Don’t Be Brutal. Don’t Be Naïve. Be Jewish. ©

First Day of Rosh Hashanah 2025 - 5786

Rabbi David Baum

I’m sure many in this room have seen a war movie, but have you ever felt war? Have you seen it with your own eyes, heard it with your ears? Thankfully, I haven’t had to.

But this past May, I got close. 

On May 20, I co-led a trip of rabbinical students to Israel. We visited Kibbutz Nir Oz, one of the communities devastated on October 7th. Nir Oz will always be remembered as the Kibbutz where the IDF did not reach until October 8th. One quarter of the Kibbutz was either murdered or taken hostage on that day, and most of the remaining hostages are from Nir Oz. 

I will never forget that day. It was dry and hot, and not in a good way. We walked in and saw the Kibbutz office, mail room, and social hall untouched from October 7th. The bullet holes in the glass still remaining, the mailboxes of each family had stickers: “murdered”, “taken captive”, “freed”. And you could see the names of the families we’ve heard about, like the Bibas family.

One of the residents of the kibbutz, Barak Morag, took us on a tour of the kibbutz and shared his family’s story of survival on that horrific day. We strolled along a path in the center of the Kibbutz housing area, a picturesque walkway lined with small homes built closely together, and lush vegetation in the center, including a cactus garden once known to visitors. He stopped and said, “This path used to bring me so much joy. Now, I see the tombs of my neighbors.” 

Finally, Barak brought us to his home, a humble dwelling with two small bedrooms and a small common room. It was completely burned out, except for one room, his Miklat, or safe room. Barak and his family were in the safe room, which doubles as the children’s room, on October 7th for an entire day. The family of four was saved because they were one of nine families to install a metal latch inside their safe room. 

Morag and his family huddled in their locked safe room as it slowly filled with smoke. The stories he told us that day are too brutal to share, but I will share one thing that really shook me to my core. Barak shared that in the shelter, as they fought away smoke and sat in darkness, they could hear what was happening outside. Terrorists speaking Hebrew, let us in, we’re the IDF. And then, music. Barak said he heard Arabic music being played as the kibbutz residents were being slaughtered. He described it as almost like a party, and everyone came: men, women, seniors, and many, many children. The children from Gaza stole Barak’s sons’ bikes, which were found later in Gaza. 

And everything I shared is true and verified. 

The experience itself was horrifying and traumatizing, but for a kibbutz known as a left leaning kibbutz that often helped Gazans get medical aid, and worked for peaceful co-existence, this last part, the truth, that it wasn’t just Hamas terrorists who took part in the massacre; but Gazan civilians, men, including seniors, women, including mothers, and children; added to the heartbreak of the massacre. 

As this man showed us what used to be his home, you could hear what sounded like persistent thunder in the background. But it wasn’t thunder: it was Israeli shelling of Gaza. There was an operation happening; again, we were just a mile away. Boom Boom Boom. And you know that people, terrorists, but also, likely civilians, were likely dying at that very moment. 

Now…here is the test. 

If you lean hard to the right, Kahane’s words ring true: “If you’re good to them, you’re weak, and if you’re weak, you’re dead.” From that view, Gazans are Amalek, mercy is weakness, and the only option is force. “Keep the shelling going until it’s finished. Jews are on our own now, and Tikkun Olam will have to wait."

If you lean hard to the left, the story can be twisted another way: “The kibbutzniks were occupiers, or future soldiers in the Israeli army. When people live under such desperation, you can’t hold them accountable for how they fight back. The Israelis had it coming.”

Now, here’s the thing. If we were online, these insane reads on my story would be top of the newsfeed. And, guess what, maybe some of us in this room might throw a like in the direction, but I can state with confidence that I do not believe anyone in this room would stand by or say any of these positions. 

How do I see it? Well, it’s complicated. In fact, that was the phrase that our group chose for the T-shirts we made for the trip. And the one word that we all miraculously agreed on, no matter where we stood on the political spectrum, was: 

מוּרְכָּבוּת

Murkavut

In Modern Hebrew, מורכב/Murkav means “complex, complicated,” since it is something composed of many different parts. For instance, a Rakevet, same root, Reish Chaf Bet, is a train - a diversity of cars on the same track. 

