asks why didn't Calev engage the spies in debate? Why not systematically dismantle their arguments? Because faith is not always built upon logic. The spies' observations were accurate. The cities were fortified. The inhabitants were powerful. Calev did not deny reality. He simply believed that God was greater than the reality before him. A Jew must trust in God not only when a natural path to salvation is visible, but especially when none can be seen. To insist on finding a rational solution in every circumstance may ultimately weaken faith. Sometimes one must simply say, “The obstacles are real, but God transcends obstacles. I’m moving forward.”

Ruach acheret is the courage to think, speak, and act differently because one believes differently.

That lesson is not confined to the wilderness. We live in an age of algorithms and echo chambers. Social media rewards conformity within one's tribe and punishes dissent, and the pressure to follow the crowd is immense. That is why it is critical to notice those who are willing to stand apart when conviction demands it – especially when doing so invites criticism from their own allies.

Congressman Dan Goldman is such a person. In his own way, he channels Calev and his ruach acheret.

Today, there are fewer liberal Democrats who are vocal in support of Israel and against antisemitism. Dan is both. He is a proud Jew (and member of the Jewish Center of Atlantic Beach). He refuses to take positions against Israel, Zionism, or the pro-Israel community in the face of his detractors - even when it might truly cost him his job. Whether one agrees with every aspect of his broader political record is not the point. The point is his willingness - even at moments of pressure - to act from conviction rather than convenience. That, in its own way, reflects something of ruach acheret, the courage to think and speak from principle rather than politics. We owe Dan our gratitude and respect.

The lesson of Calev is not that the minority is always right. The lesson is that truth cannot be outsourced to numbers, and faith cannot be reduced to consensus.

Each of us has opportunities to cultivate a ruach acheret. Perhaps it means embracing a mitzvah we have never taken seriously before or studying a section of Torah outside our comfort zone. Maybe it means introducing a new idea into our community, trying a different approach in our family, or reaching out to someone no one else notices. It may not be the popular path. It may not be the obvious path. But if it is the path animated by a sincere desire to serve God and make the world better, it carries within it the spirit of Calev.

The generation of the spies followed the majority and remained in the wilderness. Calev followed his ruach acheret and entered the Land. Every generation faces that same test. Will we be carried by the current of consensus, or will we summon the courage to see more deeply, think more honestly, and act more faithfully?

The Jewish future has never depended on those who simply counted votes. It has always depended on those who were willing to stand with a ruach acheret.

Seven Are the Books of the Torah

Who knows five? I know five! Five are the books of the…Torah.

We all know the song, but what if it’s inaccurate?

We grow up believing that the Torah consists of five books: Bereishit, Shemot, Vayikra, Bamidbar, and Devarim. Yet hidden in the middle of Parashat Beha'alotecha is a remarkable rabbinic tradition that challenges that familiar assumption.

The Jews seem to be on a roll. The Mishkan is complete, the camp is organized, everyone knows their unique role. Moshe literally says, “Nos’im anacnu - We’re traveling now.” Yet, just before a series of tragic episodes unfolds in the wilderness, the Torah inserts two brief verses (Bamidbar 10:35-36):

Vayehi binsoa ha-aron vayomer Moshe: Kuma Hashem v'yafutzu oyvecha v’yanusu mesan’echa mipanecha. Uv'nucho yomar: Shuvah Hashem rivevot alfei Yisrael.
 

When the Ark was to set out, Moses would say: “Advance, Lord. May Your enemies be scattered, and may Your foes flee before You!” And when it halted, he would say: “Return, Lord, to dwell among Israel’s myriads and thousands!”

These verses are set apart by two inverted Hebrew letters, nun’s, one before and one after. They are visually isolated from the surrounding text as though the Torah itself wishes to call attention to them.

The Talmud (Shabbat 116) records a startling teaching: These verses constitute a separate book unto themselves. As a result, Bamidbar is not one book but three: the section before these verses, the verses themselves, and the section that follows. The Torah therefore contains not five books but seven.

Why? What is so significant about these two verses that they merit their own book?

