Below is the text of my sermon from Rosh Hashanah Day 1 5787. Podcast Audio available here or on Apple/Spotify at The Urban Rabbi. Video here.
Sept. 12, 2026
Raise your hand if you’ve seen the Monty Python film The Life of Brian? One of my favorite scenes is when the crowd of disciples have gathered outside Brian’s window and Brian leans out and says:
Look, you’ve got it all wrong! You don’t need to follow ME, You don’t NEED to follow ANYBODY! You’ve got to think for yourselves! You’re ALL individuals! And the Crowd responds in unison: Yes! We’re all individuals! And Brian says: You’re all different! And the Crowd replies: Yes! We are all different!
Since becoming Senior Rabbi of Hamakom, I’ve been thinking a lot about our community, about oneness and the extent to which it should mean sameness. What inspires me about this place; among the chief things that made me want to work here, is that Hamakom is a rare example of a diverse, pluralistic Jewish community. Frankly, that surprised me a bit as someone who spent the first half of his career living and working in racially and socio-economically diverse urban settings.
But we are, in fact, incredibly diverse. We are women and men, young and old, working and not. Many of us are parents. And grandparents. Some are not. All of us are children and grandchildren. We have different backgrounds, different observance levels, different ethnicities. Some of us are wealthy. Others are scraping by. Some of us grew up proud Conservative Jews. Some of us could care less about denominations. We are Democrats, Republicans, Independents. Most of us have some deep concerns about the state of this country, though we may have differing views about how to change things for the better. Hopefully all of us love Israel deeply; we are proud Zionists. Most of us are also worried about Israel, but not necessarily for the same reasons. Some of us love people who don’t love Israel. Or are questioning their love. They may be our children or grandchildren or lifelong friends. Some of us carry shame about this. If that’s you, call me. I’ll listen. And I’m betting there are others here who will too.
When our people fled slavery, the Torah tells us וְגַם־עֵ֥רֶב רַ֖ב עָלָ֣ה אִתָּ֑ם, we went up from Egypt with an erev rav, a mixed multitude. Rashi says there were converts from various nations. Ibn Ezra says many Egyptians joined us. Suffice it to say, our very origin story is of a diverse people on a grand adventure. That’s Hamakom. We are a diverse community on a grand adventure. We are Ashkenazi, Sephardi, Persian, Mizrahi. We are Jews by birth and Jews by choice. Our skin tones and racial identities are varied. A significant majority of us are straight. Some of us are Queer or love people who are. Some of us are not Jews but love Jews and are raising Jewish children in a Jewish household.
Oh, and did I mention, until three years ago, every single person in this room who was a synagogue member, was a member of a different synagogue than this one. Most of us, but not all of us, came from one of two storied congregations. One was called Temple Aliyah. One was Shomrei Torah Synagogue. They were both wonderful shuls. And very different. You and their leaders, including our wonderful emeritus rabbis, have worked assiduously these past three years to build a new congregation on the foundation of those two and the congregations that came before them. As your Senior Rabbi, I have inherited the multivocality, the range of practices those legacy congregations wrought. Which means, I get to give this sermon twice. On the same day. Here and there.
And while it’s challenging to be just one rabbi in two concurrent services, for now I’m enjoying the challenge. Because here’s what I want to say to us today, on this New Year, as we begin this grand adventure together—And I’m going to speak plainly because I have the advantage of an outsider’s perspective. And because when you’re new, you get a few freebies—All these differences are not a liability; they are our greatest asset. Our task, yours and mine, is to leverage that diversity—of practice and perspective, culture and conviction—to add wisdom and joy to our lives and light to a darkening world.
Today, I want to suggest a methodology for doing this. A way to harness the power of difference to achieve not unanimity but cohesion, to evolve from a congregation which has made great strides but is still struggling with coexistence into a community that wears our pluralism as a badge of honor. This, Hevre, is not easy. Human brains are wired through hundreds of thousands of years of evolution to create what social scientists call in-group, out-group distinctions. We root for our families, our sports teams, my university over yours. There are social benefits and sound safety reasons for this. And sometimes, too often, these distinctions go beyond friendly rivalries or reasonable security measures. I don’t have to tell you about humanity’s capacity to marginalize, degrade, dehumanize. We Jews know well that story of bigotry and its lethal consequences.
I spoke last night about the 25th anniversary of 9/11, a murderous attack on a free society by radical Islamists. But this past week also marked a quarter century since the UN’s Durban conference, a gathering in South Africa to ostensibly fight racism which was hijacked by Iran and other bad actors in order to spread hate of Israel and Jews while popularizing grotesque and enduring antisemitic slogans and imagery. The first principle [of the antisemite], writes Holocaust historian David Patterson, “is not that all Jews are evil but that all evil is Jewish.”