The word is translated as complexity, in other words, it’s not simple; it isn’t black and white. However, it becomes pretty straightforward when viewed from thousands of miles away on social media. We live in a polarized world, where the most extreme views are supercharged and then spread. Why is life seemingly so extreme nowadays? Is our generation the problem? The answer is, yes, but not entirely. 

In her book, Generations and What They Mean for America's Future, Dr. Jennifer Twenge argues that what shapes us most isn’t just the events we live through, but the technologies we grow up with. That’s why she calls those born since 2013 the “Polars.” Why? Because in 2013, smartphone ownership in America passed 50%, (slowly) and since then our phones—and the social media inside them—have trained us to live at the extremes.

And here’s the truth: it’s not just the kids. Whether you’re 16 or 86, the smartphone in your pocket pulls you toward polarization. The screen is designed to amplify outrage, to reward the most brutal take or the most naïve hope.

So are we doomed to be polarized? Not if Judaism has anything to say about it.

Don’t worry, I am not going to ask you to get rid of your smartphones. Your iPhones and Droids are safe, (pause) except for Shabbat and holidays. 

What I’m proposing is something different—a different way to look at the world, and at life. 

The Torah says that life is about holding opposing ideas together in one. 

Judaism believes deeply and equally in polar opposite ideas: particularism, the belief that the Jewish people are unique, with a special covenant and mission that is ours alone, and universalism, the belief in the dignity and value of every human being regardless of background, seeing all of humanity as created in the image of God. God is God for all peoples and religions. 

Yes, I know, they can’t both be right, but they are! Let me explain. 

I want to take you back to May 20, to Kibbutz Nir Oz, outside of Morag’s burned-out home. As the co-leader and rabbi of the trip, my primary role was to help the rabbinical students process their experiences and observations. As we heard the artillery fire and felt the ground shaking, two students had to leave the burned-out house to take a break. I shuttled back and forth between the students, trying to help them through this challenging moment. 

The first student, in tears, said:

“Rabbi, tell me what I’m supposed to do with this. We hear the bombs constantly right now; every explosion means people, maybe children, dying on the other side. Innocent people. Babies. And Hamas knows this. They put civilians right in the middle, using them as shields, and Israel keeps falling into the trap. And it’s just so wrong. This war…feels endless. And Rabbi, I can’t stop asking: what does it say about us, morally, as Jews, if we accept this? Isn’t there a point when compassion has to mean saying, “enough”? It has to end.” 

And I sat with her in silence, not really having the right words. And then, I walked over to the second student, who was trembling with anger:

“Rabbi, I don’t understand how anyone can still talk about Palestinians with compassion after this. Look around us! We saw the bullet holes, the burned homes, the names of murdered families. After Nir Oz, after Nova, how can anyone still say, “But what about their suffering”? Where’s our compassion for our people? For Jews? I feel like I’m losing all sympathy, and maybe that’s what it takes to survive. Rabbi, am I wrong to feel this way?”

And again, I sat in silence, not really having the right words to give to him. 

And as I stood between them, one student weeping for Gazan children, another enraged for Jewish children, I thought: how could they both exist on the same trip? How could both voices be true? How will both become rabbis for the same people? 

I have to be honest with you. I had no words for them at the time, we sat together in silence. Sometimes, that’s the best thing to do. But, after having had some time to think, I would like to propose the following solution: 

There is a famous scene in Fiddler on the Roof when the villagers hear the news that the Jews from another shtetl are being evicted from their homes by the Tsar. 

One villager says, “Let's not worry about outside news; let’s only worry about ourselves.”

Tevye says: “You are right!”  

The young Communist radical, the extreme leftist, Perchik, interrupts the parochial Jews and screams: “Jews must care about the outside world, we can't close our eyes to injustice!”  

They look at Tevye, and Tevye nods in approval: “He's right!”

“But Reb Tevye, he's right, and he's right, they can't both be right!"  

And Reb Tevye says, “You know, you are also right!”  

And honestly, that is Judaism and life in a nutshell. It’s two opposing ideas that can’t work together, but, as we find out, it’s the only thing that can make a bond become one. Think about it like this - when you bring magnets of the same charge together, nothing happens. Put opposites together, and you create a strong bond. Our sages taught the same. They called this a machloket l’shem shamayim, an argument for the sake of Heaven, and even dared to say: ‘Elu v’elu divrei Elohim chayim’—these and those are the words of the living God.

