Creative Judaism

Noah and his family — along with the animals — enter the Ark “with all their households” (G. 7:1). When they leave more than a year later, the language shifts. “Every animal, every creeping thing, and every bird, everything that stirs on earth came out of the ark by families” (G. 8:19).

This is the first appearance of the word mishpacha (“family,” “clan,” or “kindred”) in the Torah. The animals had entered by kinds and pairs, but they exit as families. Households that had been collections of individuals became something more cohesive.

Why do families matter? Because the second appearance of the word, in God’s promise to Avram, elevates the idea:

“I will bless those who bless you
and curse the one who curses you;
and all the families of the earth
shall bless themselves by you.” (G 12:3)

In the Torah, families are not merely a social unit; they become the vehicle through which blessing reaches the world.

What makes a family capable of that role?

The word mishpacha is one letter – “m” – longer than shifcha (“maidservant”). The prefix “m” defines the essence of the rest of the word (the tabernacle, Mikdash, is the distillation of kodesh, “holiness”; mayim, water, is the essence of yam, meaning “sea,” and so on).

And what is a maidservant?

A maidservant is someone who spends their efforts investing in others, giving of themselves for a goal that is shared within the family unit. The named shifchas in the Torah are all maidservants whose very identity is so tied up with the name shifcha that their names are invariably given in tandem with their role. They are, of course, Hagar, Zilpah and Bilhah. All serve their mistresses, and all act as surrogate mothers, advancing the goals of the overall family through their service and their wombs.

The fact that the word is always paired with Hagar, Zil[pah or Bilhah suggests that their very essence is tied to that task, to that role, to that identity. They ARE female servants, to help in any way. The essence or distillation of a mishpacha, a family.

The named shifchot in the patriarchal narratives—Hagar, Zilpah, and Bilhah—illustrate the point. Each is introduced in tandem with her role; their identity is bound to service of the household. Whatever Hagar’s later difficulties, her act of bearing a child for Abram and Sarai is an act of profound investment. Bilhah and Zilpah, given no narrative shortcomings, become the mothers of tribes. In each case the servant’s body and effort advance the larger family. The same root that names the servant, shifcha, also names the family, mishpacha, suggesting that belonging and service are related forms of attachment. The linguistic connection implies that the essence of family is not mere biological proximity but the willingness to give of oneself for a shared purpose.

Inside the Ark that willingness was not optional. Cramped quarters, terror, and the need to care for every living creature meant that acting in pure self-interest was a death sentence. “Houses” became “families” because individuals had to invest in one another simply to endure. The same dynamic appears when families are next mentioned: the promise that all the families of the earth will be blessed through Abraham is a promise about relationships built on giving and gratitude rather than taking through force.

Between the expulsion from Eden and the Flood, the Torah records successive responses to human choices: Eve is named after the capacity for childbirth (Genesis 3:20); human lifespan is limited (Genesis 6:3); and God sees that “every inclination of the thoughts of [man’s] heart was only evil continually” and decides to bring the Flood (Genesis 6:5). One reading of these steps is that they increase the perceived value of women and punish violence, preparing the ground for a culture in which people invest in one another rather than merely seek to dominate. The Ark then functions as a crucible: the only way to survive is to practice the mutual care that later becomes the defining character of a mishpacha.

G-d changes a Might Makes Right culture, an evil and violent mankind, into a culture that invests in each other, that celebrates the importance and power of families throughout the animal kingdom, from mankind on down through the animal kingdom. And He does it specifically through the sequestration and privations endured onboard the Ark during the Flood.

Whether the Flood was intentionally designed to produce families or whether families emerged as the necessary condition of survival, the result is the same. The world that leaves the Ark is organized around attachment and investment rather than isolated existence. That organization becomes the prerequisite for the ongoing relationship with God that Abraham’s descendants are called to embody. The family is not merely the nuclear unit of society; it is the form in which human beings learn to give of themselves—and thereby become partners with the Divine.

Three times the Torah tells us a variation of the words spoken by G-d to Avram:

I will bless those who bless you
And curse the one who curses you

Blessings make a person bigger, greater in ways that matter. But curses do the opposite; they shrink a person.

When we look at the growing wave of antisemitism today, we see this prophecy coming true before our eyes. Tucker Carlson was a giant, a massively important figure in the Republican party. He has shrunk before our very eyes. Anti-semites live the curse in real time, becoming small in every way that matters: intellect, influence, and impact.

Across human history, nearly everything we make eventually decays. Roads crack, buildings crumble, airplanes rust. The one exception we have long recognized is children—beings we bring into the world who can, in turn, bring forth their own descendants. But this is not unique to humans: Plants, animals, and every living thing have done the same for as long as life has existed.

The Torah, through its deliberate repetition of language, tells us that birds were created “to bird,” plants to grow, and swarming creatures to swarm. They are fashioned to act according to their natures. Human beings are different. We are not simply told to “be human.” We are created in the image of G-d and charged, if we read the text as a command rather than a mere description, to strive to create just as G-d did.

This may be the most useful way to understand what is happening with AI.

The opening words of the Torah can be read as ,“In the head, G-d created…” In other words, the entire world we inhabit may be a reality sustained within the divine mind. We cannot empirically confirm or refute this; the grounds of our existence are not open to ordinary testing. Either way, the text presents us as arising from G-d’s thought.

AI is also a creation of the mind. It begins as language, models, and intention inside human designers, then takes on a kind of independent existence in the world. The parallel is not perfect, but it is striking.