So, you might think after countless generations of being blamed for pretty much every rotten thing in pretty much every society in which we’ve lived, we Jews would have cornered the market on uniformity. By all rights, we should be like that crowd from The Life of Brian, mindlessly reciting (in unison) platitudes about individuality and view-point diversity. But our Jewish tradition didn’t go that way, did it? Why do we laugh with pride when we say, “two Jews, three opinions?” Or keep telling that tired joke about the guy on the dessert island who builds a synagogue just so he could never set foot in it? Why is the beit midrash so noisy with debate about ideas big and small? Because our differences, both between you and me and between us and them have always been about the intrinsic value of you and me and us and them. That’s why the Mishnah (San 4:5) teaches that God is like a coin maker who mints billions of coins from Adam, the same original mold, and yet each of those coins is unique. Torah and our rabbinic sources, again and again, provide resources for navigating the space between the self and the other, the particular and the universal.
“Judaism is about the dignity of difference,” writes Rabbi Jonathan Sacks. “Throughout history Jews were the only people who consistently refused to assimilate to the dominant culture or convert to the majority faith. Jews were often a minority to teach the world that God cares about the rights of minorities. And to teach all of us that the majority is not always right, nor is the conventional wisdom always wise.”
We hear a lot about the virtue of a big tent. But the erev rav, our mixed multitude didn’t leave Egypt, nor dwell in the wilderness within one tent. We received our instructions at the foot of a mountain, and then we built a machaneh, an encampment, thousands of tents pitched side-by-side. Within that camp, at the center of it in fact, was a very special tent, the ohel moed, the tent of meeting through which our people worshiped God. But the camp was filled with tribes, families, even factions at times.
This, I think, is a powerful model for us here at 7353 Valley Circle Blvd. I wish for Hamakom to be a place where we celebrate, learn, volunteer, laugh, play and pray together—joyfully. And also, where we can interrogate our sources and debate ideas, the big questions that keep us up at night. When we disagree, I expect us to engage in mahloket l’shem shamayim, sacred arguing, arguments mindful of that metaphorical ohel moed, God’s presence within our camp. To be clear, I’m not asking you to do anything I’m not willing to do myself. I believe wholeheartedly that Torah must address both what is eternal and what is timely. As your guide, I will strive to speak in a way that I can be heard. And I will listen. I am not interested in creating controversy. I am very interested in encouraging dialogue from a place of curiosity. I make this commitment to you today: I will not say everything I think, but I will never say anything I don’t believe. And I will treat you as one who respects your ability to handle lessons that challenge us or torah that invites us to question assumptions. The value proposition of Hamakom, [In Neshama: what I think makes this place “awesome!”], is our capacity to create a vibrant space of meaning-making, an encampment on a grand adventure, moving inexorably toward the Promised Land.
I know this is a room of mostly Dodger fans, but if you’ll indulge a native Chicagoan for a moment, the great Ernie Banks, Mr. Cub, used to call Wrigley Field the “friendly confines.” I think most of us feel that way when we’re here on Hamakom’s campus. These are friendly confines. But I’ve also been listening to you, at meet-and-greets, Shabbat tables, in hallway conversations. There’s more we can do, more we must do, for Hamakom to feel like home for all of us. Some of these things are already in motion. We’re signing up and training volunteer greeters from our Board and Jewish Life Committee to better receive our members and guests when they walk through our doors. On Oct. 10, we’ll begin to offer weekly morning childcare so that parents of young children have more options on Shabbat mornings. In the coming months we’re reviving some beloved programs from our community’s past, including Guys and Gals night out and Jewish Life Coaching to build connections and increase Jewish literacy. Beginning Wednesday evening Oct. 14, I’m teaching an 8-session course on Zionism where we will wrestle with how best to understand and apply ancient and contemporary sources to our love of and support for Israel in this post Oct. 7 reality. And under the banner of our theme Shiru L’Adonai Shir Hadash, we’ll sing “new tunes” to advance and refresh our wonderful programming in the Nook, the Spot, the JLC, The Spark, Men’s Club, Sisterhood, and so much more!
Now, you might be asking, what can I do? What is my role as a Hamakomer in harnessing this power of difference to achieve greater cohesion in my community? Repeat after me: Less than I can. All that I should. It’s a mantra of sorts, a methodology for effective community building from the world of halacha. Here’s an example. Deuteronomy 15 (v. 4) says: “כִּ֛י לֹ֥א יִֽהְיֶה־בְּךָ֖ אֶבְי֑וֹן, there shall be no poor with you.” Our Sages interpret this “b’cha—in or with you” to mean that in taking care of the poor, we should take care not to impoverish ourselves. But Rashi encourages us, nevertheless, to prioritize the needs of the poor. “Even though the Torah does not place [the obligation to a poor person first] upon him,” he says, “a person should go lifnim m’shurat hadin.” And Maimonides says that a leader [Torah scholar] who does not go lifnim m’shurat hadin runs the risk of desecrating God’s very name. (Hil. Yesodei Torah 5:11).
What does this phrase mean, Lifnim m’shurat hadin? It’s often mistranslated “beyond the letter of the law,” but that’s not at all what it means. Many of you know Hebrew reasonably well. Listen carefully to the words: “lifnim m’shurat hadin.” din is justice or judgment. What is shurah? Have you heard that term before? How about at a graveside? A “shurah,” in a funeral context, is a receiving line. Shurah literally means “line.” In our case, it’s a line around a point—a circle. It’s the line of the law, the boundaries, the parameters of justice. Halacha envisions us collectively within an imaginary circle, our circle of justice.