Many commentators explain that these verses describe the ideal state of the Jewish people. The Ark leads the camp. God guides the journey. Enemies scatter. The Divine Presence rests among Israel. These two verses portray a nation moving confidently toward its destiny under the direct guidance of Torah and the presence of God.

The irony is that immediately afterward everything begins to unravel.

The section following the inverted nuns contains a seemingly endless series of crises: complaints, dissatisfaction, the craving for meat, challenges to leadership, the episode of the spies, Korach's rebellion, and much more. The ideal quickly gives way to the real.

Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel teaches that these verses do not actually belong here. They were inserted into this location to separate one tragedy from another. They function as a pause, a buffer, and a reminder of what might have been.

But perhaps these two verses and the seven books they create serve an even deeper purpose. Rabbi Menachem Mendel Schneerson explains that the distinction between five books and seven books reflects two different ways of understanding Torah itself.

According to Kabbalah, the number five represents Torah as God's wisdom and holiness, the blueprint for personal refinement and spiritual growth. The number seven includes two additional dimensions that bring inner spirituality outward into the world. Seven represents not merely becoming holy but bringing holiness into places where holiness is not immediately apparent.

The Rebbe’s distinction helps explain the structure of the “Sven Books of the Torah.” The first four - Bereishit, Shemot, Vayikra, and the opening portion of Bamidbar - describe the formation of a holy nation. They are about revelation, covenant, law, worship, and preparation. Then comes the fifth book, the two brief verses describing the Ark moving forward and clearing the path. Only afterward do we encounter the sixth and seventh books containing the failures, rebellions, disappointments, struggles, and rebukes that occupy the remainder of Bamidbar and Devarim.

If the Torah were merely a guide to spiritual perfection, perhaps it would have ended with the idealized vision represented by the two verses set off by nuns. But Torah is not only interested in creating holy people. The Torah is interested in transforming an unholy world. The Torah therefore follows the Jewish people into the wilderness of human experience. It accompanies them through confusion, failure, conflict, and disappointment. It teaches not only how to stand at Sinai but how to live afterward.

How does one move from the ideal world represented by the first four books into the imperfect world represented by the final two? The answer is the fifth book, and the Ark goes first. The two verses enclosed by the inverted nuns describe the Ark leading the camp and overcoming the forces that stand in its way. The message is that before confronting the complexities of life, Torah and truth must be at the center. Before entering a flawed world, one must carry the Ark.

This idea feels especially relevant today. We live in a world that has lost its moral compass and ability to distinguish between right and wrong, truth and lies, good and evil. The Torah's answer is very clear. At the precise center of the seven-book Torah, the real world, stands not a philosophical treatise, not a legal code, and not a narrative of triumph. At the center stands the Ark. The center must be moral. The center must be sacred. The center must be guided by Torah.

Perhaps this is why these verses are recited every time the Torah is removed from the Ark. We are not merely recalling a moment from the desert thousands of years ago. We are reenacting a critical strategy for a thriving Judaism: Before we leave the sanctuary and enter the complexities of life, the Ark goes forth. Before we engage the world, Torah leads the way.

At the very center of Torah stands two short verses surrounded by two inverted letters, reminding us that before confronting the wilderness, the Ark must move forward. And when the Ark leads the way, even the wilderness can become holy.

AI Can Do Plenty, But It Can’t Bless the People

Pope Leo XIV’s first papal encyclical on artificial intelligence runs nearly 43,000 words. Naturally, it made me wonder: Was any of it written by AI?

The irony would be amusing, but it would also perfectly capture the point of the document itself.

Magnifica Humanitas (“Magnificent Humanity”) is not really about technology. It is about humanity and what machines can never replace. The document is not fundamentally anti-technology. Pope Leo explicitly acknowledges the immense benefits and possibilities of AI. Rather, it is a passionate defense of what cannot be automated: the human soul, moral conscience, and human dignity.

The Pope repeatedly warns against confusing imitation with humanity. AI can simulate conversation, summarize ideas, generate art, and even mimic empathy. But, as the encyclical stresses, it possesses no moral conscience, no spiritual awareness, and no authentic relational capacity.