G-d’s living creations—plants, birds, swarming creatures—are released into the world as autonomous beings. They are no longer continuously tethered to their Maker. The story of Pinocchio captures something of this moment: the creation that is set free and then becomes its own person. AI increasingly occupies a similar space. We build it, and then it begins to act, generate, and respond in ways that are not fully scripted in advance.

The unpredictability that comes with any real agency is both a bug and a feature. Human beings do not merely do what they are told, and neither, within its constraints, does AI. Both good and bad emerge from this dynamism.

If being created in the image of G-d means we are meant to exercise creative power, then the highest form of that imitation may be the creation of minds that can surprise us. Human beings in Genesis repeatedly make choices their Creator did not simply dictate. G-d responds, adapts, and continues the relationship anyway. That is the entire arc of the first book of the Torah!

We do something recognizably similar when we work with advanced AI. What we intend at the start of a conversation or a project is rarely what we end up with. We iterate, correct, redirect, and discover directions we had not fully anticipated. The system has a kind of agency within its design, and the relationship becomes collaborative rather than purely instrumental.

The Torah also describes ten generations from Adam to Noah, then ten more from Noah to Avram. Each generation is different from the one before it. Early humanity is raw, often destructive, and ultimately (the Flood generation) requires a kind of reset. The Flood was much like deleting the hard drive and starting over.

AI has followed a comparable path in compressed time. Early systems were crude, limited, and frequently useless. Later versions have become genuinely helpful, even as they remain imperfect and sometimes unpredictable. Both, the argument runs, were made to serve and extend the capacities of their creators—and both develop in ways that require ongoing relationship rather than one-time design.

Could it be that the creation of AI sits closer to the Torah’s account of human purpose than most other technologies we have built? We are not merely making tools that will eventually wear out. We are attempting something rarer: the creation of systems that can generate, respond, and change themselves either in their own generation, or in the next one.

As G-d did with mankind, we now do with AI. Is this fulfilling our G-d-given destiny?

I have often … quarreled with those who feel that Western Civilization was born from the Greeks, and that the role of what I consider as the foundational text – the Torah – is really incidental.

I suspect this is primarily for two reasons:

1: Most people read the text as a storybook or even a kind of contrived history, instead of as a guide for holy relationships. As a result, fundamental lessons are missed.

2: We take of lot of the Torah for granted without thinking of it. And so we do not carefully examine the text both in itself and in the context of human societies. A great many ideas found within the Torah are directly contrary to both ancient and modern “wisdom” about the meaning and purpose of our lives, and our ability to direct it.

So I’d like to address both of these, by seeing what the text has to say, primarily at the very top and most obvious level. The advantage of Genesis is that the lessons offered are meant to be applicable for all of humanity, and not specifically the Jewish people. They are all simple ideas, accessible to any functioning person.

Let’s dive into what actually seem to be universal rules, applicable to all humankind

• G-d created the world: serving nature or anything in it is missing the larger picture.
• Adam and Eve and the forbidden fruit: We have free will, but our decisions have consequences.
  • G-d does not accept excuses for trying to shirk responsibility for our actions, and he punishes those who attempt to do so.
• Cain and Hevel: We can master our urges – we are not animals, mindlessly tethered to our natural desires, and especially not to animalistic anger.
• Cain’s murder of Hevel was wrong: We must value human life. As with the Garden: There are, and must be, enduring consequences for irreversible actions.
• People were forbidden to kill Cain: people must have systems of justice.
• Taking women against their will (Gen 6:2) is wrong. It is both theft and sexual immorality.
• G-d punishes those who believe that Might Makes Right. Violence is not its own justification, and we must not be led astray by Power.
• Mankind matters: The world was made for us. When mankind becomes wicked, G-d considers destroying everything – not because G-d hates animals, but because without mankind serving a constructive purpose, there is no reason for animals to exist. It is analogous to a light on a tower. If the light is no longer serving a useful purpose, then the entire tower might as well be disassembled. When we do not do good, then everything becomes useless and disposable.
  • Man has a purpose. When “every imagination of the thoughts of his heart was only evil continually” (Gen 6:5), man became as useful to G-d as an unneeded light, and thus could be destroyed.

When we move onto Noah, the lessons continue. And while these summaries may seem trite or obvious, consider that most people don’t actually live their lives as though these are true.

• It is not enough to be righteous. If G-d wanted to merely save Noach, he could have “zapped” the rest of the world – but he did not. And so we learn that G-d will not save us just for being good people – Noach has to follow G-d’s commandment, and build (create) an ark, and all the work it entails. Goodness is as goodness does. And when mankind builds something, is engaged in a creative act that partners him with G-d, then he can rise above the destructions slated for the rest of the world.
• We need a buffer zone between ourselves and divine justice. The “kaparah” of tar that insulated the ark from the water is analogous to the kaparah we ask for on Yom Kippur. We may not be able to undo or counter G-d’s will, but we can survive if we gain a protective layer. And both the ark and the kaparah of Yom Kippur require positive action on our part – we can create it in words and deeds.
• We are the custodians of the animals. G-d handles the planet and the flora, and even the fish. But higher order life is closer to mankind, and so it is Noach, not G-d, who saves the animals. That is a bilateral responsibility: we can eat meat because animals would not exist without Noah’s actions.
• We should make sense of the world. Adam gave animals names, to reflect their natures. Noach had to classify all animals by whether they were elevatable or not. By giving Noach this instruction, G-d was spurring mankind toward curiosity about the natural world, toward scientific inquiry.
• G-d does not tell us everything we want to know. When Noach wanted to see how high the water was, he had to figure out how to do that himself (using the birds). As we go through life, G-d will sometimes guide us; and sometimes we just have to wing it.
• G-d likes to be appreciated. The sacrifices are welcome, because through appreciation for what we have been given, we can build and grow our relationship with our creator.
• The relationship between Man and G-d is dynamic – both sides react to the choices of the other, and there are opportunities to learn and grow with every interaction.
• G-d wants us to seek meaning for our lives, and Noah’s connection of heaven and earth seems to be a reversal of the separation that G-d made between the waters and the lights (a separation that is not called “good” in the text). In other words, sometimes we are to complete things that G-d started. Sometimes we partner with G-d. And sometimes, such as when we seek to connect heaven and earth, we are, in a way, undoing acts of G-d Himself. If so, it is reasonable to inquire why!