And that is what this day, Rosh Hashanah, is about. It is two days, which are actually one. The rabbis called it Yom Ma’arichtah, the one long day. So, yes, we are having services tomorrow, but our Sages wanted you to consider it as just the second part of a really long day. And that isn’t all. For instance, who is Rosh Hashanah for? Is it for the Jews or for all of humanity? The answer? Both: yes, both. 

In the Zichronot service, we’ll hear it plainly: God remembers Noah and Lot, and also remembers the covenant with Avraham, Yitzhak, and Yaakov. Both universal and particular, side by side, in the same service. 

After much reflection, I realized that these two students were two distinct but opposing, and at the same time authentically Jewish voices: The Purim Jew and the Pesach Jew, as described by the Jewish writer, Yossi Klein HaLevi. He writes: 

“Jewish history speaks to our generation in the voice of two biblical commands to remember. The first voice commands us to remember that we were strangers in the land of Egypt, and its message is: Don’t be brutal. The second voice commands us to remember how Amalek attacked us without provocation, and its message is: Don’t be naïve.”

The question is: can both types of Jews be members of the same tribe, let alone rabbis of the Jewish people? My answer is yes. More than that, these two Jews live inside each of us. Few of us are pure Pesach Jews or pure Purim Jews; most of us carry both voices, tugging at us in tension. 

To the Pesach Jew, I would say:

You know what, you’re right. The Torah’s first teaching, that every human is created b’tzelem Elohim, in God’s image, is your core value. You can quote me the Mishnah in Sanhedrin: “Whoever destroys a single human life is as if they destroyed an entire world, and whoever saves a single human life is as if they saved an entire world… for the sake of peace among humankind.”

And you are right. Compassion cannot be discarded. Even in moments of terror and rage, Judaism commands us to see the divine spark in every person, and to remember that every human story matters.

To the Purim Jew, I would say:

You carry the memory of Amalek. You know too well that we have enemies who rise against us simply because we are Jews. After seeing Nir Oz, after walking past the burned homes and reading the names of the murdered, your anger and your grief are not only understandable — they are Jewish. The Torah says: “Remember what Amalek did to you… do not forget.” And you are right. Survival demands vigilance. If we are not for ourselves, who will be for us? Jewish history has taught us to protect one another, especially when the world turns away. No one else will have our backs: Kol Israel Areivim Zeh Ba Zeh, Every Jew really is responsible for one another. As the grandson of four Holocaust survivors, I can attest to that. 

You are right, and you are right. 

But, I suppose you can’t both be right. 

So which one of you is it? The Pesach Jew or Purim Jew? Compassion or survival? The universal covenant or the particular covenant?

Like Tevye, I say: You are right. And you are right. And, both of you can be right! 

Both of your voices live inside us because Judaism needs them both. Yossi Klein Halevi reminds us that Jewish history commands us: Don’t be brutal and Don’t be naïve. 

That is what Rosh Hashanah is teaching us. It is Yom Harat Olam, the birthday of the whole world, when all humanity passes before God in judgment. And at the same time, it is the day we recall God’s special relationship with the Jewish people. It is two days that are really one, Yom Ma’arichta. It is universal and particular, together.

Our sages knew the truth: if we split them apart, we fracture our soul. But when we bring them together; the compassion of Pesach with the vigilance of Purim, compassion and vigilance, we create a strong bond. 

Hillel shared this same truth in his seemingly contradictory statement: 

“If I am not for myself, who will be for me? But if I am only for myself, what am I? And if not now, when?” Not a choice between extremes, but a charge to hold both truths at once.

This is the answer I could not give in May, but that I can give you now: to be a Jew is to live in this sacred tension. To insist on both. To refuse to collapse into one side.

And in the Ten Days ahead, we can practice this synthesis in small ways: one act for K’lal Yisrael and one act for kol adam. One step of vigilance, one step of compassion, so that our souls stay whole.

And that brings me to us, to the pain I see in our own families, and in our country.

