Apr 15, 2025
Apr 11, 2025
We Are Enough: A Pesach Reflection
We Are Enough: A Pesach Reflection
Rabbi Menachem Creditor
April 11, 2025
We are praying—praying with broken hearts—for our 59 brothers and sisters who remain captive. Twenty-four of them, we believe, are alive. And every one of them should be home.
How can we celebrate a holiday of freedom if they are not foremost in our minds and our souls?
Many of us will place a lemon on our Seder plates this year, as Rachel Goldberg-Polin suggested—a symbol both beautiful and bitter. The lemon doesn't replace the matzah or the maror. But it belongs at the table. It reminds us that while this is not the whole story, it is our entire moment. And one day, our descendants will ask: “How did you mark Pesach during the second year of captivity?”
We must tell the truth. We must hold it all.
This day is also sacred in another way: it marks the 80th anniversary of the liberation of Buchenwald.
Some of us carry the trauma of ancestors murdered there. Some of us descend from survivors who walked out alive but never untouched. There are images and testimonies, but more than anything else, there are stories. They live in us. They demand to be told.
This year, the lemon is our new ritual object. A burst of color. A sting of truth. A commitment to remember and build meaning. Because that’s how we build life. That’s how we build a future.
And with all of this on our shoulders—freedom not yet won, memory that won’t let go—you might be asking:
How are we supposed to hold all of this?
How could we possibly be enough?
Let me share a small tradition from my family. Every year, ever since my children were little, we turn bedikat chametz—the search for leaven—into a scavenger hunt. I’d write terrible rhyming clues, some in the style of Dr. Seuss, leading them around the house.
Here’s the wild part: we clean our homes of chametz… and then we hide chametz… and then we bless the “search” for the chametz - we just hid.
Why?
It’s almost absurd. We create a ritual to find what we just put there. That cannot be about getting rid of chametz. It has to be something deeper.
I believe the heart of Pesach happens before the holiday begins. It happens in the moment we search. Because in the climax of that ritual, we say a short Aramaic declaration:
“All chametz in my possession—whether I’ve seen it or not, whether I found it or not—let it be ownerless as the dust of the earth.”
What a prayer. What a spell. Through words—through intention—we transform the burden we might have missed into dust. It’s magical thinking. Holy magic.
And what does it really mean, for those of us who live in history, conscious and overwhelmed?
It means: you are enough.
Even if you missed something.
Even if you feel like you’re fumbling through the pain and the rituals.
Even if the story is too big, and the moment is too much.
You. Are. Enough.
Say it with me:
We are enough.
We are enough.
We are enough.
Pesach is coming. The Seders are tomorrow night—and the night after.
Whoever you’re with, ask your questions.
If you're alone, ask them anyway.
Point to the matzah. Taste the maror. Sing the songs. Open the door.
We will fight for freedom.
We will tell our story.
We will lean to the left.
We will reach toward hope.
When we open the door for Elijah and Miriam this year, may they be one step closer.
This year, may we send our hearts to the east and sing our way forward.
This Pesach, may we be strong and free.
For our beloved sisters and brothers in captivity. For ourselves. For those we love. For our people.
And for our whole, broken, beautiful world.
Apr 10, 2025
Not Ready, And Ready: A Passover Reflection
Not Ready, And Ready: A Passover Reflection
Rabbi Menachem Creditor
But this morning, as my wife and I were cleaning for Pesach, preparing our home for the festival of freedom, I noticed the time. My daily UJA broadcast was about to begin. I looked down and realized I was still wearing a t-shirt and hoodie—my hoodie from Camp Ramah Darom in Georgia, where we’d once been blessed to celebrate a Pesach full of spirit and community. I thought, Maybe I should change? Maybe I should make myself more "presentable?"
And then I realized… no. This is presentable. This is what it means to prepare for Pesach. You do what you do when it’s time to do it. We’re cleaning, we’re cooking, we’re showing up as our whole selves. That’s what community is. That’s what authenticity is. It isn’t about fashion. It’s about presence. It’s about readiness—not the polished, perfect kind, but the honest, messy, human kind. The kind of readiness that comes from knowing we are part of something larger, something ancient, something holy.
During Pesach, we retell the story of how we ran from Egypt. We ran. We didn’t pack. We didn’t choose outfits. We ate with haste. We stayed in our homes during the final plague, trembling on the threshold of redemption. And still, we were called to believe in the possibility of liberation.
