Sympathy, Empathy, and Solidarity

Sympathy, Empathy, and Solidarity

Rabbi Menachem Creditor

There is a sacred continuum in the human heart — a progression from sympathy to empathy to solidarity — through which we are invited to move closer to one another, and thereby closer to God. Each point on this spectrum is holy, yet incomplete without the others. The Torah commands us, “You shall not stand idly by the blood of your neighbor” (Leviticus 19:16). To obey this verse is not only to act, but to feel; not only to feel, but to become part of another’s story.

Sympathy is the beginning of compassion — the first spark of awareness that another person suffers. It is the head’s recognition that pain exists beyond our own boundaries. When we say, “I’m sorry you’re hurting,” we acknowledge another’s humanity. That, already, is sacred. But sympathy risks remaining at a safe distance. It can comfort without cost, weep without movement. It’s the cry from the shore for a person drowning far away — heartfelt, sincere, but dry.

Empathy wades into the water. It is the soul’s courageous act of feeling with another. To empathize is to remember our own wounds, to allow another’s pain to awaken something living within us. Empathy dissolves the illusion of separateness. We do not say, “That could have been me.” We say, “That is me.” When Torah commands, “You shall love your neighbor as yourself” (Leviticus 19:18), it isn’t telling us to treat others well — it’s demanding that we collapse the distance between “you” and “me.” Empathy is the awareness that the boundary is already porous.

And yet, even empathy can stop short of transformation. We can feel deeply and still remain still. Solidarity is empathy that has grown legs. It is the manifestation of compassion in motion, the covenantal choice to show up for another’s struggle as our own. Solidarity is when we stop merely understanding another’s pain and start sharing the risk of healing. It is when Pharaoh’s daughter, moved by the infant’s cry, not only weeps but reaches down into the Nile to save Moshe. It is when Jews stand with those who suffer, not as charity but as covenant. When we say Hineni — “Here I am” — not to speak, but to stand.

Solidarity, then, is the crescendo of human feeling. It is the place where we embody God’s image most vividly. The Holy One does not remain sympathetic or empathetic to our suffering; God enters it. The Exodus itself is the story of divine solidarity — a God who says, “I have heard their cry… and I will descend to deliver them” (Exodus 3:7–8). If God can descend into our pain, surely we can ascend into one another’s.

The continuum of sympathy, empathy, and solidarity is not linear but cyclical, a rhythm of awareness, feeling, and action. It invites us to live with open hearts and steady feet — to feel what others feel, and then to move. For in the end, love that remains unmoved is only sentiment. But love that stands beside another, shoulders their burden, and walks with them toward freedom — that love is redemption itself.

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A Prayer for Release and Healing

A Prayer for Release and Healing

Rabbi Menachem Creditor

At long last, beloved souls are coming home.

After two years of torturous captivity, we dare to breathe—through tears, through trembling, through prayer. We pray for their bodies, broken and starved. We pray for their minds, wounded by terror and isolation. We pray for those whose lives were mercilessly destroyed that their families should be able to bury them with dignity. We pray for all of the hostages’ families, who have lived in the unbearable space between hope and despair for over two years.

We pray, too, for the entire State of Israel, a family of millions aching together, holding each other through the unspeakable. And we pray for Am Yisrael, the global Jewish people, that we might be strong enough and tender enough to receive our siblings and our parents and our children with full hearts—to enfold them in love, to honor their trauma with patience, to surround them with unending care.

The work ahead will be long. The healing will not be easy. But we are a people of covenant, commanded to choose life and to repair what pain has shattered.

May we be worthy partners in the sacred labor of return. May this complicated homecoming ignite the long, hard work of repair—for them, for us, for all of Israel.

Amen.

A Prayer for Burying “Bring Them Home Now” Dog Tags*

A Prayer for Burying “Bring Them Home Now” Dog Tags*
Rabbi Menachem Creditor

Mekor HaChayim, Source of all Life,
We stand today with trembling hearts,
bearing these small pieces of metal —
once cold, now warmed by years of tears
and hope and holy sweat.

For two years, these dog tags rested upon our hearts,
carrying our brothers and sisters,
our children and elders,
whose faces we carried into every prayer,
every dream, every moment of waiting.

We wore them as shields of faith,
as promises never to forget.
Each clink and gleam was a heartbeat of Am Yisrael,
a whispered “Bring them home. Now.”