Since last Rosh Hashanah, I have seen more Jewish parents grieve when their children seem to care more for the suffering of those they see as our enemies than for their own people. Their children grieved when they felt their parents cared only for Jews and turned away from the pain of others. For many of these young Jews, their vision of social-justice Judaism doesn’t match what they see in the complex Jewish nation-state of Israel, with its borders, its dangers, its enemies. These arguments aren’t theoretical. They cut across our Shabbat tables, our WhatsApp chats, and our very hearts.

And what we experience as a community echoes what we are now seeing across America. Since last Rosh Hashanah, we’ve witnessed something we thought belonged to another era: deadly political violence on our own soil. The Governor of Pennsylvania, Josh Shapiro, the most prominent Jewish elected official in America, had his home firebombed on the night of Passover. State legislators have been gunned down in their homes. Even the most polarizing public figures, people some worship and admire, and others abhor, have been targeted and killed. Whatever we think of their politics, the reality is chilling. For decades, America seemed immune to this kind of bloodshed.

No longer.

I often share my own story, as a first-generation American, the child of immigrants who taught me that America was great not only because of how Jews were treated here, but because America was different. In this country, the grudges of the old world were meant to be left behind.

But those same grudges are creeping back in. The “us versus them” mentality, the belief that compassion is weakness and violence the only answer — this is the trap that has toppled empires. “United we stand, divided we fall” is not just a slogan; it is a truth of human history.

And yet our tradition does not leave us hopeless. The prophet Malachi envisioned a day when Elijah would come to “turn the hearts of parents to their children, and the hearts of children to their parents, so that the land will not be struck with utter destruction.” Malachi knew what we know: that when the bonds between generations break, when we stop seeing one another as part of the same story, the future itself is at risk.

The good news is: we don’t have to wait for Elijah. We don’t have to wait for Messiah. We can begin that work now — turning our hearts toward each other. Like the cherubim above the ark of the covenant, who faced one another when Israel was in right relationship with God, we too can face each other with arms open, making space for God’s presence to dwell between us.

That is what teshuvah requires. To face one another — especially those we disagree with — with love, with compassion, with understanding, without surrendering what we hold most dear.

That is the choice before us this Rosh Hashanah: not to collapse into universalism or into particularism, not to let brutality or naïveté dictate our path, not to allow extremism or violence to write our future. But to choose life — in the sacred middle, where truths meet.

Life that affirms our uniqueness and our shared humanity. Life that insists on relationship even in disagreement. Life that makes possible a future for our children, and their children after them.

Uvacharta ba-chayim — choose life, today. On these two days, which are really one. And on every day that follows.

What Your Rabbi Talked About On Rosh Hashanah

Don’t Be Brutal. Don’t Be Naïve. Be Jewish. - Rosh Hashanah Day 1 5786 / 2025

1. Holding Opposite Truths

Eruvin 13b:10-11

For three years, the House of Hillel and the House of Shammai argued. One said, 'The halakha is like us,' and the other said, 'The halakha is like us.' A heavenly voice spoke: "These and these are the words of the living God, and the halakha is like the House of Hillel." A question was raised: Since the heavenly voice declared: "Both these and those are the words of the Living God," why was the halacha established to follow the opinion of Hillel? It is because the students of Hillel were kind and gracious. They taught their own ideas as well as the ideas from the students of Shammai. Not only for this reason, but they went so far as to teach Shammai's opinions first.

Questions for the table:

• Have you ever held two opposite feelings at the same time — both of which felt true?

• What happens when we insist that only one side can be right?

• What could it look like in our family/community if we honored “both/and” instead of “either/or”?

2. The Pesach Jew and the Purim Jew

Yossi Klein Halevi writes: “Jewish history speaks to our generation in the voice of two biblical commands to remember. The first voice commands us: Remember you were strangers in Egypt. Its message is: Don’t be brutal. The second voice commands us: Remember what Amalek did to you. Its message is: Don’t be naïve.”

Questions for the table:

• Which “Jewish voice” speaks to you more strongly today — Pesach or Purim?

• How do you balance compassion for others with vigilance for our own people?

• Can you think of a time when being “too Pesach” or “too Purim” led to regret?

3. Hillel’s Sacred Middle

“If I am not for myself, who will be for me? But if I am only for myself, what am I?And if not now, when?”(Pirkei Avot 1:14)

Questions for the table:

• How does this teaching challenge us to live in both particularism and universalism at once?

• What’s one “for myself” act you could commit to this year (for Jews/Israel)?