This morning, I happened to be wearing a shirt that says, “We Will. We Will. We Are United for Victory.” I got it in Israel, on October 29, 2023—day 25 after the nightmare of October 7. I was there with a group of rabbis sent by UJA. I also received on that day the necklace I’ve worn every waking moment since then. Today is day 552. And on my wrist: a yellow bracelet from SAHI, a sacred nonprofit in Israel that empowers at-risk youth. It reads: “The greatest thing in the world is doing good.”
This—this—is what it means to be dressed for Pesach.
Yes, Saturday night, I will don my white kittel. It’s tradition. My father wears one, and so do I. The kittel is a garment for holy moments—weddings, Yom Kippur, leading davening for rain, and yes, burial. It reminds us that we stand vulnerable before God. That this night isn’t like other nights. It never has been.
But truly? We can never be fully ready for Pesach. Because Pesach isn’t just about rituals or recipes or brisket or sponge cake. Pesach is about struggle. About hope. About the story.
We lean to the left, sure—but we tell a story that is uncomfortable, that is painful, that demands more of us than any one seder table can hold. We say, “Next year in Jerusalem,” and we mean it—because this year, the world is not as it ought to be.
This year, I’m thinking of Judy and Valerie on their way to Israel. I’m thinking of the stories our children will inherit. I’m thinking of how we prepare—not just our homes, but our hearts—to say, “We were there. We are here. And we are not done.”
There’s a story told about Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel. A child, like so many of us, forgot where he put everything. So one night, he made a list before bed: “Glasses on the table. Pants on the chair. Shirt on the pants. Shoes under the bed. Socks in the shoes. And I am in the bed.”
Morning came. He found everything… but when he got to the final line—“And I am in the bed”—he looked and saw the bed was empty. He stood there and asked himself, “If I am not in the bed, then where am I?”
My friends, that’s the question, isn’t it?
Where are we?
We are in a moment beyond words. A moment we can barely name. A moment that future generations will one day study and tell stories about. They’ll write about this on the margins of their Haggadot. They’ll speak of what it meant to survive, to hope, to fight for freedom in 2024.
Every generation is called to see themselves as if they left Egypt. And maybe, just maybe, we understand Egypt better now than ever before. Because we’re living it. And we’re telling it. And we are choosing to be seen.
At my seder table this year will be a Haggadah created by the families of the hostages—full of heartbreak and holiness, full of truth. In it, Shlomo and Smadar Goren Alfasa write in memory of their murdered family members Avner z”l and Maya z”l, and yes, even their dog Scar. In honor of their cat George, still searching for his people on Kibbutz Nir Oz to this day.
They write about Chad Gadya, the innocent goat, and how on their kibbutz the song was replaced by a poem—a shepherd on a mountaintop, playing a flute for the people of Israel.
Their message is clear: we are not alone. The gate is guarded. The land is worked. The melody continues.
We have always told these stories. We’ve always added to the Haggadah. That is the tradition. To say what is true. To feel what is real. To sing a new song even while remembering the old ones.
So I bless us, deeply: that as we step into Pesach, we remember we’ll never be ready. Not really. The lists will never be complete. The food will never be perfect. The world will never be whole.
And yet—we show up. We say, “Hineni.” Here I am. “Hinenu.” Here we are. Not ready. And ready. Ready enough to tell the story. To fight for freedom. To whisper next year in Jerusalem even with trembling voices.
We will dance again.
Maybe even during seder this year. And if we do not dance this year, then let us promise: Next Year in Jerusalem.
Apr 9, 2025
Apr 8, 2025
Haiku Hagaddah
Haiku Haggadah
© Rabbi Menachem Creditor#Pesach #haiku #1:
Order... Well, not quite.
Follow the script... Well, not quite.
Redemption waits. Nu?
#makeyyourlifeasong #befree
#Pesach #haiku #2:
Sanctify... But how?
Lean left. Drink deeply of life.
Know there's more to come.
#drinkdeeply #neverthirst #befree
#Pesach #haiku #3:
Wash... Touch hands, be still.
Blessing awaits, later on.
For now, grace peeks through.
#touchofgrace #befree
#Pesach #haiku #4:
Roots... Hidden below.
Life bursts through the hardened ground.
Sharp, crisp, fresh. Alive.
#unstoppable #befree
#Pesach #haiku #5:
Broken... Ain't we all?
Start the story, fragile ones.
