Apr 30, 2025
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My beloved friend, Ben Stern z"l, a Survivor, a hero, a father, a grandfather, a great-grandfather, was my rebbe.
Apr 23, 2025
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Apr 18, 2025
How to Split the Sea: A Reflection for the Seventh Day of Pesach
How to Split the Sea: A Reflection for the Seventh Day of Pesach
Rabbi Menachem Creditor
Friends, as we prepare to enter the final sacred days of Pesach—tonight marking Shevi’i shel Pesach, the Seventh Day of the Festival—we find ourselves standing at the edge of memory and hope, with our hearts turned toward the Sea.
Tradition teaches that on this very night, in the middle of our ancestors' journey to freedom, the Sea of Reeds split. It’s easy to summon the image—perhaps Charlton Heston in “The Ten Commandments,” or Val Kilmer’s Moses in “The Prince of Egypt”—staff raised, sea parted, miracle revealed. A cinematic flash, a divine snap of the fingers.
But the Torah tells a deeper, slower, messier truth.
The sea didn’t split in an instant. It was not a pyrotechnic moment. The Torah tells us that when Moshe lifted his hand over the water, a ruach kadim, an east wind, blew all night long. And only then did the waters recede. It wasn’t magic. It was process.
A process shaped by terror and uncertainty, by complaints and confusion. The Israelites cried out, afraid, cornered by Pharaoh’s army. Moses, too, was unsure. “Be still,” he told the people. “God will fight for you.” But God pushes back: “Why do you cry out to Me? Tell the people to move forward.”
Move forward. Into what? The water hadn’t moved. The miracles hadn’t come.
And then—then came the human moment that changed everything.
The midrash tells of Nachshon ben Aminadav, who didn’t wait for the miracle. He walked into the sea—waist-deep, chest-deep, neck-deep. He believed, before it made sense to believe. He stepped in before it was safe. That’s when the waters parted.
Not because of a staff. But because of faith. Of courage. Of human partnership in divine work.
And so, friends, what do we learn as we prepare to cross our own seas?
We learn that miracles don’t come all at once. They take time. They take risk. They take us.
We have prayed. Oh, how we have prayed—for healing, for peace, for release, for redemption. If miracles came from words alone, the world would already be whole. But our prayers are not incantations. They are declarations. They are commitments. Our prayers are the seeds of our actions.
When Moses stood at the sea, God didn’t say “Stand back and watch.” God said: “Go.”
So go we must. Not alone. Not leaving anyone behind. When Pharaoh asked, “Who will go with you?” Moses replied, “Our elders and our children, our sons and our daughters.” Everyone.
Freedom means everyone.
And let me say it plainly: if we call it freedom but we’ve left someone behind—someone poor, someone disabled, someone forgotten, someone who looks or loves or prays differently—it’s not freedom. Not in the Jewish sense. Not in the holy sense. Not the kind we sing about at our Seders.
I want no blood on my door if it means someone else must suffer. I want no celebration if it means someone else is left mourning. Yes, we sometimes must fight for freedom—but never with joy for the fight itself. Never with pride in the pain.
So this is my promise, and I invite you to make it with me:
I will step into the sea.
I will not do it alone.
I will hold the hand of someone who needs me, and I will let others hold mine.
I will remember that my freedom is meaningless unless it includes yours.
I will stand in the breach, even when I’m afraid, because faith demands courage before certainty.
And when I pray, I will listen for the echo of my own voice telling me what I must do.
The sea is waiting, friends. The wind has begun to blow. The moment is upon us.
Let’s show up for each other.
Let’s split the sea—together.
Apr 17, 2025
Apr 16, 2025
Cups Not Yet Full: A Seder Reflection
Cups Not Yet Full: A Seder Reflection
Rabbi Menachem Creditor
Yesterday, for the seventh year, I was honored to represent UJA at Citi Headquarters in New York City at their annual Pesach lunch-and-learn where I was blessed once again to share Torah with hundreds of employees from all over the world. From London. From Tel Aviv. From across the United States. Jews, non-Jews, colleagues, strangers. A global room filled with stories.