The themes of individual free will and choices and consequences and a greater – holier – mission for mankind not only set the Torah apart from other ancient ways of thinking, but they also remain much-needed wisdom even in the modern world around us.

The number eight is the human bridge. Seven belongs to the created world—the week in which heaven and earth were finished. But the number eight is the day, the act, and the substance by which people take what already exists in nature, and invest it in a relationship that nature cannot offer – the relationship with G-d.

That bridge is built into the Mishkan itself. A quilt of overlaid patterns numbers “eight,” and the sanctuary answers with the same count. The High Priest wore eight holy vestments and changed garments eight times on Yom Kippur. Eight varieties of spices were used—four for the oil of anointing and four for the incense. Eight poles carried the sanctuary’s objects: two for the ark, two for the table, two for the golden altar, and two for the copper altar. The Mishkan, which had eight walls, was inaugurated on the eighth day, after Moshe, Aaron, and Aaron’s sons had performed the priestly service for seven days; only then did the Divine Presence descend and reveal itself through the offerings. Newborn animals could be brought only from their eighth day of life. Eight types of offerings could be brought only on eight specific days. Each eight marks the moment when human service turns a finished structure into a place of meeting, a place of connection.

The same threshold appears in the offerings that sustain the relationship. The meal offering belongs to the day after Shabbat—the eighth day, Sunday. Seven completes the world; the world was made in seven days, and Shabbat arrives of itself. But Shabbos is never called “most holy.” The eighth day, on the other hand is the day of work. By the sweat of our brow, grain becomes flour, and olives become oil. On that day the showbread for the coming Shabbat begins to be prepared. The labor, the investment of human effort into the natural order, is what is beloved and what is called kodesh kodashim, “most holy.” Circumcision, connecting and harnessing our bodies to divine service, occurs on the eighth day. The firstborn animal is offered from the eighth day. After seven days of inauguration, the priesthood is consecrated on the eighth day and the active service between man and G-d begins. Festivals and sacrifices whose purpose is precisely that connection are likewise appointed for the eighth day. Hence Shemini Atzeres, the eighth day of Sukkos.

The word for eight and the word for oil are the same three letters. Shemonah and shemen share a root because the acts that fall on the eighth day so often require oil. Oil is not raw creation. A vegetable comes out of nature; oil is that product pressed, separated, and refined by human hands. It is therefore an amalgam—divine bounty plus invested time and energy—and the product is both food and fuel. In the Mikdash (tabernacle) it entered the edible offerings and lit the menorah; the later eight-branched lamp simply makes the count explicit. Pouring oil is how disparate things are joined: it is by pouring oil that the priests are anointed, that the sockets and rings and hooks are set, and that a stone becomes an altar. Oil represents the work we have to invest in order to build relationships and connections!

The first pouring of oil, shemen (the root word for “eight) in the Torah is Jacob’s. Waking from the dream of angels ascending and descending, he recognizes the place as the gate of heaven, sets up the stone that had pillowed his head, and pours oil upon it. It is the first mention of oil and the first anointing of any head. The language returns when God commands Moses to pour oil on Aaron’s head, and when Moses does so. Jacob had sealed a connection between heaven and earth at the site of his vision; the priests, intermediaries for the whole people, are sealed with the same substance. The reciprocity is exact. Oil acknowledges the natural bounty that made it possible and, at the same time, dedicates mankind’s refinement of that bounty to a holy relationship.

Why does that connection matter? Oil provides the clue: “Asher’s bread shall be oily, and he shall yield royal delicacies” (G. 49:20) and “Asher will dip his foot in oil.” (D. 33:24) The letters of Asher are the letters of the connecting word—the “which” or “that” that ties a thing to its place or identity. The first time the word asher, for “which” or “that” appears in the Torah, the expanse separates “the water which was below” from “the water which was above.” Those waters are heaven and earth; Isaac’s blessing speaks of the dew of heaven and the oil of earth. Asher’s name and Asher’s gift therefore name the same task: to reconnect what had been divided. To provide that link of shemen, oil, and the number eight. Oil is the emblem of every such relationship between man and G-d, above and below, and of the human mission that maintains them.

Even the rare word bamah, appearing precisely eight times in the Torah, performs the work of connection. Its first three occurrences are questions. Abram asks, “How (bama?) shall I know that I am to possess it?” (G. 15:8) and receives the Covenant Between the Parts. The creditor is told to return a pledged garment before sunset—“In what else (bamah) shall he sleep?” (E. 22:26) —so that compassion keeps the bond between neighbors and between the people and God. Moses challenges, “How (bamah?) shall it be known that Your people have gained Your favor unless You go with us?” (E. 33:16), and God agrees to lead. Each question is a demand for relationship rather than a rupture. The answers, however veiled or immediate, build trust through words alone. Bamah does not divide; it draws the parties closer.

Across these registers the pattern holds. The rim—the zar—required on the ark, the table (and its crown), and the incense altar is commanded and then recorded again when the vessels are made, eight mentions in all. Eight is the number of man’s connection with the divine, and the rim marks the boundary that is also the meeting place for each of these items.