Now, as we return these amulets to the earth,
we do not discard them.
We lay them gently, as we would lay a loved one,
trusting that memory is eternal,
that love does not rust,
that sanctity can dwell in metal, in tears, in time.

Holy One, let this burial be a bridge —
from pain to promise,
from captivity to compassion,
from symbol to action.

May the ground receive these sacred tokens
as we continue to carry their spirit in our souls.
May every name engraved here
shine in the heavens as a light that can never be extinguished.

And may the world never again need such amulets,
for all Your children to be free,
safe in their homes,
whole in their hearts,
together in peace.

Amen.

____________
*Other rituals will surely arise — songs, prayers, art, and silence — each guided by the wisdom and imagination of artists, rabbis, and ritual leaders who help us make meaning in the wake of sorrow and hope. Let us honor both the moment and the movement — the courage to create holiness even as we live toward wholeness.

Tape Will be Tape Again | Sukkot | #Day734 #Broadcast1402 #BringThemHomeNow #UntilTheLastHostage

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Defying Harshness with Song: A Reflection After Yom Kippur

Defying Harshness with Song: A Reflection After Yom Kippur
Rabbi Menachem Creditor

This year I again led prayers in a community I’ve come to know well. My voice, which I expected to weaken, grew stronger. And I know why: it was the strength of being in community. The resonance of not being alone.

And yet, alongside this renewal came heartbreak — the horrific attack at Heaton Park Hebrew Congregation in Manchester, England where Adrian Daulby z”l and Melvin Kravitz z”l were murdered. The image that will not leave me is of Rabbi Daniel Walker, blood on his kittel, standing steadfast to protect his community. It is a vision of horror — and also, paradoxically, of sacred strength.

We must not allow terror to eclipse the power of Yom Kippur. For centuries, through Crusades and expulsions, we have carried into Yom Kippur the memory of those who fell in the Eleh Ezkerah section of Musaf. We emerge with prayers of hope. In the Avodah (another part of musf), when we join the High Priest entering the Holy of Holies, we are reminded of fragility — and of promise. The poem Mar’eh Kohen asks: What did his face look like upon emerging? It shone with light, with the assurance that the year ahead could be one of gladness, plenty, health, and safety. That was not a recitation. It was a promise.

Today, I bless us with the strength of Rabbi Walker, who like the Kohen Gadol, risked himself along with other members of the shul, to protect our people. He embodied what it means to carry community on your shoulders. And that is our calling too: to be a people whose strength is greater than anything the world can throw at us.

We live in a harsh time. Anti-Jewish hatred is not distant — it is on campuses, in streets, in sanctuaries, in Europe, in the United States, in our precious homeland. We do ourselves no favors by denying it. But friends, we are not defined by harshness. We are defined by resilience, by beauty, by song, by Torah. Survivors teach us to dance again. Rabbis remind us to love fiercely. Our ancestors whisper through us. And even in our own internal struggles, we hold ourselves accountable — because that is who we are.
Our story is not just Jewish; Torah begins not with Israel but with creation itself — a radical claim that God cares for every human being. To be Jewish is to hold our people close and also to hold the world tenderly.

And so I return to this truth: we are beautiful.

We sing, we dance, we grieve, we rise. We wear our people on our shoulders wherever we go.
This week’s Torah reading, Ha’azinu, reminds us that Moses, about to die, sang. He sang! He knew that life is fleeting, and song is eternal. That is part of his legacy to us all. Yom Kippur reminds us of the same truth: we do not have forever, so we must sing now.

Friends, breathe deeply. This very breath is a gift. Torah is a gift. Community is a gift. Shabbat is a gift. You are a gift. We are a gift.

So as we enter Shabbat, let us sing — not despite the brokenness of the world, but because of it. To sing is to defy despair. To sing is to remember who we are. To sing is to demand life and to be alive.
Together, let us keep singing until every captive is brought home, until every heart knows peace, until our people and the world are restored.

Shabbat Shalom.

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Kindness | Yom Kippur | #Day726 #Broadcast1399 #BringThemHomeNow #UntilTheLastHostage

Olam Chesed Yibaneh at Temple Beth Shalom, Puerto Rico (RH 5786/2025)

Touched by this eloquent Rosh HaShannah Drasha by Rabbi Julie Benioff of Temple Emek Shalom in Ashland, OR, which closed with a sweet chanting of my soul's song.

