In September of 2015, my work took me to the New York area as the Kansas City Royals prepared to play Game 5 of the World Series against the New York Mets at Citi Field in Flushing Meadows–Corona Park.

The Royals were ahead in the series 3-1, and I realized that this game could be THE game – the one in which the boys in blue would finally become the World Champions for the first time since 1985. With some help from stub-hub, I was able to find an affordable last minute ticket, and so, proudly donning my KC cap, I hopped on a train from Manhattan with just about 90 minutes to go before game time.

As the train got closer to its destination, I found myself treading water in a sea of blue and orange wall-to-wall Mets fans. At one point, I made eye-contact with one of them, sitting about 20 feet away, toward one end of the subway car. He starred and pointed. I stood like a deer in oncoming headlights – no where to go, no time to avoid what was coming next.

“Look at what we have over here, ” he yelped, so that everyone could hear. All eyes looked my way, accompanied by a kind of spontaneous escalating vocalization that sounded like a shoddy chorus of singers groaning an entire octave of notes, from low to high, increasing in volume as they increased in pitch.

“A Royals fan on our train! What the f**k?” I heard coming from over my shoulder. To say I was scared would be an understatement. The train was moving fast, no expectation that it would making a stop any time soon.

“So, who’s gonna win the World Series?” asked the one who had outed me to the rancorous crowd. In that moment I thought that if I told them what they wanted to hear, what kind of Royals fan would that make me? And if I told them what I thought, I imagined an underground lynching might have quickly ensued.

“It’s gonna be close,” I offered, hoping that was ambiguous enough for him and the others. It seemed to work. They took it to mean that I still thought those Mets had a fighting chance (which I secretly did not for a minute believe).

Just when I thought it was behind me, the same guy walks across the car and asks me, “So where you from, Kansas City?”

Feeling empowered by my earlier verbal victory, I decided I was on a roll, and told the truth. “Well, I used to live there, but now I live in Israel.”

As the words “I live in Israel” rolled off my tongue, I kicked myself for such hubris. What was I thinking? Why did I feel the need to wear my proud Zionism on my sleeve and risk yet another round of “us versus them?”

I was prepared for the worst, when the tall, loud NY fan put his hand on my shoulder, smiled and looked me in the eye. “You Jewish? I’m Jewish too.”

Wow. In those few minutes, a lot had transpired. The two of us were just two minutes ago anonymous adversaries, two men whose paths had never before crossed, and yet, by dint of our sports allegiances, were mutually suspected arch-enemies. There was a palpable resentment bordering on hatred brewing between us – or to be more exact, between me and a packed subway car full of my nemeses. A shrewd answer on my part had avoided conflict. Risking another round of “us verses them,” I had shown my hand, revealed my ancestry, offering information that I could just as easily have kept to myself, tempting fate almost irrationally.

Instead, in that split-second questionable decision, I had actually succeeded in completely quashing the us-versus-them vibe between us, converting it into a “just us,” or “we’re on the same side” dynamic that led to another 20 minutes of Jewish geography and Hebrew schools reminiscences.

We arrived at the stadium. Still tripping as I was on the amazing turn around of that train ride, and before climbing the steep stairs way up to my “cheap” seat, I decided to make a stop at one of Major League Baseball’s only kosher hot-dog stands. The line was uncompassionate in its length and snail pace, but I was looking forward to that feeling of being again with “us,” standing on line with “my people.”

In a matter of a seconds, however, I realized that as the only KC fan in that long line, I was about to become the “them” for all of these hungry, anxious, trailing 1-3 kosher-observant Jewish Mets fans. Quite the opposite of many Orthodox Jewish travelers today, I contemplated taking off my baseball cap, and revealing my knit kippah! Looking around, I could see the people checking me out, wondering how this poor KC fan managed to get into the wrong hot dog line. (Of course, their natural animosity towards me made them incapable of even suggesting I might be in the wrong line and pointing me in the right direction for a short-line treif hot-dog.) I was once again “the other,” and if I did keep kosher, maybe even suspected of treason!