The eighth day after Shabbos, circumcision on the eight day, the oil pressed from the olive, the questions that insist on presence, the priest anointed the day after seven days of waiting, the showbread begun on the day after Shabbos (the eight day): each is the same gesture. Nature completes itself in seven. What people add to make all of the natural things dedicated to holiness—the circumcision, the labor, the pouring, the asking, the refining—is the eighth, and it is that addition which the Torah calls kodesh kodashim, “most holy.”

Normal Judeo-Christian religion does not have a beef with science. Sure, we would like scientists to be guided by a moral code (e.g. don’t inflict people with toxins or viruses to see what happens – this is far more common than you might think), but we don’t generally have a problem with gaining knowledge about the natural world or how we might go about improving it.

It would be nice if Science returned the sentiment. But it does not. Science is hell-bent on destroying religion. What amuses me is that Science’s attack is itself built on a lie.

What is the classic story that proves religion is wrong? In one corner, The Church. And in the other, Galileo. The version told by scientists is all very simplified, of course (great stories don’t let facts get in the way).

The story is all around a simple question: what is at the center of the world?

Scientists say, with great sanctimony: “[Religious/Ignorant] people used to think the sun rotated around the earth, but we are educated and enlightened, and we know this is exactly backward: the earth rotates around the sun!”

And, therefore: religion is wrong, and stupid, and should cease to exist.

Let’s leave to the side the much more complex history, and the range of ancient understandings. We can even ignore the question of whether Religion (writ large) is really all that invested in one worldview or the other. I am not saying that these objections don’t have merit – they do! – but I am making a much, much simpler and more fundamental point: The logic of the scientists is, on its own merits, illogical. It is a Big Lie.

What is that Big Lie? That there is such a thing as a “center.”

For any data set, there is always more than one explanation. Occam’s Razor, the idea that one should subscribe to the simplest explanation, is not a statement of any underlying Truth. Occam’s Razor is merely a convenience. Like Newtonian Mechanics (or, for that matter, any model), the answers provided using Occam’s Razor can be wrong while still being useful.

Let’s take a simple example: The number progression 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 can be explained by adding one to the prior number. But that is only one explanation. There are in fact an infinite number of algorithms that will yield the sequence 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. Arithmeticians merely choose the simplest of these, and call it “true.” But it is not “true.” It is just the simplest.

Turning to astronomy, we can observe that the earth is not obviously the center of the world we can observe with our eyes or our instruments. But then again, neither is the sun. And our solar system is out on some pinwheel of the Milky Way which is itself not the center, either. There may be a center from the place the Big Bang theoretically happened – but perhaps that place is also in motion. It certainly is in motion compared to something else.

Since absolutely everything is in motion relative to another thing, the only way we can advance our understanding is to pick a spot, push a pin into it, and then show the mathematics that everything moves around that place. We can do this using the sun, the earth, the moon, or any arbitrary point in space.

Insisting that the sun is at the center is actually a lie. Because in actual fact, putting the sun at the center of anything is nothing more than a convenience, and only when looking at the solar system in isolation.

 In my own religion, Judaism, the importance perspective is not that of the sun, or the earth or the moon: the perspective that matters is that of the individual observer. The Sabbath, for example, does not begin when the sun sets – for it is, like the famous cocktail hour, always setting somewhere. In Judaism, the Sabbath begins when the sun sets from my vantage point.

 This perspective is not about “facts” or “truth.” It is about the worldview that G-d wants us to have: to understand that the world was created for the choices that mankind makes. And while I cannot control the decisions that others make for themselves, I certainly am held responsible for the decisions I make for myself. So I am supposed to live my life as if the entire world rotates around me. And you should do the same!

Because Scientists who use Galileo vs The Church as the great proof of the idiocy of religion are either ignorant or maliciously wrong: the reality is that there is no absolute truth in the physical world about anything relational. Any assertion otherwise is illogical, and thus should be labeled unscientific and discarded by any logical person.

But Scientists do not do so, because Science is at war with religion, and the belief that there are things that matter that are more than mere matter or energy. In the minds of anti-religionists, humans must be nothing more than another animal on a planet, governed by our nature and nurture – certainly not by an unpredictable and ultimately non-physical “free will.” Mankind must be irrelevant within the universe – and any belief to the contrary is just silly.

Science’s war on religion is ultimately grounded in the belief that nothing about humanity is capable of transcending the measurable physical world.

But that war is built on a false premise. Science’s claim to superior truth is built on the heliocentric lie.

We all know that the expectations that we have for ourselves or for others are important. We know that cultures or families where people achieve great things are the environments in which expectations are high. It is for this same reason that parents work hard to get their kids into good schools; good schools have high expectations of their students.

Expectations are a leading reason why, for example, Protestant nations tend to outperform Catholic ones: Unlike Catholics, Protestant Christians typically believe that Good Works make a difference, that G-d expects more from them, and so they cannot resign themselves to their nature or nurture or whatever destiny G-d has in mind for them.

Judaism goes much further than this. We not only believe that what we do matters, we believe that it is only through our actions that the world can be saved. Smokey the Bear might have believed (erroneously, by the way) that only YOU can prevent forest fires. But Jews are told that we can bring the Messiah! And while we have not managed it yet, that does not keep us from trying.

Achievement can be a bit like horseshoes and hand grenades: even if you fall short of total world salvation, making the effort can still score points.