Moved by this rendition of Olam Chesed Yibaneh by Cantor Dan Mutlu of Central Synagogue during Rosh HaShanah 5786

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Rosh Hashanah Message 2025/5786 | Full Version

Standing Together: A Reflection on Parashat Nitzavim

Standing Together: A Reflection on Parashat Nitzavim

Rabbi Menachem Creditor & Rabba Daphne Lazar Price

This week’s Torah portion, Nitzavim, opens with a word of presence: “You are standing today, all of you, before God. (Deut. 29:9)” More than “standing,” the Hebrew suggests being situated, rooted, present. And significantly, it emphasizes hayom - today. Moshe is not speaking only to that generation, but to us in every moment. The covenant is not in the past; it is always unfolding in the present.

As we enter the days leading into Rosh Hashanah, Nitzavim calls us to attention, asking “What does it mean to stand together, with equity and with inclusion, in sacred community?”

The Torah names not just leaders but also children, women, and even the stranger, from “woodchopper to water drawer. (v.10)” It could have said simply “everyone,” but by enumerating groups, the text ensures that no one can be overlooked. Children may not fully understand but will carry memory. Women, often excluded from ancient (and, all too often, modern) political structures, are named as part of God’s covenant. Even strangers are included - not Israelites, yet embraced by the Torah’s care. The Torah’s language of “all of you” followed by each group challenges us to be vigilant about who is included - and who might feel excluded - when we say “everyone.” Naming in this way is an act of dignity and inclusivity.

Moshe is speaking urgently in these verses, as he knows his time is short. He warns of a spiritual danger, imagining that once we “arrive” in the Promised Land, we might think ourselves safe from the harshness of the world, immune to the consequences of actions, finished in our moral development. “I shall be safe, though I follow my own willful heart, (v. 18)” says the verse. This is a false security.

Our own lives echo this danger. Moments of progress can lead to self-satisfaction, as if justice or equality is accomplished once and for all. Yet Torah reminds us that covenant is ongoing. We are never done. We cannot say “we’ve arrived” while inequality persists, or while suffering remains in our midst, or when Jewish safety is threatened, as it so frequently is these days.

In recent years, many of us have felt knocked down, struggling to find footing in a broken and frightening world. War, displacement, hatred, loss, and uncertainty weigh heavily. We feel the urgency to “get it right,” to act faithfully even when the world feels unstable. And yet, voices of resilience remind us that there can still be a good ending, even if we cannot yet see it. Jewish wisdom teaches, “It is not upon you to finish the work, but neither are you free to desist from it. (Pirkei Avot 2:16)” Every act matters, even when we cannot control the outcome.

We may never feel that we have truly “arrived.” Even on our best days, there is more work to do, more perspectives to hear, more compassion to extend. That awareness, rather than diminishing us, calls us to humility, perseverance, and hope.

A puzzling verse in Nitzavim offers a way to bring these thoughts together:

“The hidden things belong to God, but the revealed things are for us and our children forever, to do all the words of this Torah. (Deut. 29:28)” Some versions even mark words with dots, suggesting uncertainty about what belongs to us at all.

Perhaps the message is this: we will never know everything. Control is not ours. What is ours is responsibility - to act with integrity, to live Torah in real time, even in confusion. As the ancient sage Hillel taught a student who doubted his shifting lessons (and likely his own feeling of uncertainty), “You trusted me yesterday, trust me today. (Shabbat 31a, paraphrased)” Faith does not erase uncertainty but empowers us to act despite it.

As we prepare to close one year and enter another, we hold two truths: we are ready for this year’s pain and heaviness to end, and yet, we must not rush through time. This year has included great meaning and joy too. These final days of the year are also part of the gift of life, to be savored before the new year begins.

Standing together - all of us - we are called into covenant again, hayom, today. We may not know what tomorrow brings, but we know this: our task is to show up, to stand present, and to do the work of Torah with whatever strength and wisdom we are blessed to share.

How blessed we are to stand together.