Be whole once again.
#healing #wholeness #befree
#Pesach #haiku #6:
Storytime... Young, old:
Banish darkness, find your light.
Share the path. There's room.
#sacredtelling #befree
#Pesach #haiku #7:
Wash... Emerge ready.
We made it! Raise it all up!
Bless the entire world.
#purified #befree
#Pesach #haiku #8:
Reveal... Eat... It's time.
Swallow the story. Become.
Freedom is in you.
#internalizefreedom #befree
#Pesach #haiku #9:
Bitter... with the sweet.
No true tale has only bliss.
Cry. Feel. Let it out.
#itsalrighttocry #saltytears #befree
#Pesach #haiku #10:
Wrapping... All mashed up,
memories combined as one.
Delicious. Messy.
#earlofsandwich #crunchymemory #befree
#Pesach #haiku #11:
Nourish... Soul. Body.
Freedom cannot be a thought.
Either real or not.
#liberation #physical #befree
#Pesach #haiku #12:
Hidden... Discovered.
Brokenness made whole. Renewed.
But not the same. Changed.
#outoforderseder #befree
#Pesach #haiku #13:
Bless... I have enough.
Grateful for this abundance,
I promise to share.
#letallwhoarehungry #comeandeat
#Pesach #haiku #14:
Praise... Explode with song!
Joyful voices express thanks
to the Source of All.
#radicalamazement #befree
#Pesach #haiku #15:
Parting... Completed.
We've done as did our elders.
May our dreams come true.
#hope #future #itisdone #befree #TellingOurStory #FromSlaveryToFreedom #EveryGeneration #RememberYouWereASlave #MaggidMoments #QuestionsThatLiberate #WeWereThereToo #SederAsResistance #LiberationLiturgy #SacredTelling
Pesach, Matzah, Maror: Telling Our Story from the Inside Out
April 8, 2025
This coming Saturday night and Sunday night, Jews across the diaspora will gather around seder tables. In Israel, they will do so for one night. And in every corner of the world, we'll reach again for the sacred script of our people — the Haggadah — to relive the story that lives in our bones.
Different commentaries, different designs — but the same core. And I find myself wondering: What if we didn’t use them this year?
What if, instead, we placed a picture in front of each participant? One image that holds the whole story. No printed words, just the invitation: “Tell me your story.”
Would that be enough?
I ask this not flippantly, but as someone who has studied and taught the seder for years. What I’m realizing is that the story of the Exodus — the foundational story of who we are — is not trapped in the pages of any book. We carry it within us.
The Haggadah itself tells us this. Raban Gamliel teaches: “Whoever does not say Pesach, Matzah, and Maror has not fulfilled their obligation.” And so, perhaps the inverse is also true. If you do say those three — if you truly speak of Pesach, taste the Matzah, feel the sting of Maror — then you've entered the story. You’ve fulfilled your purpose.
I’m not suggesting you skip the rest of the seder, God forbid. But let’s take Raban Gamliel seriously. Why these three?
Pesach. The word refers to the original sacrifice, offered before we were free. Before. We ate it behind closed doors, shadows of fear still clinging to us, with the Angel of Death roaming the streets of Egypt. We were not yet redeemed — but we were told to act as if we would be. The Pesach symbol on our seder plate is not the sign of arrival. It's the trembling faith of the precipice. Redemption is not a moment. It’s a decision to believe in a future, even when the present is still shackled.
Matzah. That first crunch — oh, how it echoes! It’s not just the taste of unleavened bread. It’s the urgency of our ancestors' footsteps, leaving everything behind, not knowing where the next step would land. Matzah doesn’t just say, “We didn’t have time.” It whispers, “We couldn’t wait any longer.” It is holy impatience. Sacred propulsion. The world we left was unsustainable. Freedom didn’t wait until we were ready. It came suddenly, like a cry in the night.
Maror. I remember being a child, grabbing a too-big piece of raw horseradish root, trying to prove I was strong enough to i. The fire that spread through my sinuses, the involuntary tears — they taught me something books never could. Maror lives in the body. It is the ache of memory. It says, “Don’t just talk about suffering — remember it, taste it, own it.” Our story is not abstract. It’s visceral. It burns, and we are not supposed to avoid that.
So why these three? Because our story is not just words. It’s food. It’s sensation. It’s survival.