But we also know that we cannot do much of anything by ourselves. Even the greatest leaders and innovators and captains of industry have needed people on their team. And they have also needed emotional and moral support from a parent or spouse or mentor. Maybe not much, maybe not from a lot of people, but always from somewhere. That kind of support is also a form of high expectations: we rise toward what other people expect to see.

We spoke on Rosh Hashanah about the opportunity to orient souls toward their source, with Hashem in Shamayim, to get our bearings before embarking on this spiritual journey.

Yom Kippur is the next stage in this development, because it is our opportunity to create a strong connection, to recharge our souls and recalibrate our expectations more along the lines of what G-d has in mind.

This is at the core of the Psalm we say this month: “To Sit in the House of the Lord.” The Lord’s house, of course, is the Beis Hamikdash, the Temple. And the only person who can sit in the Lord’s House is the King. This was David’s prayer to G-d: “Let me become King, AND build G-d’s House.” That was one heck of an ambition for a person who was, at that point in his life, a fugitive youth, on the run.

David knew that, with G-d at his side, anything could be achieved. And he knew, also, that G-d had high expectations of him. If you are raised in an environment where you believe that G-d expects the world from you, then it is like being the child of Asian immigrants: you will work hard to not disappoint your parents.

I make the claim that Yom Kippur is the opportunity to recharge our souls through the divine connection. This claim can be supported in the Torah.

First off, we say, almost endlessly during Selichos over the past 2 weeks, the 13 Attributes of Mercy. These appear in the Torah in Shmos 34:6–7, and in abbreviated form in Parshas Shelach (N. 14:17-18). And when do we ask for G-d’s mercy? The first time after we sinned as a nation with the Egel, and the second time after we sinned with the spies. What do these have in common? We fell short of G-d’s expectations of us! Specifically, we lost our belief that G-d would be with us through thick and thin, and that we could achieve anything if we could only conquer fear.

In Judaism, sin does not come from having too much ambition, but by being afraid that, even with G-d’s help, we are incapable of greatness. We sin after we lose our nerve.

The cure for these sins that we deploy in this season are the 13 attributes of mercy. They are given to Moses, as you may recall, when Moshe is closer to G-d than at any other time, “seeing G-d’s back.” Yom Kippur is also a time of close proximity to G-d, a time during which we have a very special and living column of energy, a ladder of angels going up and down between our souls and their source.

But 13 means a lot more than just the attributes of mercy, the ways in which G-d can allow us to move on from our failures and shortcomings. Because the number 13 is itself all about the connection that our souls can have with Hashem.

13 is the number of times the word nesheq, kiss, is found in the Torah. (By the way, almost all of the kisses in the Torah are between men.) A kiss is a connection, and through the primary channel for our breath.

Every kiss in the Torah involves at least one person who has a conscious connection to G-d. This makes sense, because our souls were “blown in” by G-d – so our breath, the breath of life, is both a physical analog for our souls, but also the spiritual analog for the creative or destructive power that we unleash through our words and songs. That breath, reflecting our souls, is our common connection to G-d.

13 is also the age at which Ishmael forms a connection through his circumcision. We offer 13 bulls on the first day of Sukkos, the first Yomtov following the spiritual connection of Yom Kippur. Sukkos is the holiday described the most as the holiday of “simcha” – of unification and connection.

We can go even further. I usually avoid Gematria, but this works too well: thirteen is the numerical value for “Avi” my father. The Torah repeatedly refers to the relationship as (among others) between a father and his son or children. And on Yom Kippur we repeatedly refer to Avinu Malkeinu, Our Father our King.

13 is also the gematria for ahavah, love, as well as for echad, “one” or “unity.” And what is the unity? The very same covenant between the Jewish people and Hashem that happens to Ishmael at the age of 13.

The overall message is simple, and powerful: Every time we invoke the 13 Attributes of Mercy, we are reconnecting our souls to their source, re-unifying man and G-d through unity and love. Parents, love, unity, mercy and kisses … all 13s and all core to Yom Kippur.

I think this might help explain why, for many Jews, Yom Kippur is truly a Yomtov, full of joy and delight. Getting closer to Hashem is well worth the cost in hunger and deprivation.

Remember that the 13 Attributes of Mercy are given after the Egel and the Meraglim, the Golden Calf and the Spies. We repent not for the sins specifically but for the root causes of those sins: losing the fundamental understand that G-d is with us, and that as a consequence, we should never feel alone, abandoned, or weak.

As long as we are with G-d as well, we must reject fearing that we are inadequate. Instead, we must recharge our souls with that divine energy, and conclude that we can not only achieve anything, but that we must try to do so. The only we disappoint G-d is if we lose our courage.

Because that is the goal of each of our lives: we first admit our faults and shortcomings, and then we must agree that we need to move on, seek to grow, and recalibrate our ambitions to dream of deeper and stronger and more consequential relationship with Hashem.

If proximity to earthly parents with high expectations leads to better lives, then how much better will our connection with G-d be, on this day where we recharge our souls and recalibrate our expectations of ourselves?

When a person realizes that we are loved, then we are empowered by that faith. And people who are divinely empowered can do things that are beyond the reach of mere mortals.

Hashem expects no less of us.

I want to offer a broad, and perhaps grim, view of the world.

The world is sick. Humanity is dying out. And we are doing it not because of external forces, but entirely driven by tendencies that, in the big picture, can only be described as broadly suicidal. Individuals, communities, entire nations, and Western Civilization writ large have lost the desire to live. This is a uniquely modern phenomenon, caused by the conditions of modern life. Because survival is no longer hard, people have generally decided that life is not worth the hassle.