Just then, I looked around and saw behind me in line – lo and behold -another kosher KC cap wearer! Of course, standing there in the depths of New York, my first thought was, “this poor KC fan is standing in the wrong line, I should tell him.” However, upon closer examination, I realized that I knew the guy – he had grown up in the KC synagogue where I had served as rabbi in the 1990s. I left the line to gladly take my place again about 10 people back form where I was, considering that a small price to pay to once again feel a part of “us,” rather than “them.”

Psychologists speak of the “us versus them” phenomenon in human existence. It is a primal instinct, a carry-over from back in the day when human survival was tied into tribal unity. Those not immediately identifiable as members of the tribe -those who looked differently, or dressed differently were de facto suspects, until proven otherwise, the result of a built-in human defense mechanism that served to protect individuals from and their tribes from the “others,” those people whose otherness made them potential threats to my clan’s existence.

They say that this behavior is a natural human survival instinct, and instinct that can never be completely eradicated, no different than fear of the dark. The only way to neutralize the instinct is to take the risk of getting to know the individual before you, finding out that s/he is actually as much or even more a part of “us” than “them.”

Judaism in its expression – by ritual, by dress, by language, and by worldview – defacto turns its followers into “the other.” In a climate where people are inclined to first get to know you, before casting judgment, these differences are not threatening – they might even be considered enriching or interesting! However, in a climate of polarization, where everything is about drawing lines and defining people based on their political positions, and labeling them with denigrating names – in such a climate, antisemitism is bound to flourish.

When people are empowered to activate their tribal impulses and refuse to speak with those who don’t see the world as they do – in such a world, antisemitism will flourish, no matter what rights are guaranteed by the legal system wherein Jews are living. For Jews have, since the time of the biblical Gentile prophet Bilaam and before, been perceived as “a people who live apart and do not consider themselves one of the nations.” (Numbers 23:9)

And so, it is “us versus them.” Period. And frankly, wearing a baseball cap wherever we go is not a solution – only an adaptation. In my estimation, there really is no permanent solution. No protest march, no lawsuits, no reinforced law protection is going to stem the tide of antisemitism. It will only be a new global spirit of trust and common-cause – or, God-forbid, a common threat of global extinction – that will , in my opinion, serve to neutralize it. The Holocaust created a 70 year old bubble, a global moratorium on antisemitism in the wake of never before witnessed atrocities. However, it seems that it had only receded into the background, awaiting the chance to raise its ugly head again, once a large portion of the world was prepared to once again retreat into tribal survivalist thinking.

Occurrences like the ones described in this short film – defined as scientifically inexplicable – serve for too many as the “proof” that “my religion is true.”

How exactly does that work?

Why is something inexplicable rendered as “miraculous?” – Are they really one and the same?

And if we can explain it, is it no longer miraculous?

Look, people who know me know that I am big believer in “miracles” – I believe miracles surround us always! They are built into the very fabric of our lives and we cannot live without them. And, in my opinion, just because we can explain them, does not make them less miraculous. Gravity is miraculous!  And sure, scientists figured out long ago more or less how it works.

But that does not make it less miraculous.

Similarly, antibiotics are miraculous…we know how they work, what they do…. heck, a human being invented them; and yet, in my opinion, they are miraculous!

They are miraculous because when I imagine the world without any of them, the world as I know it evaporates before my eyes.  In fact, for that matter, the ability to love and to feel loved too is miraculous – for what is a life without that feeling?

The miracles that I could live without are the supernatural ones – the ones that happened long, long ago, that prophets and preachers have been pointing to for generations as “proof” of the authenticity of one faith over another, one God over another, one truth over another.

These are the miracles that are shoved in your face as evidence that “I am right and you are wrong.” A splitting sea, an immaculate conception, and a magical flying horse are all meant to “prove” to us the legitimacy of one faith over another, affirming that what we have dedicated our lives to is THE REAL TRUTH.