And there’s something profound that happens in that room each year. Amidst the corporate environment, people show up—earnestly, fully—to share their traditions and listen deeply to one another. This year, like last, I felt that sacred crackle of what real interfaith effort can be, moved that such depth could be part of a workplace environment.
Last year, when I spoke, I shared a core ritual of the Seder—how we spill drops of wine from our cup when we recite the Ten Plagues. Some use a pinky, some a spoon. My wife has a tradition of pouring directly from her cup, deeply emotional each time. Why do we do this? Because even as we celebrate our liberation, we recognize that freedom—holy and deserved—came at a human cost. We diminish our joy, if only by a few drops, in radical empathy for those who suffered in our story. Because our joy cannot be complete if it stands on someone else's pain, even those who caused us terrible pain.
That moment in the Seder teaches us that even in our most triumphant telling, we are commanded to remember the intrinsic worth of others. Freedom that ignores human suffering – even the Egyptians who oppressed and terrorized our ancestors - isn't true freedom from a Jewish perspective. We are not permitted to erase another's humanity, not even in moments of our own pain.
Last year, I shared these thoughts in that room at Citi, pointing to the immediate and horrific applicability in the immediate aftermath of Hamas’ attack on Israel on October 7, 2023. And after we finished, as people were heading off to lunch, a young woman approached me, tears in her eyes. She introduced herself and said, “I have lost many family members in Gaza during this war. I’m grateful that you said something about them.” I was thunderstruck, so moved that she understood how much I meant what I had shared, that her Gazan family’s loss mattered so deeply to my Jewish heart.
I was overwhelmed. Even in my pain—and we are still in pain, still fighting—I had spoken with love and respect for her family. We hugged and cried on each other’s shoulders. It was one of those sacred, human moments that stays with you. I told her then, and I believe it even more now: I want her to have a full cup too. I want her to know that her family is loved, that their lives are not worth less than my own family’s.
Just yesterday, I gave my Pesach talk at Citi again, touching once again on Pesach’s themes of universal human dignity learned from the particular Jewish story. And then, she stood up. In front of hundreds of people, she shared that last year’s Seder had moved her so deeply that she became a co-chair of Citi’s interfaith employee initiative. She has, since that day, helped organize Diwali, Christmas, Iftar—and this was her second Passover.
I sat in awe. That’s what it looks like when a community takes faith seriously, when humanity becomes the core expression of religion. And it affirmed the ancient ritual of spilling our wine—of reducing our joy in solidarity with sisters and brothers beyond the tribe.
Friends, I am morally obligated to fight for my family. I do so with conviction. And yes, that fight can make it harder to remember the humanity of the other. But I must. We must. Because the work of liberation will only be complete when everyone's cup is full.
Each year at the Seder, we open the door. As a child, I used to race to open it, certain I’d see Elijah the Prophet standing there, ready to usher in a better world. But somewhere along the way, I stopped expecting him. I grew jaded. The door creaked open, and I knew no one would be there.
But I’m working hard these days to believe again. To hope that when we open the door this year, Elijah and Miriam will be there, whispering that things are getting better. And I believe my sister at Citi is hoping for the same.
Maybe, if we remind ourselves of our shared humanity—if we insist on being seen fully and insist on seeing others fully—we will come closer to that world we dream about. A world where liberation is not a zero-sum game. Where every drop of joy lost is restored by our collective labor.
I’ve been looking at the faces of the 59 hostages still desperate to come home. I think of Tamir Adam, taken at 38 from Kibbutz Nir-Oz, and Muhammad Al-Atarash, taken at 39 from his community in Otef Azah. Two brothers from different families, both stolen from their rightful places in the world. We’ve got work to do to free them, and we will do that work.
May we do that sacred work with joy, broken hearts still beating, hands ready to open the door.
And may more people have more joy next year—because of the work we’ve done this one.
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.
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