Torah for Nitzavim - with Special Guest Rabba Daphne Lazar Price!! #Day714 #Broadcast1393 #Nitzavim #BringThemHomeNow #UntilTheLastHostage

"Gratitude as a Force for Good" Rabbi Menachem Creditor's Keynote Speech at the Jewish Federation of Western Connecticut Annual Meeting/Campaign Launch (September 14, 2025)

"Gratitude as a Force for Good"

Rabbi Menachem Creditor's Keynote Speech at the Jewish Federation of Western Connecticut Annual Meeting/Campaign Launch

September 14, 2025

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Torah for 9/11: Law for the Sake of Love (Ki Tavo)

Remembering September 11

CLICK IMAGE TO READ THE ARTICLE ON THE JEWISH JOURNAL

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The Power of Intention | Ki Tavo

#Day704 #Broadcast1385 #KiTavo #BringThemHomeNow #untilthelasthostage 

with gratitude to Lyn Light Geller for her teaching on this Parashah!

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From JWI: September 9 is Firearm Suicide Prevention Day

Join us September 9th in recognizing this critically important day

On September 9, communities across the country will recognize Firearm Suicide Prevention Day. Firearm suicide accounts for 60% of all gun deaths in the United States, or more than 27,000 lives a year. While not all suicides are preventable, many are. But too often, stigma keeps people from having potentially life-saving conversations about both suicide in general and firearm suicide.   At JWI, we are committed to raising awareness, sharing life-saving information, and equipping our community with tools to spark meaningful conversations. We invite you to join us in honoring this day by:   Learning more: Watch the Jewish Gun Violence Prevention Roundtable’s webinar Breaking the Silence: Addressing Suicide as the Leading Cause of Gun Deaths and explore the accompanying toolkit. Sharing resources: If someone you know is experiencing suicidal thoughts, tell them about the 988 Suicide and Crisis Lifeline, a free and confidential service for people in crisis. Learn more about prevention and supporting a friend experiencing suicidal thoughts in the Breaking the Silence toolkit. Safely storing firearms: If you possess firearms, ensure they are stored unloaded in a locked gun safe to which only you have access. Learn more about safe firearm storage here. Speaking out: Share these posts on social media to spread the word and help break the silence surrounding firearm suicide.    Every action matters. By learning, sharing, and advocating together, we can save lives.   Best, Rachel Graber Vice President of Government Relations and Advocacy Jewish Women’s International Jewish Women International (JWI) is the leading Jewish organization championing women and girls by ending gender-based violence, expanding access to long-term economic security, and advancing women's leadership.   We envision a world, free of violence and inequity, where all women and girls thrive. Support Our Work

Introduction to "Anti-Zionists, Unwitting Zionists (When Obsession Becomes Proof of Attachment)"

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Anti-Zionists, Unwitting Zionists

(When Obsession Becomes Proof of Attachment)

Rabbi Menachem Creditor

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INTRODUCTION

Against and Attached

The fiercest hatreds often mask a form of love. Hatred is not the opposite of attachment; it is its distortion. When a person cannot stop looking at, talking about, and defining themselves against an object, a people, or an idea, they reveal a bond they would rather deny. This book argues that a great deal of contemporary anti-Zionism belongs to that category. By building an entire moral universe around opposition to Israel, many anti-Zionists unwittingly affirm the centrality of Jewish self-determination in their own lives. Their obsession becomes proof of attachment.

To say this is not to score a glib psychological point. It is to invite a more honest conversation. Zionism is not a monolith, and Jews are not of one mind. We argue - heaven knows we argue! - and that is a feature, not a bug, of our tradition. I affirm the Jewish value of diversity, of principled pluralism. A Zionism worthy of our ancestors and our children must make room for dissent, dispute, and change. Zionism at its best is anti-fundamentalist: an evolving project of peoplehood that thrives on moral self-critique, the courage to revise, and the humility to listen.

I write as a rabbi who believes Zionism is not merely a political program but a moral obligation. The Jewish people’s right to self-determination in our ancestral homeland is not a privilege begged from history; it is the restoration of dignity after history’s theft. But that restoration is never only for us. From Torah’s command - tzedek, tzedek tirdof, justice pursued justly - to Israel’s founding vision of equality and freedom, the Jewish return to sovereignty is inseparable from the responsibility to build a society that reflects the image of God in every human being.

