May 30, 2025
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May 28, 2025
Counting Every Soul: A Response to the Response
Counting Every Soul: A Response to the Response
Rabbi Menachem Creditor | May 28, 2025
After publishing my essay, “Counting Every Soul: We Are Not Giving Up,” I received a wave of engagement—some thoughtful, some painful. First among the critiques was the question: Do Palestinians have souls? The question, in its very framing, wounded me. My essay mourned the 58 hostages still held by Hamas, named and unnamed, alive and murdered. It sought to hold space for Jewish pain on the 600th day since October 7th. That an expression of grief for my people was met with such a question left me breathless. Is our pain so unimaginable that to voice it must be offset by a disclaimer? I was not denying Palestinian suffering—I was counting ours.
One responder pointed to the phrase “every soul” in my title and asked if I meant every soul. Another accused me of justifying genocide by prioritizing “tribal pain.” Let me be clear: I did not say only Jewish souls count. My piece was not a geopolitical treatise—it was a cry from within the anguish of my community. To suggest that holding space for that grief is immoral, or even racist, misunderstands both the piece and the human need to feel seen in our own sorrow.
I do use the word “tribe,” and I use it with love. Tribe, to me, is not primitive—it is sacred. It is family, identity, and belonging. One can love one’s tribe and still advocate for justice and dignity for others. To feel deeply for one’s people is not to dehumanize others. I reject the false binary that caring for my own must come at the expense of others. I ask only that I be granted the same fullness of humanity I extend to others—complex, grieving, and striving to be just.
Some readers asked for my writing that centers non-Jewish pain. I welcome that inquiry and encourage those interested to explore my writing. Others questioned whether any criticism of Israel, including the use of the term “genocide,” should be taken personally. I can only say: when accusations invoke language that negates the legitimacy of my family’s very being, I feel erased. So would anyone.
This follow-up is not a defense. It is a continuation of my counting, soul by soul—including those who disagree with me, including those who question me harshly. The counting must go on. And we are not giving up.
[DAY 600] We Must Fight for Our Family #Day600 #Broadcast1313 #Bemidbar #BringThemHomeNow #UntilTheLastHostage #AmYisraelChai💙
May 27, 2025
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Acharei Mot/Kedoshim: Not Walking Away from Each Other - #Day581 #Broadcast1300
May 8, 2025
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After the Fire: Ritual, Risk, and the Holy Path
After the Fire: Ritual, Risk, and the Holy Path
(Acharei Mot-Kedoshim)
Think about the Olympics, the moment when each nation’s delegation steps into the stadium—flags raised high, colors shining, protocols honored with precision and pride. Think about the medals, the different levels of the podium. The athlete who stands tallest has achieved something rare, something sacred in its own way. And then, someone places the medal gently around their neck. That simple act, rich with ceremony, tells the truth: something important has happened here.
Now, think about other processions. A wedding. A surgery. A funeral. Each one governed by ritual. Each one bound by holy choreography—whether joy or terror stands at the threshold.
The common thread? Rituals are how we survive the chaos.
This week’s double Torah reading begins Acharei Mot—“after the death.” After the fire. After Aaron’s sons, Nadav and Avihu, were consumed for coming too close. What does that mean—to come too close to God? And how can Aaron ever approach the Holy again, knowing what the cost had been for his children?
And yet, the Torah tells us, Aaron does draw near. He is commanded to. But this time, he does it differently. Carefully. Intentionally. Step by step.
He brings incense, just as his sons did. He steps behind the curtain, into the most intimate sacred space of all—the Holy of Holies—just as his sons did. He approaches the Presence, God’s self, revealed between the cherubim, just as his sons did. But this time, the ritual is not spontaneous. It’s structured. Guarded. Measured.
A force field of incense, the Torah says, shields Aaron from what is too much, too holy, too real. It isn’t that God has changed. It’s that we have learned—painfully, tragically—how to come close with reverence, not recklessness.
There’s a message here, but I don’t think it’s simple. Aaron performs the Avodah, the most sacred service we have—on Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, for his people, for his family, for himself. And to do it, he must carry the trauma of his loss into the sanctuary and still leave it behind. He must compartmentalize the human part of him in order to become the vessel his people need.
Is that holy? Is that tragic? Is it both?
Acharei Mot leads us into Kedoshim—“you shall be holy.” After the death, we are called to rise, to live differently. To build a life that honors limits, a life where boundaries make space for beauty. A life shaped by ritual, not ruled by it. A life that dares to be sacred, even when the world is still reeling from the fire.
I don’t have a neat ending. I have only the image of Aaron stepping through the smoke, bearing grief and responsibility in the same hands. I have only the question of how any of us live after loss, how we hold fire without getting burned.
Maybe the answer is in the rituals we keep. The meals we make. The goodbyes we remember to say. The prayers we offer, even when our hearts are unsure. Maybe holiness is not the absence of chaos—but the choice to move through it with intention.
What will you choose to carry, and how will you carry it?
May 6, 2025
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Yom HaAtzmaut! ❤️🇮🇱 - AM YISRAEL CHAI - A special UJA-Federation of New York #MorningTorah broadcast featuring the recitations of "Tourists" by Yehuda Amichai and "A New Kind of Zionist Hero" by Rachel Sharansky Danziger. #Day573 #Broadcast1294 #Tazria #Metzora #BringThemHomeNow #UntilTheLastHostage #AmYisraelChai💙
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