The problem comes when you shove your ancient miracle in the face of a non-believer and he shoves one of his ancient miracles back at you….now you have a problem: conflicting miracles, conflicting truths. And if we can’t learn to live with the conflict, then we might as well have a war and murder thousands of people in order to once and for all determine who is the possessor of that REAL TRUTH. (I think we all know what Lennon had in mind when he asked us to imagine a world with “no religion” – not a world without meaning or direction, but a world without religious conflict…the all-time deadliest conflict of all!)

For me, faith is just what it sounds like: an act of choosing to believe and behave in a certain way, despite the other alternatives out there.  A faith community is a beautiful example of this – a local or even worldwide community of people who have chosen to embrace the same faith as you.  When you come together, you reinforce each other’s choices, and dream about the magnificent possibilities that lay before you and your co-believers should you have the opportunity to steer the world in your direction.

Faith offers hope.

Faith offers comfort.

Faith need not be “proven” to be true in order to believe in it…it just needs to make sense for you.  We do not and never really needed supernatural miracles in order to believe, and frankly, I think we might have been better off without them.

What do you think?

It is human nature, in the aftermath of tragedy, to try to make sense of it, to look for some rational explanation. We stand bewildered in the face of such evil.

On March 6, 2008, a man dressed similar to a yeshiva student appeared at the entrance of the Mercaz HaRav Yeshiva in Jerusalem, carrying a “parcel” that concealed a Kalashnikov assault rifle and numerous magazines of ammunition. He entered the yeshiva and began to fire indiscriminately at the students who were learning in the library. During the pandemonium that followed, scores of screaming students tried to escape the hail of bullets, including jumping out of the yeshiva’s second and third story windows. In the end, eight students were killed, mostly teenagers ages 18 and under. Eleven others were wounded, three critically. Some of the victims were found still holding the sacred books from which they were learning before they were murdered.

A young American yeshiva student studying in Israel at the time of the Mercaz attack reflected about the experience and wrote:

What was I supposed to take from all of this? What was the message I was supposed to get? What was the lesson I was supposed to learn? That was the question that was driving me crazy. That was the question that I had to ask and answer. It seems to me, that’s the question that everyone must ask and answer, each in his or her own way.

Although we may look for some understanding, some meaning, some sense in the face of catastrophe,  it is best, in my opinion, to accept that there is no sense, there is no meaning. As Maimonides (1135-1204) taught, there are three sources of evil in the world.  One it is the result of being created as mortals, flesh and blood, susceptible to the elements. One is the result of bad choices we ourselves might make in terms of how we eat, drink, or otherwise live out our lives.  And the third source is the evil choices made by others that cause harm to others. (Maimonides, Guide for the Perplexed III:12)

Unfortunately, writes Maimonides, in the third case, “the wronged individual has no device against them.”

With prayers for the families of the murdered, and for the recovery of the injured.

This bereaved mother of five reminds us all that victims of terror are random targets, and that questions of”why me, why us?”  are fruitless and unnecessary.

At the brit of her nephew, her brother, Shmuel, father of the newborn, stood before the crowd that had gathered to celebrate and said, ““We are still clothed in mourner’s outfits. We have chosen life, especially in these terrible days we are choosing happiness and hope over sadness and despair. We have chosen unity over divisiveness.”

The Salomon family is a fine tribute to the resilience of the Israeli people.

Facing terror and tragedy in this way is not a coincidence, but rather, the result of a rich foundation, a strong faith, a sense of purpose.  It is the reason I am seeking assistance in the translation of my book, “Where’s My Miracle?” into Hebrew.

Michal, I am confident that the Dayan Emet (God, the True Judge) of widows and orphans is already with you, at your side, setting the stage to care for you and your wonderful children going forward.  As you know, this was not God’s doing, but the evil choice of an evil man.  Thank you for reminding the world of this ever-so important truth.