That’s true for our shul (which I’ll come back to), but also for any society. That line is what we are due, what we are fully entitled to under our shared norms. When I drive my car, by law I may go 65 miles an hour on the freeway. I don’t have to, but I may. If I go 55, though, I know (because I’m from Illinois, not California) that I should drive in the right lane so that those who exercise their right to drive faster, can pass me on the left. We all exist within that circle called a speed limit, and each of us chooses how much of that space we claim, how close to that line we come. Now listen carefully: “beyond the letter (or line) of the law” would be speeding. To go beyond the letter of the law is to violate it. We have a word for that in Hebrew too; it’s one we use a lot during these High Holy Days: averah, to literally “cross over” [the line].
So, shurat hadin is the line or circle of justice. What’s lifnim? Like its modern equivalent bifnim, lifnim means not beyond or above but “within.” Lifnim m’shurat hadin, means within the line of justice, within the circle of what we’re due, what we’re entitled to. When Rashi says it’s uncouth to claim your own lost property at the expense of a poor person, he’s saying what you’re entitled to do is not the same as what you ought to do.
Christine Hayes, the Yale Jewish studies professor who is also a Senior Research Fellow at the Hartman Institute, illustrates the point with the following scenario: You’re standing in line at the airport. You’re desperately late for your flight so you go up to the person at the front of the line and say “excuse me, I’m so sorry to bother you, but I’m late for my flight. Could I please go ahead of you? And the person at the front of the line says, perhaps politely, “well, I’m really sorry, but you see, I was here first.” And you say, ‘I know you were here first, but I see from the ticket in your hand your flight isn’t for an hour, and mine is in 17 minutes!” And the person in line says, “Then perhaps you should have arrived sooner?”
Is the jerk at the front of the line correct? Technically, yes. He was there first. But if he were to take less than he’s entitled to, he would allow you to make your flight. He is within his line of the law, the boundaries of strict justice, to refuses, but I hope you and I behave differently when given such opportunities. Less than you can. What are the stakes for a society where people regularly behave like that guy in the airport? The Gemarra tells us (Bava Metzia 30b): “Jerusalem was destroyed because people…insisted on din haTorah, the line of Torah, rather than lifnim m’shurat hadin, stopping short of it.” The Talmud makes the audacious claim that Jerusalem lay in ruin because too many decided to claim all they could instead of contracting just a bit to make space for others.
Sometimes we take less, but that can go too far, right? Existing within the shared circle of any community means we also have to assert our needs, with firmness and patience. Pluralism is not about making ourselves small but showing up in our fullness while also making space for others. Healthy relationships are not made up of mind readers. That’s couples therapy 101. Being assertive is a gift. In the dance of the interpersonal, sometimes I step forward and you step back. Sometimes the reverse. The Musar instructor Alan Morinis (Everyday Holiness) teaches that the middah of anavah/humility has two equally valid components: “no more than my space, no less than my place.” Or as I like to put it: to live lifnim m’shurat hadin is to claim less than you can, but all that you should.
Which brings us to our community here at Hamakom. On Yom Kippur, I’ll further explore that second piece, “all that you should,” particularly as Jews in a world that wants us to contract ourselves, maybe disappear ourselves, within that circle of justice. Today, though, my concern is how we take an asset-based approach to our wonderfully pluralistic congregation. My invitation, my charge to us this New Year, is to consider all those ways you carry your particularness, your unique story, history, identity, experiences. Now think deeply about oneness and sameness. Where and when should you claim all that you should because our community benefits from experiencing you in your fullness? And where might you create some space for others, for other voices and perspectives?
The possibilities of this shared project are enormous, but only if we can agree that Hamakom exists not as a place of necessity but opportunity. How do we maximize our machaneh, the diversity within our camp, the mixed multitude within the line we’ve established here in West Hills? Less than you can; all that you should. I don’t know about you, but I’m bored of silos, echo-chambers, uniformity posing as virtue. On this Rosh Hashanah, what our mahzor calls Yom Hadin, let’s go lifnim m’shurat hadin, let’s find space for ourselves and one another within the circle of our sacred community.
Yom Kippur is but 10 days from today. How might we inscribe ourselves in Hamakom’s Book of Life? “
Rabbi Yishmael ben Elisha, the High Priest, says he once entered the Holy of Holies on Yom Kippur, and saw the kisei ram v’nisa, the high and exalted throne, and heard a voice say, ‘b’ni barcheini, bless Me my son.’ God, to be clear, in this wild text from the Talmud (Berachot 7a), is asking the Priest for a blessing! So, the Cohen Gadol, on Yom Kippur, says to the Kadosh Baruch Hu: “[May you judge Your children] lifnim m’shurat hadin,” within the line of the law.
Less than you can; all that you should. If this is our wish for the Holy One, can we ask anything less of ourselves?