How, then, do we understand those who oppose this project with near-religious intensity? Some oppose particular policies; these are our partners in debate. Critique is a blessing in any democracy, and Israel, like all states, must be answerable to moral judgment. But something else has emerged in recent years: a fixation that organizes identity around the negation of the Jewish collective. When “Israel” becomes the single lens through which the world is read, when the Jewish state is singled out as the world’s only inadmissible “mistake,” when the language of human rights expands everywhere except to include the Jewish people’s right to a home - then we have crossed from critique into a consuming counternarrative.

That counternarrative, I submit, cannot let Israel go because, deep down, it cannot imagine a world without us. If Israel is the axis of your righteousness, if the Jew among the nations must always be on your mind, then the Jew among the nations is central to your moral self. You are in relationship - albeit a broken one - with Zion. The more breathless the denunciation, the more it testifies to Israel’s gravitational pull.

This is not a taunt; it is an invitation. If you care this much, then admit that you care - and let us turn that distorted attachment into a shared responsibility for life, dignity, and justice.

For our part, we Zionists must refuse the seduction of certainty. Power can numb empathy; fear can shrink moral horizons. Jewish sovereignty requires the grown-up work of holding two commitments at once: defending the lives of our people and honoring the full humanity of our neighbors. We must be brave enough to say when we fail, and steadfast enough to keep trying. Our tradition demands nothing less.

“Who is mighty?” asks Ben Zoma. “One who masters their impulse.” Strength, in Jewish terms, is disciplined power, ethically constrained.

Pluralism is thus not a public-relations tactic; it is theologically Jewish and politically Zionist. We argue for the sake of Heaven, recognizing that truth is found in the friction of principled disagreement. The doubling of tzedek in the biblical verse teaches that ends and means are inseparable. We cannot reach a just future through unjust paths. The boats on the narrow river of our sources pass in turn so that all may pass; the same wisdom must govern a crowded land and an intensely anxious century. Compromise is not cowardice when it serves life.

This book will name the obsessive forms of anti-Zionism for what they are, not to shame their adherents but to unmask the relationship they deny. And it will argue for a confident, self-critical Zionism that welcomes disagreement and expects accountability - from others and from ourselves.

If you have been told that Zionism demands silence, know that our sages canonized argument. If you have been told that loving Israel means hating someone else, know that our covenant commands love of the stranger. If you have been told that Jewish self-determination is a betrayal of universal justice, know that our return to sovereignty is precisely how we bring our particular gifts to the universal human table.

To my fellow Jews who are weary, who feel abandoned by allies who seem to champion every people’s dignity but recoil at ours: do not surrender your moral voice. Our story is neither simple nor spotless, but it is righteous in its essence.

To critics who care enough to read this far: I am listening. Come argue with me. Bring your passion, and I will bring mine. Bring your fears, and I will bring my people’s memory of statelessness and massacre alongside our stubborn, generative hope. Let us test one another not with slogans but with lives - Israeli and Palestinian, Jewish and not - in view.

And to the uncompromising anti-Zionist whose days and nights circle Israel like a moth around a lamp: your heat tells the truth your words conceal. You are already in relation to the reality you deny. What if that energy were recast as responsibility? What if the passion that fuels negation were converted into the hard, sacred labor of building a future where two peoples live with dignity? Obsession can destroy; it can also be transformed.

“Anti-Zionists, Unwitting Zionists” is a provocation, yes - but also a prayer. May our attachments be healed. May our love be less distorted and more courageous. May we learn again that justice is a path we walk together, and that argument - honest, plural, rigorous - is a form of love. May our people’s return to history be a blessing to all who share the land and all who share this fragile world.

Am Yisrael Chai.

Rabbi Menachem Creditor

Elul 5785

September 2025

_____________________________________

Anti-Zionists, Unwitting Zionists

(When Obsession Becomes Proof of Attachment)

Rabbi Menachem Creditor

PURCHASE YOUR COPY HERE:

https://a.co/d/2pTD8D7

 

Ki Teitzei: No Action is Neutral - #Day698 #Broadcast1381 #KiTetze #BringThemHomeNow #UntilTheLastHostage

Ki Teitzei: Building Guardrails - #Day697 #Broadcast1380 #KiTetze #BringThemHomeNow #UntilTheLastHostage

Toward a Loving World (Shoftim) - #Day693 #Broadcast1378

Toward a Loving World (Shoftim)

#Day693 #Broadcast1378 #Shoftim #BringThemHomeNow #UntilTheLastHostage

inspired by the teachings of Rabbi Tali Adler