The cherubs shall spread their wings upward so that their wings shield the cover [of the ark]. The cherubs shall face one another, but their faces shall [also be inclined downward toward the cover.] Place the cover on top of the ark [after] you place into the ark the testimony that I will give you. I will commune with you there, speaking to you from above the ark-cover, from between the cherubs that are on the Ark of Testimony.  (Exodus 25:20-22)

We first meet the cherubim in the Torah as appointed guards, stationed at the path to Tree of Life (Gen. 3:24), preventing humankind from passing that way, preventing us from overstepping our limits, from embracing eternal life and losing perspective on the difference between ourselves and God. It is a strange epilogue to the creation story, isn’t it? I mean, it makes you wonder: Isn’t it ultimately up to God what happens? Can a person really just eat a ripe fruit from the right tree and then live forever, even if the all-powerful God does not will it so?

What is the actual message of that passage?

Here in Exodus, we meet them again.  But here the cherubim reappear in the form of man-made gold figurines, two figures with child-like faces, placed in such a way that they are on guard again;  but this time, rather than standing with swords brandished, they stretch out their wings and shelter the cover of the ark, the place from which the voice of God is meant to emanate.

Is there a connection?

I think so.

Pardon my candor, but seeking closeness to God is not always a good thing.  In fact, there seems to be a built -in concern that religious life will breed a form of familiarity that risks dethroning God, that risks making God into a friend, a buddy, a lover –  into a less-than-awesome presence in our lives.

For instance, I am not a steibelachphile* in the least.  While some find seeking God in the neighbor’s living room or basement as the ultimate in down-to-earth-making-prayer-meaningful, I am not one of those. A visit two weeks ago to the sanctuary of the Rodef Shalom synagogue in Pittsburgh gave me goosebumps….stepping into that high-ceiling work of architectural mastery that exudes majesty filled me with a sense of great humility before the King of Kings.

I wonder if that is why the cherubim of Exodus, here in Parashat Terumah, in the first prototype of the Temple, are bent over and extending their wings to cover God’s seat on earth.  Maybe they are there stationed there to remind us to maintain our distance, to preserve the aura of awe and reverence at the place from which, we are taught, the voice of God will emanate.

This fits in very well with the description of the cherubim in Solomon’s Temple as well (1 Kings 6:23-28), which were ten cubits (approximately twenty two feet) high. They were gigantic in size and instead of facing each other they both faced the door, perhaps to intimidate people, frightening those who might come too close, protecting the majesty of God in the Temple specifically, and in the world in general. In point of fact, the image of wings above a king or even a god serving as protection was a popular image in the ancient Near East (see picture).

Our son Akiva will soon complete his army service in the IDF.  Of late, he served as a commander of new recruits.  It is well known that for the duration of boot camp, the commanders are to “maintain distance” from the newbies – not to be their friends, not to be their buddies.  It is critical that they do this in order to maintain order and discipline, and to indoctrinate the new soldiers into their new reality, where honor and discipline translate into saving lives.

I would suggest that maintaining distance from God is one way that we actually protect the image of God in our world today.

Refraining from claiming to know God’s will is another...but that is for another time.

*Latin for “Lover of close-knit small prayer groups”

Many of us live very privileged lives…and yet, despite the abundance of material blessing, we are not really happy. We know we should be, but we are not…there is always something to kvetch about.

There are times when I find myself learning Torah, studying halakhah detached from the saga behind the laws, absorbed in the details of halakhic application, indifferent to the layers of anguish that may have been experienced by my assumed imaginary halakhic lab-rats who are being so good about standing there before me: impoverished, consumed in anguish, victimized, bereft of a loved one, handicapped, barren – standing there and allowing me to spin halachic algorithms around their plight in an effort to redeem the law, making sure that the sacred time-tested codes remain relevant in even the most dire of circumstances.

I forget that these were/are/could be real people – and that no matter how we spin the law, their plight is paved with indescribable sorrow.

If a man sells his daughter as a maidservant, she shall not be freed as male servants are released. Her master should take her as his bride, and if she is not pleasing to him, he must let her be redeemed….If the master designates her as a bride for his son, she must be treated exactly the same as any other girl. (Exodus 20:16,18)

Normally my questions would revolve around the details of her provisions, of the Torah’s concern for her future security. I would applaud the revolutionary teachings that seek to look out for her personal well-being as she regains her freedom, a now tainted woman.