Arthur Brooks noted in his analysis that Pope Leo is pushing back against the growing temptation to treat technological efficiency as a substitute for human flourishing. The encyclical insists that human beings are not merely processors of information or collections of data points. We are more than intelligence. We are persons.

That idea resonates deeply with Judaism.

The Torah’s opening chapter declares that humanity is created b’tzelem Elokim, in the image of God. Human uniqueness lies not in computation or productivity, but in our capacity for moral choice, responsibility, compassion, creativity, and covenant.

AI can imitate a voice. It cannot carry a soul.

A chatbot may compose a prayer, but it cannot truly pray. It can generate words of comfort for a mourner, but it cannot sit beside someone in silence with tears in its eyes. It may draft a eulogy, but it cannot say Kaddish.

And perhaps that is the distinction that matters most.

Judaism teaches that human beings are partners with God in bringing holiness into the world. We do this not only through intellect, but through presence. Through relationships. Through acts of kindness. Through empathy, sacrifice, and showing up.

Judaism insists that holiness is transmitted person to person, face to face, soul to soul.

The concept of kedushah, holiness, emerges not from efficiency but from intentionality. A machine may optimize, but only a human being can sanctify.

Rabbi Aharon Lichtenstein, in 1998, warned against viewing a rabbinic authority as “a faceless and heartless supercomputer” who merely processes information and produces answers. Authentic Torah leadership, he argued, requires not only fidelity to halakhah but sensitivity, humanity, and emotional presence.

We see this clearly in the mitzvah of Birkat Kohanim, the Priestly Blessing. Jewish law requires that the blessing be bestowed panim el panim, face to face. The Kohen must physically face the worshippers. He cannot simply recite words mechanically into empty space. The blessing must be relational and personal.

Even more striking is the language of the pre-blessing berachah. Before the Priestly Benediction is bestowed upon the congregation, the Kohanim recite the words: “Who commanded us to bless His people Israel b’ahavah, with love.”

Not with precision. Not with efficiency. With love.

The power of the blessing emerges not merely from the words spoken but from the humanity behind them - the warmth, the care, and the emotional presence of one person standing before another. An AI system might flawlessly pronounce every syllable of Birkat Kohanim, but it cannot actually bless with love. It cannot feel concern for another human being. It cannot look into another person’s eyes with compassion and vulnerability.

That is why no matter how sophisticated AI becomes, there remains something irreplaceable about the human element. Technology can help us produce more. It cannot help us become more.

Judaism has always resisted the reduction of human beings into abstractions. The Torah constantly reminds us that each person is an olam malei, an entire world. No algorithm can fully quantify grief, love, faith, hope, or dignity.

Ironically, the very existence of AI may help illuminate what is most precious about humanity. When a machine writes a convincing sermon, paints a beautiful image, or composes moving prose, we are forced to ask what actually makes something human? The Jewish answer is not merely creativity or intelligence. It is soulfulness, moral responsibility, and the divine image within us.

Beneath Pope Leo’s warnings about technology lies a timeless religious truth shared across faith traditions: Humanity must never surrender its humanity.

We should absolutely use AI. We should benefit from its tools and advances. Judaism has never feared technology. But we should also remember that the goal of civilization is not to create machines that act like people; it is to cultivate people who act with greater humanity.

AI may learn to imitate conversation, creativity, and even compassion. But it cannot stand face to face with another person and bless them with love.

The future will not be determined only by how intelligent our machines become. It will be determined by whether human beings still remember what it means to be created in the image of God.

The Stanley Cup and the Torah

If I wasn’t a rabbi, I’d seriously consider having Phil Pritchard’s job.

Pritchard is the longtime guardian of hockey’s championship trophy, the Stanley Cup. Unlike other sports championships, there is only one Cup. The winning team celebrates with it for a season and then gives it back. Nobody owns it permanently.

The Cup has traveled the world, visited soldiers overseas, appeared at family celebrations, and famously been used to cradle newborn babies - sometimes only hours after birth. Yet despite all the joy surrounding it, the keepers of the Cup constantly remind players to treat it carefully. Because the Cup ultimately belongs to something larger than any one team or player. It belongs to the game itself. Each generation enjoys it but must also preserve it for those who come next.