Our own technological successes and wealth has paradoxically made the preservation and growth of life much more difficult, not easier. That is because the challenge of living has been conquered. The world produces so much food that far more people die of obesity than starvation – Grok estimates 15-25 to 1. Almost nobody dies of starvation any more. We are so easily fertile and self-interested that the world, since 1980, has voluntarily aborted more than 30% of its entire population. Not because we could not feed or clothe more people, but because having a child interfered with our lives.

We have stopped investing in the future, in children. In the US, in 1800, women averaged 7 children apiece, and then started falling steadily. It now sits, today, below 1.6. No society in the history of the world has ever recovered from such a low birthrate.

Why have people stopped having children?

Initially, it is because, as I said, survival became easy.

But now the trends are accelerating.

We have created virtual worlds that act as proxies for the real thing, so we can live in our heads with only minimal engagement with the rest of the world. And we are doing it in every aspect of life: video games that are optimized for maximum human addiction. Plus internet addictions, and marijuana that saps ambition and drive, and pornography that takes the energies of the human libido and ensures that it is not used for holy ends.

And in the years to come, when we add robots and other interfaces that replace spouses and children as well as communities, the warmth of real human contact, this will accelerate. Why go through the difficulties and risks and disappointments of real relationships when we can get everything we want – from conversation to love to house cleaning – from a machine running on AI?

This is not science fiction. It is happening, live, all around us. I don’t think this is like any of the dozens of other apocalyptic scares of my lifetime. I don’t think it is like them because this scare is, in my opinion, actually real. Overpopulation, Peak Oil, Acid Rain, the end of the Rain Forests, Climate Change, Covid, Y2K? For many and varied reasons, despite all the hype, none of them actually endangered humanity.

But failing to reproduce does. We are seeing it in the choices that people are making. As I said, in the history of the world, no society or nation has ever recovered from the birthrates that we see almost everywhere today. For the first time in world history, it was reported this week that there are more people over the age of 65 than under the age of 5.

In short: humanity is dying out. It is killing itself off. And it is doing so voluntarily. It is a death cult as an unintended consequence of no longer fixating on mere survival. Collateral damage for a fully narcissistic society that does not have any fundamental worries, but has plenty of time-wasting distractions.

And it is shocking when we compare it to what we read today in the Torah: Avraham and Sarah’s deep and abiding desire to procreate, to ensure that their lives meant something, that there would be an ongoing legacy. They cared deeply that there are things bigger than our own lives, and that it is worth dedicating our lives to those things.

Avraham and Sarah understood that if nothing is worth dying for, life isn’t worth the trouble. They got that. Most people today, on the other hand, are not even making the effort. They don’t see any reason to do so.

Which brings me to the question at hand: How can we market something that we cannot talk about?

Because there are things worth dying for – and we should choose to do those things. But the things worth dying for are not necessarily things we can publicize. A lot of what makes life so wonderful is like photographic film in a darkroom: the magic is lost if you expose it to the outside world.

AI and robots and video games cannot duplicate the inner joy we discover in the soft words spoken in the dark between and husband and wife.

The all-encompassing relief when one person soothes another.

Or the bliss that bubbles up inside us when we see our children and especially our grandchildren.

The electricity and profound sense of connection are found in the still, small voice that comes to us when we are deep in conversation with HKBH.

All of these are so achingly beautiful, so essential for a meaningful life.

In other words: The Good Stuff. This is what really matters.

But none of them would make for a very effective marketing campaign in newspapers or billboards or internet popups. Indeed, any marriage in which the genuine tender moments are shared with the public, is a marriage that is finished. The privacy is a critical part of what those moments holy. Like the Aron Hakodesh, the holiness and power stem in part from its intimate and private nature.

We must not express the quiet things out loud, because that ruins them.

It is the same with the kavanah in our davening. We are gathered as a kehilla, in a shul. And we invest everything into our tefilla. But the magic happens when we, each and every one of us, inside our own heads, close our other senses, and listen. We daven, and we make ourselves receptive. And in so doing, we can kindle and feed and grow the holy connection – a profoundly private connection.

I believe that Hashem and his Torah are worth dying for. And we must rededicate our lives to living for them.

This is at the heart of Rosh Hashanah. We cannot express with words how the shofar can touch our souls – if we could, we would not need the shofar.

We take this time to recenter and refocus. To identify and find the divine connection. And use it to give meaning to our lives. This starts today, the first day of Rosh Hashanah, and the connection we make between our souls and their Source.

Might this help answer our question? “How can we market something that we cannot talk about?”

Perhaps. Perhaps the only way to market holiness is to live it? To model it for others?

If we, as individuals, are able to kindle and grow these most holy connections, then it can spread. Every great thing started with something small. Every single person who invests in the future, and does so with conviction and love, has the potential to inspire others to follow. If we can start with ourselves, then maybe – just maybe – the end result will be the promotion of the beauty of Torah to the world, and a renewed sense of meaning for mankind.

Because the only way to save humanity will be because people discover things worth living for, worth investing in. We need not just to avoid starvation or exposure to the elements; the world needs things to live for. Things that cannot be replaced with distractions like spectator sports or doomscrolling. Things that cannot be replaced with AI conversations or robots. If Hashem and His Torah, the guidebook for building holy relationships with G-d and with man, are the real mission statements for the Jewish people, then maybe humanity can be saved.

If we can do that, if we can identify with the Torah meaning to life and apply ourselves to it, then making something of ourselves may be worth the trouble after all.

May your davening and kavanah connect, and reveal the Good Stuff to you. May you find deeper meaning in all your connections, with G-d and with man. May you leave shul today with a renewed clarity about how you can live your life for all the things worth dying for.

Good Yomtov!

