Rosh Hashanah

The Hardest Questions

Delivered at Temple B’nai Abraham, Livingston, NJ, September 23, 2025

If you or your children have been to Jewish summer camp, you may know of the mishlachat—the young Israeli emissaries who come for the summer as counselors and educators. Over many summers—whether as camper, staff, or faculty—I’ve watched these Israelis bring Hebrew, culture, and their vision of Jewish life to our kids. They learn from us, too—about the vibrant Judaism we practice here in North America. This past summer, I spent several weeks with them. And this year, everything felt different.

The camp where I spend time as faculty typically brings around thirty Israelis each summer. But days before camp began, we thought we’d have none—Israel had struck Iran, airlines stopped flying, and young staff were needed on the ground, in the war. Unlike last year, when they could still travel despite the chaos, this year they were literally coming off the battlefield days before camp began. Most made it eventually, grateful for the quiet of Ontario’s forests and lakes, for a night without sirens and blasts. But they were not okay. Past summers meant homesickness, but this summer meant untreated trauma, from nearly two years of war, and from horrors seen only days before.

One morning, I was called to lift the spirits of an Israeli counselor who was struggling badly. I told him a joke. While my jokes get mixed reviews—as you all know—this one worked. He and another friend kept coming back for more, until we had a WhatsApp group where my rabbinic, pastoral role is, simply, to make them laugh. Because they need it and it helps. And, humor can only reach so far against the heartache.

Meanwhile, one of my colleagues at camp had created something more lasting as a summer project: a memorial garden for fallen soldiers, a Gan HaChayalim. These gardens are common in Israel, planted with native desert plants, honoring those who fell so that our people might live. At the dedication, the mood was somber and steady. The Israelis spoke carefully, serious and gentle, trying to help our teens understand what they were carrying while also holding space for the teens’ own fear and confusion. We stood together, wept together, and committed to keep going, together.

In our grief, we chose life.

On Rosh Hashanah we feel the weight of our lives, our people, our world. We imagine the Holy One examining us closely, with deep care, urging us to choose life in every sense of the word. But two years into this war, what does that really mean? Sometimes choosing life requires us to grapple with questions that are literally about life and death. We are living through ever-increase chaos—watching Israel do what it must to survive, while feeling the repercussions here at home and across the diaspora. It has been really hard, and this is something I hear about often from so many of you.

Not a week goes by when I don’t hear from a congregant who simply doesn’t know how to respond anymore. We have a big tent here, with many perspectives. Everyone I speak with is concerned about antisemitism and agrees that Israel has not only a right but an obligation to defend itself. After that, views diverge: some say keep fighting until Hamas is gone; others say the fighting should have stopped long ago, that the cost to Palestinian life is too high. Some see most Palestinians as complicit; others weep for the innocents. Some are dovish, some hawkish. Some say ceasefire now; others insist on total victory. Some are in the middle, and many just don’t know. But everyone with whom I’ve spoken agrees on this: the remaining hostages must come home.

The High Holy Days call us to turn over the stones of our choices and examine them, even if we are convinced that we were right all along. So, let’s ask the hard questions. From the very beginning, this war has had two non-negotiable priorities: ensure that October 7 never happens again, and bring the hostages home. Both are sacred obligations. Both are matters of Jewish survival. But nearly two years in, we must ask honestly: are we still striking the right balance? Because it is becoming devastatingly clear that the drive for total eradication of Hamas may mean that the hostages never come home alive.

When we traveled to Israel last February, we met Danny Miran, whose son Omri was kidnapped from Kibbutz Nahal Oz. None of us imagined that we would still be fighting, and waiting, two years later. Omri may still be alive, though in what condition we dare not guess. Danny, at the time, was living at Hostage Square, clinging to hope because he had no other choice. I cannot imagine what he and the other families continue to endure.