Raban Gamliel lived after the Temple was destroyed. His world had shattered. And still, he taught us: Don’t forget the story. Even if all you have are three symbols, they are enough to carry you home.
And so I return to that question: If you had only a picture — no text, no guide — and I asked you to tell your story, could you? Would you say, “Here is my Egypt. Here is my Exodus. Here is my pain. And here is my hope”?
This year, like every year, the seder is both ancient and heartbreakingly current. In Israel and across the Jewish world, families are marking Pesach with empty chairs and hearts full of longing. We are praying for the return of hostages. We remember those who never made it to freedom.
There will be two Haggadot on my table this year published by the Hostages and Missing Families Forum, one from a year ago, one - this year's - with commentary from redeemed hostages and family members of those still in bondage. This is our tradition — to add our modern experience to the margins of the eternal text. To let today’s pain become part of tomorrow’s liberation.
So friends, when we sit at our tables this year, may we remember: the seder is not just a ritual. It’s an invitation. To own our story. To embody it. To feel the fire and the crunch and the tears. And to ask ourselves: What does it really mean to be free?
We are Raban Gamliel’s students now. His voice echoes across the generations, saying: “If you didn’t speak of Pesach, Matzah, and Maror — if you didn’t eat the story, live the story, feel the story — then you don’t yet know the story.”
So let it in. The fear. The urgency. The pain. And let us walk together into the next chapter.
May we write it with clarity and courage.
May we one day say with certainty, not just Next year in Jerusalem, but This year, in wholeness.
Chag Sameach.
Apr 7, 2025
Pesach: The Time-Traveler’s Table
Pesach: The Time-Traveler’s Table
Rabbi Menachem
Creditor
April 7, 2025
Today is exactly 18 months since October 7th, 2023. And if that weighs on us—and of course it does—our hearts still know that we can’t begin to comprehend the weight borne by those who’ve been held in darkness, in tunnels, for 18 unrelenting months. And so as we prepare for Pesach, a holiday of liberation, of leaning into freedom, let us not forget that there are people we love who are not yet free. Whatever we carry into this year’s Seder—and I do not diminish for one second the burdens you and I carry—we must also carry them: the hostages, the families who count the minutes, the ache, the loss, the terrible waiting. Every second, every hour, every day.
Right now, on my kitchen table, there are two Haggadot created by the Hostages and Missing Families Forum, a sacred space supported by UJA-Federation of NY since day one. One is from last year. One is from this year. Both are soaked in love and agony. But this year’s Haggadah is different—it includes words of freed hostages. It includes commentary and prayer by those who survived the unbearable, voices of those once enslaved, once silenced, now speaking Torah, now interpreting their own Exodus. It contains hope. Pain, yes. But also hope. That alone would be enough to break a person open.
It was never meant to be this way. And still—we teach Pesach anyway. We must. Our tradition insists that we enter this ancient story as if we ourselves were there. That is what Jewish time demands—not nostalgia, but embodiment. Not pretending, but remembering so fully that we awaken the past into the present.
There is a legend (Genesis Rabbah 55:88):
In the very moment the Israelites stepped into the Sea, Mount Moriah—the mountain where Abraham bound Isaac—began to move from its place, altar and all. Abraham’s hand was raised. Isaac was still bound. That whole scene, that unimaginable moment, had been waiting since before the world was born.
Far from there, at the Sea, God cried out to Moses: “My children are in distress! The Sea is before them, the enemy is behind them—and you are standing there praying?”
Moses, overwhelmed, asked, “What should I do?”
God answered: “Lift your staff!”
And at that moment, the Sea split—and on Mount Moriah, the Angel’s voice rang out: “Do not raise your hand against the boy.”
Time collapsed.
The story of Abraham and Isaac and the story of the Exodus folded into one another, held in the same breath, the same sacred heartbeat. Because Jewish memory isn’t linear. It is living. It is layered. And in every generation, we are called to see ourselves in it. To feel it in our bones.
This is why, even in the heaviness of this year’s Seder, we drink the first cup of wine, we lean to the left. We dare to act free even when parts of our people are still in shackles. That’s the paradox of Jewish ritual—we are here and there, then and now. We are Abraham holding the knife. We are Isaac bound to the altar. We are the children stepping into the water. We are Moses lifting the staff.
And we are the parents praying for their children to come home.
Pesach was never meant to be celebrated in a time of complete peace. It never has been. Even in better years, it ends with yearning: Next Year in Jerusalem. Not as a conclusion, but as a cry. This year, that cry is more urgent. More real.