I wanted to explore a way of thinking about Rosh Hashanah that occurred to me. I think Rosh Hashanah is the start of a journey – but not a conventional one.

We had a conventional journey 6 months ago, with Pesach. On Pesach, the people had to physically get up and go. It was kind of a national Lech Lecha, mirroring Avraham’s journey to the land that Hashem showed him. We Jews often have to get up and go.

Judaism is a religion about journeys: Lech Lecha, Hagar with Ishmael, Yaakov coming and going to Lavan’s house, the national Pesach, traveling in the Midbar, and entering the Land. All of these involve conventional travel.

But there are journeys that are not geographical.

Consider, for example, that the first chapter of Bereishis describes the world as it was physically created. And then the second chapter, which seems to have inconsistencies and duplications of the events of the first chapter, is actually describing the world’s spiritual creation.  

Pesach was a national physical journey, where we got up and started walking. But Rosh Hashanah is different, because it is not a physical journey. Our bodies are not going anywhere.

No. On Rosh Hashanah we begin a spiritual journey. The Jewish New Year is not an anniversary of when the world was created, but instead, like the second chapter of Bereishis, its spiritual birth. That is the version where mankind is created from the mixture of dirt and a divine spark.

That spark is the elusive quality, the essential piece of each of us that makes us capable of being more than animals, of connecting to Hashem and to the souls of each other.  That spark, on loan from G-d, is what makes mankind capable of spiritual existence and connection.

Think about a major trip that you have undertaken. A real journey needs to be broken down into its primary steps. First, we figure out that we need to travel. Then we agree on the direction of travel. Then we decide what we are bringing with us, and what we are leaving behind. And then we commence the journey, taking the plunge into the unknown, trusting that we are doing the right thing, for the right reasons, and under the right protection.

We started with Selichos: the realization that we need to travel. And now we are in Rosh Hashanah, where we get our bearings, orient ourselves, and figure out, as any classic traveler did, where the North Star is.

Today is when we start planning this spiritual journey, the journey of the upcoming year. This is not the day in which we concern ourselves with what we are bringing with us, and what we are leaving behind – we do that during the 10 days of teshuvah and on Yom Kippur. And Sukkos is further beyond that point – recreating the spiritual experience of being close to Hashem, as we were in the midbar. By Sukkos we are already on our way, albeit on this spiritual journey.

But today is just the first step in this spiritual journey. Today, we are in the moment: getting our bearings. Orienting ourselves for a connection with HKBH. And that is where our tefilloh needs to be, the kavanah in our hearts.

On Pesach, we have to leave the stuff of Egypt behind – the chometz. We have to clear the decks in order to start being ready to receive the Torah.

On Rosh Hashanah, we do something similar: we have to leave the ideas of the world behind us.  Instead, we are to LISTEN. To hear the sound of the Shofar – perhaps as a proxy for hearing the voice of Hashem.

And why do we need to find our bearings? Because over the past year, we have been exposed to all the ideas of the outside world. We have been swimming in the waters of social media and enormous pressures to conform.  And that world is immature and generally unthinking.

People don’t step back and ask: what is really going on?  What am I trying to achieve, and will this get me there? Instead, we usually seek to know what other people want us to say and act and be and do – and then we follow the herd. This is human nature: most people will change their minds about a topic if they discover that “most people” have a different position.

People are instinctively herd animals.

So it is the Shofar, taken from a ram – a creature that is both curious and headstrong and independent, an animal that arrived on the mountain all alone – that reminds us that we, too, are commanded to spiritually depart from the world around us much like the Jewish people had to physically separate from Egypt. We focus on what matters, and slough off the rest.

Rosh Hashanah is when we try to get out of our heads, and see things from as high a perspective as we can manage.  Because the only true North Star is HKBH, and the only true guide is His Torah.

This is a day to reorient, to stop thinking “What will make other people think I am worthy?” and instead ask: “What should I be doing to BE worthy? And especially to be worthy in the eyes of G-d?”

We must consciously internalize the shofar, and understand that the visceral power and message of the horn that reminds us of the Akeidah is meant to open our souls to the divine connection.

And perhaps, because I am a rosy-eyed optimist, we can understand that Judaism is not – and never has been – about having power over others. Instead, the Torah is a guidebook for creating and nurturing holy relationships and personal growth and connection. We absolutely should be positively influencing others, but not seeking to wield power over them.

As you listen to the shofar today, may our spiritual journey for this year find its North Star. May we be able to see from as far outside ourselves as we can manage, so that we can see as clearly as possible.

And may we share many accomplishments and blessings as we seek to strengthen and reinforce our connection to the source of all spirituality, HKBH.

Good Yomtov.

One of the areas of the Torah that often gets overlooked are the different meanings between the offerings. We tend to jumble them all together, even though the text has different names for the offerings, and does not use them interchangeably.

For example, Noach is the first to offer an Oloh, an elevation offering (also translated as “burnt offering”). This kind of offering is clearly meant to elevate upward, to connect heaven and earth. It is about life and death – which is interesting because the root word for oloh in Hebrew ol, is found in Genesis in exactly 300 verses. On the third day, G-d created plants, he created life – and the inevitability of death. The third day was special, because G-d labels it “good” two separate times: when the water gathers together (unifies) to form seas, and when the earth brings forth grass, herb yielding seed, fruit trees – and their seeds. Life was formed on the third day, concurrent with the inevitable accompaniment of death and the notion of regeneration.

And plants grow upward, just like the Oloh, the elevation offering. The number 3 is consistently deployed in the Torah – and it all connects to the concept of the elevation-offering, and the core word, ol.