What do Israelis themselves say? Poll after poll shows the same pattern: a clear majority want a deal that prioritizes bringing the hostages home above all else, even if it means ending the war before Hamas is fully eliminated. In recent months, roughly two-thirds of Israelis—including many who vote for Netanyahu’s own coalition—they have voiced that view. When those with the most at stake are the ones saying “enough,” we should listen.

Our tradition teaches that redeeming captives—pidyon shvuyim—is among the highest of mitzvot. Accordingly, Israel’s social contract has long declared: we do everything possible to bring our people home. This is why we exchange so many prisoners with blood on their hands for individual Israelis. Having a civilian army, where parents who choose to live in Israel also choose to send their children into battle, it only works when parents know that the state will do everything in its power to ensure that everyone comes back.

And the hostages’ families, along with so many Israelis, are gathering, protesting, and speaking out to all who will listen. Bring them home. Their cries force us to ask: if what we’re doing now has not brought us closer, might we there be a need for a change in approach? Listen to Nira Sarusi, mother of Almog Sarusi, kidnapped from the Nova festival: “Let anyone who dares say military pressure doesn’t kill look into my eyes. Every minute might be their last. Our soldiers risk their lives every day. Stop the war. Bring back all the hostages and allow us to lift our heads, mourn less, and smile more.” Hear from Rachel Goldberg-Polin, whose son Hersh was murdered by his captors: “We are waiting for people with power to decide it is enough.”

Calls for change are now coming from rabbinic and communal leaders whose voices typically lean hawkish. In August, 80 Modern Orthodox rabbis—staunch Zionists—condemned Hamas while also insisting that Israel has obligations “to prevent mass starvation.” Around the same time, nearly 2,000 prominent Jewish philanthropists, CEOs, and community leaders signed a letter recognizing the toll this war is taking on Israel and Jewish people worldwide, and telling Prime Minister Netanyahu that it is now time to end the war.

We just read the story of Sarah and Abraham casting Hagar and Ishmael into the wilderness. The text does not soften the anguish: Hagar places the boy under a bush—va-tashlech et ha-yeled—and sits at a distance because she cannot bear to watch him die. Then the Torah says, “Vayishma Elohim et kol ha-na’ar ba’asher hu sham”—God hears the voice of the boy as he is, where he is. An angel calls to Hagar, “Al tiri”—do not fear—and opens her eyes to a well of water that had been there all along.

On Rosh Hashanah, we read this to remind ourselves that God cares about our people, and cares for all life. Not one more than the other, but both. The text teaches us that to honor God is to hear every human cry, from wherever and whomever it may come.

In just over two weeks from now, we will reach the two-year mark—two years of war, two years of upheaval for Israel and our people, two years of captivity for the hostages. Anniversaries, like Rosh Hashanah, call us to look back at the path we’ve taken and to look ahead at the choices that lie before us. They remind us that what made sense last year does not automatically the right choice for this year.

In Deuteronomy, Moses implores the Israelites about to enter the holy land: “Choose life.” There is so much life that needs choosing this year—the lives of hostages still held, the lives of young Israelis like the mishlachat carrying unbearable burdens, the lives of Israelis yearning for a return to calm and normalcy. The lives of Palestinians trapped in this horror. And our own lives too—we who need reprieve from the chaos of protests and threats, worn down by attacks from all around, all while holding concern for our people and our state. Our voices may not be loud enough to change minds in Jerusalem, but they can strengthen those making impossible choices each day, giving as much as they can to bring us through in wholeness.

After October 7, survivors of the Nova festival massacre declared: “We will dance again.” The words became the title of an Emmy award-winning film, a mantra repeated at rallies and vigils, and the inspiration for songs of hope. It is more than a slogan; it is a commitment. Saying we will dance again does not deny grief—it insists that grief not define our future. This Rosh Hashanah, as we pray to be inscribed in the Book of Life, let us be the people who choose life at every turn, so that one day we may find healing, safety, and comfort, so that one day we emerge from this darkness to dance once again.

Shana tova!