• What’s one “not only for myself” act you could commit to (for all humanity)?

4. Two Days that Are Really One

Our rabbis called Rosh Hashanah Yoma Ma’arikhta — “one long day.”

Questions for the table:

• What does it mean that Rosh Hashanah is both a universal day (Yom Harat Olam, birthday of the world) and a particular Jewish covenant day?

• How does living with “two days that are one” mirror the way we hold complexity in life?

5. Turning Hearts

The prophet Malachi envisioned a time:

“He will turn the hearts of parents to their children, and the hearts of children to their parents, lest the land be struck with utter destruction.”(Malachi 3:24)

Questions for the table:

• Where do you see gaps between the generations today, in politics, Israel, Judaism, or elsewhere? Why do you think that is? 

• What would it look like to “turn our hearts” toward each other even when we disagree?

• How can this Rosh Hashanah be a chance to begin healing those divides in your own family and community?

Takeaway Practice For The 10 Days of Teshuvah

This week, try the Sacred Middle Exercise:

• Do one act for K’lal Yisrael (the Jewish people).

• Do one act for Kol Adam (all humanity).

Ask yourself: How do both acts strengthen my Jewish soul?

This sermon would not have been possible without the incredible work that my friend and colleague Rabbi Erez Sherman and Sinai Temple in Los Angeles are doing with The Flesh Family Sinai Temple Israel Center. They created this fellowship for rabbinical students across the denominational spectrum with Jewish National Fund - USA, the Singer and Lafell Foundations. A special thank you to the rabbinical students. As much as you learned from me, I learned far me from you. And of course, to my co-leader for the trip, Yisrael Klitsner, one of the greatest mensches alive today!

Reflections from Shoshana Levine, Flesh Family Israel Fellow

The following letter was sent by Shoshana to her home congregation, Sinai Temple, in Los Angeles, California, during the rabbinic cohort’s mission to Israel in May 2025

For the past six weeks, we’ve been reading the book of Vayikra which is full of the laws  of sacrifices and purity, but as we read the final two parshiot this Shabbat we are given the rules of what it means to be people who live in the Land. We are reminded of the deep connection between people and place—the Torah makes it clear: to dwell in the land, we must care not only for the soil beneath our feet but also for one another. That sacred relationship between land, law, and people feels especially poignant in Israel today.



Early this week, my cohort of the Flesh Family Sinai Temple Israel Center Rabbinical School Fellowship arrived in Israel. From the moment our programming began, we have been immersed in conversations with voices spanning the religious and political spectrum—religious Israeli settlers, secular Jews, a Palestinian activist, and even an Evangelical Christian. These are individuals who often fundamentally disagree on theology, history, and politics. And yet, in every conversation, one message has echoed clearly and urgently: we must bring the hostages home, and we must end this war.



Since the horrors of October 7th, we’ve watched American discourse spiral into turmoil. College campuses have become battlegrounds of ideology, with shouting replacing dialogue, and confrontation standing in for community. Even within Jewish spaces, like the Jewish Theological Seminary where I study, the pressure and pain of division weigh heavily.

But here in Israel—where the stakes are unbearably real—I’ve witnessed something remarkable: unity. Not uniformity, but genuine unity. In the wake of the recent, tragic shootings of Yaron Lischinsky and Sarah Milgrim, our cohort met with two political activists from opposite ends of the ideological spectrum. We anticipated sharp disagreement. Instead, we found surprising consensus. They spoke with passion and conviction about their visions for a democratic Jewish state—and while their paths diverged, their core values aligned. Beneath the surface of their differences was a shared commitment to justice, democracy, and the future of this land.



In order to live in the land we need social cohesion which only comes through caring for one another, and that is what I’ve seen more than anything on this trip. People who are supposedly diametrically opposed are united around ending the war, freeing the hostages and maintaining the integrity of a Jewish democratic state. What I’ve seen in Israel this week is not a people resigned to despair, but a people determined to remain whole, even when the world feels broken.

Shoshana Levine is a Flesh Family Sinai Temple Rabbinic Fellow and second year Rabbinical Student at the Jewish Theological Seminary. She will be joining us to be our scholar in residence from February 27 - March 1, 2026! Save the date for this exciting opportunity at Shaarei Kodesh.