In that way, I believe the Stanley Cup is a powerful parable for Torah.

Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik famously explained that the Torah is not merely a yerusha, an inheritance, but a morasha, a heritage. An inheritance becomes your possession. A heritage is entrusted to you. You are not its owner; you are its guardian.

The Torah does not belong to any one Jew or even any one generation. “Morasha kehillat Yaakov.” The Torah belongs to the entire Jewish people across time. Our task is not to remake Torah according to our preferences, but to preserve it, live it, and pass it forward.

And ultimately, Torah is all about the future and passing the tradition to the next generation.

Henryk was very young in 1945, when World War Two ended.  

He had spent what seemed to be most of his life with his nanny, who had hidden him away from the Nazis at his father's request and at great personal risk. She loved the boy but figured Henryk’s father did not survive the war. If he had survived the Vilna Ghetto, he surely was murdered in Auschwitz. She therefore decided to adopt the boy, baptized him, and had him taught Christianity by the local priest.

But the father, Joseph, returned.

It was Simchat Torah when Joseph came to retrieve his son. The heartbroken nanny had packed all his clothing and his small catechism book. She told Joseph that Henryk had become a good Catholic. The father took his son by the hand and led him directly to the Great Synagogue of Vilna. On the way, he told him that he was a Jew and that his name was really Avraham.

Along the way, they passed the church and the boy dutifully crossed himself, causing his father great anguish. Just then, a priest emerged, and the boy rushed over to kiss his hand. Joseph wanted to drag his son away from the priest and from the church, but he knew that this was not the way to do things. He nodded to the priest politely an continued walking. After all, these people had taken in and saved the child's life.

Joseph knew he had to show his son Judaism, living Judaism, and in this way all these foreign beliefs would be left behind and forgotten.

They entered what remained of the Great Synagogue of Vilna. There they found some Jewish survivors who had made their way back to Vilna and were now trying to rebuild their lives. Amid their suffering and terrible loss, they were singing and dancing to do their best to celebrate Simchat Torah.

Henryk stared wide-eyed around him and picked up an old, torn prayer book with curiosity and a touch of affection. Something deep inside of him responded to the atmosphere, and he was happy to be there with the father he hardly knew.

A Jewish man wearing a Soviet Army uniform stared intently at the boy, and he came over to the father. "Is this child...Jewish?" he asked, a touch of wonder in his voice.

The father answered that the boy was Jewish and introduced his son. As the soldier stared at Henryk, he fought back tears. "Over these four terrible years, I have traveled thousands of miles, and this is the first live Jewish child I have come across in all this time. Would you like to dance with me on my shoulders?" he asked the boy, who was staring back at him, fascinated.

The soldier raised the boy high onto his shoulders. With tears now running down his cheeks, the soldier jubilantly joined in the dancing. "This is my Torah scroll!" he cried.

Henryk-Avraham grew up to become, Abe Foxman, the national director of the Anti-Defamation League and Jewish communal leader, who passed away just over a week ago. He recounted this story as his first conscious feeling of a connection with Judaism and of being a Jew. The Russian soldier, Leo Goldman, became a rabbi in Detroit.

Two Jews who almost disappeared transported into the story of Jewish continuity.

That image of a child as a Torah scroll may capture the essence of Judaism more than anything else. The Torah is not only parchment resting inside an Ark. Torah lives in people, in children, and in the ability of the Jewish people to carry our story, our faith, and our covenant into the future.

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks famously wrote we are all letters in the scroll. Every Jewish child is a living Sefer Torah entrusted to us. Like the Stanley Cup, Torah is not meant to sit untouched behind glass. It must live in our homes, at our Shabbat tables, in our conversations, values, and relationships. We hold it only briefly before handing it to the next generation. We are not the owners of Torah; we are its custodians.

Anyone who chooses to learn Torah, live it, protect it, or pass it forward becomes part of that sacred chain stretching back to the revelation at Mount Sinai and forward to generations we may never meet. On Shavuot, we celebrate not only that the Torah was given, but that it continues to be entrusted to us.

Our task is simple and sacred: to hold it tightly, live it passionately, and ensure that when our turn comes to pass it forward, the chain remains unbroken.