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.