Because today, we say: Bring them home now.
We gather at our tables this year not from a place of comfort but from a place of radical honesty. Pesach demands it. Our ancestors didn’t sugarcoat the story. We begin in genut, in degradation. “We were slaves.” We were lost. We were wounded. And we tell it like it was. That’s how the journey to freedom begins—not from joy, but from truth.
And yet… at the very beginning of the Seder, we say borei pri hagafen, we drink the wine, we lean to the left. We dare to taste sweetness. We dare to embody freedom even while recounting the pain. That’s Jewish time. That’s the miracle of ritual. That’s what it means to be awake to this moment, every moment.
The difference between the two Haggadot on my table is profound. The first had no voices of return. The second is shaped by testimonies of survivors, soldiers, and freed hostages. There is grief in every word. But there is also life. There is also dancing.
Not all of them dance. But some do. And that is enough to whisper hope into this broken world.
This is what Pesach must mean this year. That even now—especially now—we must be time travelers. We must lose our roots just long enough to remember who we are, and then plant them again, deeper. We must drink the wine, tell the story, and make space at our table for every soul not yet free.
Because when we travel through time—when we truly remember—we become the people who can walk through seas and move mountains. We become the people who don’t stop praying, and who also know when to lift the staff.
May our feet be grounded, our hearts in heaven, and our voices loud enough to split every sea that still stands in our way.
Apr 2, 2025
Mar 31, 2025
Messy Holiness: A Call to See and Honor (Vayikra/Trans Day of Visibility)
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| "Let's Get Messy," Preston M. Smith |
Rabbi Menachem Creditor
Vayikra. A new book of Torah begins. A shift from the grand narrative of Shemot, of Exodus, to the detailed, ritual-heavy world of Leviticus. And here we are, at the beginning of Nissan. Pesach is coming. We may not feel ready, but let’s prepare anyway.
Today is also Trans Day of Visibility. And in a world that too often makes it unsafe for our trans siblings to be seen, we will counter that with extra presence, extra light. To our trans friends: we see you. You are created in the image of God. Torah and tradition are yours, just as they belong to every images of the Divine. But today, especially today, we say it out loud.
Which brings us back to Vayikra.
This book is different. Shemot told a story—a painful, powerful story—of degradation, enslavement, and liberation. It was a journey with a clear direction, even through its struggles. But now we enter a different kind of sacred space. The Mishkan has been built. God’s presence is clearer within the community. And suddenly, we are plunged into the intricate world of priestly service, sacrifices, and ritual law.
Many struggle with Vayikra. The blood, the offerings, the precision—it can feel distant, irrelevant. But if we look deeper, we see that Vayikra is about the messiness of life itself. Life is messy. Life is bloody. And the work of holiness is to make meaning within that mess, to find a way to bring order, dignity, and sanctity to a world that often lacks all three.
Today, on Trans Day of Visibility, we must confront the forced invisibilities of our world. Torah calls us to see the unseen. To extend dignity where it has been denied. To refuse the easy comfort of looking away. Vayikra is often read as a book for the priests alone, but that is not true. The priests were entrusted with sacred responsibility, but the laws, the lessons, the call to holiness—those belong to all of us.
The priests worked behind closed doors, ensuring that offerings were made correctly, that blood was handled properly, that the sacred space remained intact. But here’s the truth: holiness was never meant to be contained. It was always meant to flow outward, into the world. And so it must be with us.
To be rendered invisible is to be robbed of life itself. And we, as Jews, know this too well. For 542 days, we have witnessed brutal attempts to erase our pain. We have seen hostages taken, their stories diminished, their humanity denied. We will not allow that to happen. We will not let them be forgotten. And we will not let anyone—trans, Jewish, oppressed, unseen—be erased.
We are here. All of us. And our task is to make sure everyone has the chance to say exactly that.
May we be blessed with the strength to do the messy, sacred work of seeing each other, of honoring each other, of fighting for each other.
First They Came: A Warning Rewritten
Rabbi Menachem Creditor
First they came for the socialists,
and I did not speak out
—because I was not a socialist.
Then they came for the trade unionists,
and I did not speak out
—because I was not a trade unionist.
Then they came for the Jews,
and I did not speak out
—because I was not a Jew.
Then they came for me
—and there was no one left to speak for me.