But somehow, this year as I read the passage, my heart is in a different place.

THIS YEAR I find myself unable to stop dwelling on the image of the father, so desperate that he is forced to indenture his daughter to servitude, to pay off debts, to secure her survival.

THIS YEAR my heart goes out to this poor young maiden, deprived of ever knowing true-love, of ever drifting into the arms of the man of her dreams – destined instead to make due with her lot and hope that perhaps the man she does end up with will give her some small measure of happiness.

There are three things that are too amazing for me, four that I do not understand:   

The way of an eagle in the sky,
            The way of a serpent on a rock,
            The way of a ship in the middle of the sea,
            And the way of a man with a maid. (Proverbs 30:18-19)

The wonders of life, many of them ever so basic –  we fail to celebrate them in all of their simple wonder: the blessings are the curse, making us indifferent to the suffering that surrounds us, making us forget to be grateful.

I am thankful this year that for some blessed reason, my eyes are glued to the maiden – hoping that paying her a little attention will make her smile – even just a little bit – as Torah scholars once again step right over her – indifferent to her plight – focused only on their holy quest for greater erudition, elevating the Torah at her tragic expense.

Perhaps you know such a maiden?

In a poignant article, written by a member of Zaka, the Israel top-notch rescue organization, republished by e-Jewish philanthropy, composed words of potential comfort to the forlorn parents, stating that the four soldiers died al Kiddush Hashem – in the sanctification of God’s name.

Strange, but I do not see it that way.

I see an Arab monotheist who committed the ultimate chilul Hashem, a straightforward desecration of God’s name, and then, I see a profound waste of young human life and potential.

Their deaths do not sanctify God’s name.  Jewish Martyrdom, as I see it, is when one is killed in the midst of defending or protecting others, or when one refuses to desecrate Jewish living , demanded to do so by another nation. Either of these is an act of Kiddush Hashem for they represent the resiliency of the People of God in the face of the most unfavorable odds, committed in great faith to the cause, and willing to pay the ultimate price for its preservation.

Being rammed and trampled on the sidewalks of Jerusalem is not an act of Kiddush Hashem.

However, to set the record straight – those four young Israel soldiers DID actually perform an act of Kiddush Hashem. That happened on the day they walked away from civilian life, donned the uniform of the IDF, and dedicated 2-3 years of their lives to the protection the lives of their fellow citizens.

May their memories be for a blessing, and may God strengthen their families who survived them.

Recent events have bloody terror attacks have, I fear, caused many of us to lose sight of the forest for the trees. Despite this pervasive worldwide evil, we still have much celebrate.

It bothers me that we left the Miracle of Chanukah back more than 2000 years ago, without recognizing the great blessing of the State of Israel – the modern fulfillment of Al haNissim.

God has blessed this generation with the military might to defend the lives of our people….our son, Akiva, is a proud commander the Israel Defense Forces. I am proud of him and the thousands of Israeli soldiers who defend our homeland every day – for me, they are a modern extension of the miracle of Chanukah in our days, at this season.

PLEASE pass on these lyrics, and make them a part of your candle lighting on the final night of Chanukah, in recognition of the great miracle of the State of Israel, and the privilege we have been given to defend our right to exist as a nation in our homeland.

אַלְפַּיִם שָׁנָה שֶׁל זִכְרוֹנוֹת

.מֵעוֹלָם לֹא אָבְדָה תִּקְוָתֵנוּ

דּוֹר אַחַר דּוֹר, מֵאֲרָצוֹת שׁוֹנוֹת

.לְצִיּוֹן נָשָׂאנוּ עֵינֵינוּ

חָזַרְנוּ אֶל מוֹלַדְתֵּנוּ, קִבַּצְנוּ גָּלוּיוֹתֵינו

.מְדִינָה וְאוּמָה נַגְשִׁים חֲלוֹמֵנוּ

Alpayim shanah shel zichronot

Me-olam lo avdah tikvateinu

Dor achar dor, me-artzot shonot

Le-Tzion nasanu eyneynu

Chazrnu el moladeteinu, kibatznu galiyoteynu –

Medina ve-umah, nagshim chalomeynu.