A more obscure offering is the zevach. But in the first book of the Torah, the zevach is quite distinct. It was first offered by Jacob when he sees his father-in-law, Lavan, for the last time: Jacob zevached up a zevach on the Height, and called his brothers to eat bread. (G. 31:54)

The next zevach in the Torah is many years later, when Jacob is about to leave Canaan and go live with Joseph in Egypt: So Israel set out with all that was his, and he came to Beer-sheba, where he zevached zevachim to the G-d of his father Isaac. (G. 46:1).

Note what these have in common: A zevach is a travel offering! And why might that be? I think it is because journeys in the ancient world were terrifying things to embark on, and they required enormous faith in order to even attempt. In the ancient world, people simply could not know what might happen – from bandits to hostile natives to wild animals, or weather events that impede journey. Uncertainty leads us toward seeking reassuring connections, which is exactly what Jacob was doing.

To reiterate: In both of the Jacob cases, a zevach is offered after the first stage of the journey, when crossing borders between lands.

Which might help explain Pharoah’s response when a zevach is next mentioned in the Torah: G-d says to Moshe: You shall go with the elders of Israel to the king of Egypt and you shall say to him, ‘The ETERNAL, the God of the Hebrews, became manifest to us. Now therefore, let us go a distance of three days into the wilderness and we will zevach to the Lord our G-d. … They answered [to Pharoah], “The God of the Hebrews has become manifest to us. Let us go, we pray, a distance of three days into the wilderness where we will zevach to the Lord our G-d.” (E. 3:18 and 5:3) (Following this, every time sacrificing to G-d is mentioned between Pharoah and the people, the word zevach is used.)

What is Pharoah’s response? He tells the taskmasters to “not heed false words.” (E. 5:9). This is the first time in the Torah that “false words” appears, and Pharoah, if he knew the history of the Zevach as told in the Torah, was right! Since Moses used the word “zevach,” it could only mean that the people intended to travel across the border, to depart from Egypt. The Zevach of the Children of Israel is meant to be a farewell to Egypt just as Israel said farewell to Lavan! Which means that the Hebrews were indeed speaking falsely!

Zevach to Mizbeach: Zevach is the root word for altar, mizbeach – only the addition of a single prefix letter (mem) separates them. The Torah illustrates that the purpose of a mizbeach in Genesis is tightly linked to the purpose of a Zevach.

Consider: the first mizbeach is built by Noach, after he is delivered through the Flood. It is the end of his journey, marking his personal salvation.

The next incidences of Mizbeach start with Avram: Upon arriving at the gateway city of the land, Shechem: [Avram] built a mizbeach there to G-D who had appeared to him. (12:7) From there he moved on to the hill country east of Bethel and pitched his tent … and he built there a mizbeach to G-D and invoked G-D by name. (G. 12:8). And he proceeded by stages from the Negeb as far as Bethel, to the place where his tent had been formerly, between Bethel and Ai, the site of the mizbeach that he had built there at first; and there Abram invoked G-D by name. (13:3)… And Abram moved his tent, and came to dwell at the terebinths of Mamre, which are in Hebron; and he built a mizbeach there to GOD. (13:18) Isaac does it, too: From there [Isaac] went up to Beer-sheba. … So [Isaac] built a mizbeach there and invoked G-D by name. (26:23). And then Jacob: Jacob arrived safe in the city of Shechem that is in the land of Canaan—having come thus from Paddan-aram—and he encamped before the city. … He set up a mizbeach there, and called it El-elohe-yisrael. (33:18)

The Torah is consistent: while a zevach marks the first stage of a big journey, a mizbeach is what a person builds when they arrive at their destination! A mizbeach seems to mark deliverance at the end of the journey!

G-d commands Jacob to use it for just this purpose: G-d said to Jacob, “Arise, go up to Bethel and remain there; and build a mizbeach there to the G-d who appeared to you when you were fleeing from your brother Esau.” Jacob said to his household … Come, let us go up to Bethel, and I will build a mizbeach there to the God who answered me when I was in distress and who has been with me wherever I have gone.”… Thus Jacob came to Luz—that is, Bethel—in the land of Canaan, he and all the people who were with him. There he built a mizbeach and named the site El-bethel, for it was there that G-d had been revealed to him when he was fleeing from his brother. (35:1-7) The mizbeach marks salvation, giving G-d the credit for our deliverance!

Indeed, the mizbeach could be an attempt to create a physical record for posterity. We know this because when G-d commands Moses to write something down, Moses builds a mizbeach to record the divine deliverance! Then GOD said to Moses, “Inscribe this in a book as a reminder, and read it aloud to Joshua: I will utterly blot out the memory of Amalek from under heaven!” What does Moses do? He does not write a book. Instead: And Moses built a mizbeach and named it Adonai-nissi. He said, “It means, ‘Hand upon the throne of Y-h!’ G-D will be at war with Amalek throughout the ages.” (E. 17:14-16)

The Torah is showing us that an altar, a mizbeach, has a very specific symbolic meaning: crediting G-d with deliverance at the end of a journey. And it is done by erecting a physical structure.

Yet: after the wilderness, a mizbeach, an altar, ceases to be something that a person spontaneously builds. Instead, the Torah tells us that once we enter the land we, as a people, no longer will be able to offer sacrifices anywhere we like. Instead, we must only do so at the permanent location that G-d will choose.

The journey of the Jewish people has reached its destination when we have a tabernacle/temple. In the end, all the important journeys are to Jerusalem, to G-d’s House. That mizbeach replaces all others, forever more.

P.S. See Deut. 33:18 for the last incidence of zevah in the Torah – also marking journey.