- Pastor Martin Niemöller
Niemöller was right. By the time a pragmatist realizes that solidarity is their only refuge, it is too late. Standing against tyranny is always the right thing. Standing together is the only way. These words echo across history, reminding us that the failure to act, the failure to speak, is complicity. And yet, even this powerful trope, the now-iconic confession of a man who saw his own silence come back to haunt him, is not immune from distortion. Any historic trope can be abused, conflated, distorted. What does it mean to skip over a complex reality and describe the victim of tyranny as blameless?
The moral landscape of silence and action is not simple. The world does not exist in binaries of good and evil, pure innocence and absolute guilt. We want, desperately, for the oppressed to be faultless, for the persecuted to be beyond reproach. But to demand such perfection is to ignore the reality of human evil, societal frailty, to flatten a complex history into a digestible narrative, to remove agency from those who suffer. And yet, there is danger in the other extreme as well. If in scrutinizing the persecuted in search of imperfection we allow the sins of the victim to justify their suffering, we cross into a different and just as grievous moral failure.
What if Niemöller’s words were rewritten, re-examined, refracted through the moral grayness of our world today? What if his warning included not just those who failed to speak for others, but those who spoke selectively, those who saw persecution but remained silent because they believed, perhaps even rightly, that the persecuted had done wrong?
First they came for the enablers
of those who sought to hurt my community,
and because I was so hurt
and my children so vulnerable to this hatred
and the enablers so unfettered until this point,
I remained silent.
Then they came for the refuge seekers,
but I was not a refuge seeker,
had not been one for a time,
and wished not to become one again,
so I remained silent.
After a time,
my silence was all there was.
Well, that and my dizzied conscience.
But it was quiet, and my children were safer.
For a time.
Here lies the heart of moral injury, the gnawing wound of knowing that the semblance of safety was purchased at the cost of silence. That silence, itself, can be a weapon. It is tempting, always, to prioritize the security of one’s own over the abstract principle of justice. But justice is never abstract. It is lived. It is felt in the hunger of the displaced, the desperation of the forgotten, the broken bones of those who face tyranny alone.
To be human is to wrestle with impossible moral tensions. We are called to stand against oppression, and accountability for hatred and violence is non-negotiable. But we are also called to stand for our values, hard-learned through centuries of the world’s abandonment of the Jews in times of oppression. We are called to be pragmatic, but we are also called to be righteous. And sometimes, these calls contradict one another. Sometimes, standing up means standing in danger. Sometimes, speaking means risking safety. These are difficult moral questions.
But silence is never neutral. Silence is never passive. As Elie Wiesel famously taught, “Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented.” Yes, the world remains silent in the aftermath of October 7, 2023, the mass murder of 1,200+ Israelis, the documented sexual violence perpetrated by the Hamas terrorists upon hundreds of Israeli women and men, the torture and execution of manacled hostages, and the ongoing mass-hostage crises. Despite brief flashes of solidarity and the occasional statement of support, the world has largely been complicit in Jewish suffering since October 7, compounding the pain with the sense of widespread tacit approval. Silence is a choice, an action, a force that shapes history. The world refuses to acknowledge Jewish pain, with rallies condemning any Israeli response beginning on October 8, 2023, including explicit support of Hamas’ acknowledged goals of murdering Jews and eradicating the State of Israel. This silence is unforgivable. And, in this acknowledgement, we affirm: silence in the face of dehumanization, of societal cruelty is wrong.
The Jewish community deserves better than we have received from our neighbors in our ongoing pain. It has been 542+ days of grief, of trauma, of our sisters and brothers murdered and hidden underground by sadists supported by an unbelievable network of international enablers, some knowing, some misled into brutalizing complicity.
So what is the answer? What is the Jewish way? If the world is complex, if moral purity in a fragile political moment is an illusion, if silence can be sometimes wise and sometimes unwise—where and how do we stand?
We must stand together. Not because we are perfect, but because tyranny does not wait for righteousness to be proven. And so, we must find ways of acting in defense of the universal vulnerability every human being shares, and we must remember that personal safety and human rights are only as strong as a society’s demand that they be respected and enforced.
We must speak, exercising the Divine gift of thoughtful articulation. We must remember to reject silence, not because it is always wrong, but because it is never truly safe.
First they came. And they will come again. The only question is whether we will be ready to stand.
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First They Came: A Warning Rewritten Rabbi Menachem Creditor First they came for the socialists, and I did not speak out —because I was not...