Two thousand years of memory

Never losing hope in our destiny.

Age after age, in many a land

We raised our eyes to Zion’s sand.

Back now in our ancient home

Though once dispersed we need no longer roam

 Jewish State and Nation Great , we dream of peace, ose shalom.

As Liel Leibovitz of Tablet magazine writes,

As most European leaders are too busy declaring their absolute intolerance for any sort of prejudice to notice their own societies’ descent into moral chaos, let’s play a game: Imagine for a moment that the folks being beaten, whose houses of worship are being attacked, whose children are being murdered, aren’t European Jews. Imagine they’re African Americans living in the heartland of the Old South in 2015, and that the people uploading murder videos to YouTube were racial supremacists whose celebrations of these obscene acts were applauded by tens or even hundreds of millions of their fellow believers worldwide. Would anyone suggest that the people being targeted in this way were not actually being threatened, or that there was nothing to worry about, or that the people threatening them didn’t mean it, or that we need to sympathize with the confused motivations of the killers, or that they wouldn’t be quite so keen on killing if they had better jobs or nicer cars or flatter TVs, or that it was actually the victims’ own fault for not condemning the misdeeds of their own kind loudly enough, or that foreign politicians were exaggerating the epithets, and beatings, and tortures, and killings for political gain? No way.

Europe is a scary place for Jews these days because the European right and the European left are locked together in spiral of social and political madness that is being driven by the socio-political-theological madness of the jihadists. Here’s how it goes: Many Muslim immigrants and their ghettoized children challenge the state’s priorities and traditions, from questioning the ban on religious headdresses to decrying the dismal economic opportunities available to them; right-wing parties respond by beating the tribal drums, a downbeat that often sounds a lot like the one that rang wild in Europe not even 80 years ago; and left-leaning parties do their best to appear both tough and sensitive, which, sadly, is impossible. If the jihadists don’t win, whoever does win may well be worse.

It is time to face the facts: the carpet has been lifted and the dust is still there. European anti-Semitism is alive and well, and those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.

By now the tragic fate of the three kidnapped Israeli boys – Eyal Yifrah, 19, from Elad, Gilad Shaar, 16, from Talmon and Naftali Fraenkel, 16, from Nof Ayalon  – is known throughout the world. Their funerals will take place in the hours to come. The people of Israel and Jews everywhere feel the heaviness of deep mourning that is now upon us.

The fallout of these murders will transpire on many levels: the Israeli military response is already underway, memorials and tributes of all sorts will be forthcoming – sorrow, anger, despair, rage – all of these emotions mix together amidst a nation who for eighteen days adopted three sons for whom we searched, worried, prayed, and cried.

Among the powerful, emotional glowing moments that have accompanied this dark chapter of Israel’s ongoing battle for the right to exist, one particular moment stands out for me. Three days after the abduction, 25,000 men, women and children gathered at the Western Wall to pray for a miracle. Rachelle Fraenkel, mother of Naftali, was present along with the other parents. At one point, she turned to a group of young tearful girls surrounding her, and she told them that even if something terrible happens, “you stay strong and you stay united.”  When a few days later she was interviewed by David Horovitz of the Times of Israel, he asked her about that moment, and she explained her feelings:

Prayer is very powerful but it’s not a guarantee for anything. I didn’t know they were taking pictures then [at the Western Wall] but I think the words they caught me saying were, “God doesn’t work for us.” Just because I’m praying with all my heart. It might help. I believe it could help, especially when thousands and millions are praying. They are. But nobody owes me anything. And if tomorrow, God forbid, I’ll hear the worst news, I don’t want my children to feel that where did all my prayers go? It was a group of children I don’t know and I feel a responsibility. God forbid, it shouldn’t be a crisis for them.

That to me was an act of bravery, a moment that should never be forgotten. For me, in these few words, Rachelle Fraenkel reminded us all of the importance of putting our prayers and expectations in perspective, and for preventing the heartbreak of tragedy from being transformed into a crisis of faith.