On Rosh Hashanah, Rabbis Camras, Vogel, and I discussed Dara Horn’s new book, The Final Solution to the Jewish Question. As I mentioned, the book’s intentionally provocative title does not include a simple solution to the question of how we should deal with antisemitism. What it does do is create a roadmap for reclaiming our Jewish story. In fact, Horn’s penultimate chapter attempts to lay out that foundational narrative (p. 273). “This is the story of a tiny group of people whose groundbreaking ideas shaped world history.” It’s a love story, she argues, between that people and a singular God. Judaism’s radical innovation was both that we should not worship any other gods, false gods, and also that we do not bow to tyrants, despotic rulers of flesh and blood who insist their tyrannical rulership is a divine mandate.
In addition to exploring Horn’s ideas, I also suggested on Rosh Hashana that our diversity here at Hamakom—of identity, worldview, practice, and more—is a marvelous opportunity, that if more of us claim a bit less than we can but all that we should within our shared circle, we’ll continue to build something truly special here in West Hills. Today I want to argue that this laudable goal is only part of our Jewish calling, that the mixed multitude, the erev rav, of Jewish communal life is only made truly worthwhile when what we do here within our “friendly confines” has implications beyond us. This moment of Jewish insecurity, of rising hate, places us at a crossroads. On this Yom Kippur, as we step fully into 5787, each of us must decide whether Jewish life lived in Jewish spaces is enough. Is it enough to send our kids to Jewish schools, attend sisterhood socials, host Shabbat dinners, and study Torah, Talmud or Mussar? And if it’s not enough, if there is more to our calling as Jews, what is that? In other words, what does it mean to be not only a Jew in the pew, but a Jew in the world?
One answer came over Rosh Hashanah in the unlikely form of a Jewish mother named Alecia Beth Moore-Hart. You might know her as the pop-star P!nk. The backdrop for the frenzied story was rapper Macklemore who has a history of antisemitic behavior and who used his opening act for Ed Sheeran to shame Israel and insist he, Macklemore, should be the arbiter of who counts as a good Jew or a bad one. I’ll spare you all the ins and outs—Macklemore’s getting dropped from the tour, Bob Kraft, the other bands who quit in solidarity, debates about free speech…. You can ask me my take during the Q&A this afternoon if you like. What I want to do here is share a bit of what P!nk posted on social media, days after she weighed in on Macklemore for which she received a torrent of online hate. I’ll share her words, because I think this is an excellent example of what it can mean to be a Jew in the world right now—a proud Jew and also a Jew who makes us proud.
“I was born a Jew,” she wrote. “I didn’t pick it, and I’ve never hidden it…. Of course I don’t speak for Israel, or for any government. I never have. What I said in October 2023 is still exactly what I believe: Hamas is a terrorist organization. Palestinians deserve a future that honors their humanity and their aspirations. Protecting innocent life comes first, everywhere, and nobody should ever celebrate the death of a child…. I’m not going to litigate a complex war in an Instagram caption, and I’m not going to recite anybody’s slogan to earn back a follower.”
And then she wrote, “You don’t have to agree with one thing Israel’s government does to not want the Jewish family two rows down from you to be scared or targeted at a concert. That’s the only thing I’m asking anybody for. To the ones who are frightened this week, Jewish or Muslim or Palestinian or Israeli or just tired of all of it: I see you. And if anybody wants to really know what I think, just ask me. I’m right here. I’ve never been hard to find. And I’ll keep speaking out, in my own words. It’s Friday,” she said. “For working people who have more to worry about than pop stars and pile-ons, it’s the end of a hard week. It’s also the 25th anniversary of September 11th, and my prayers are with the innocent souls we lost that morning. And at sundown, for Jews, it’s Rosh Hashanah, our New Year. Now I’m going to go make dinner for my kids, light the candles, dip some apples in honey, pour a glass of wine and be full of gratitude. That’s my tradition. It also happens to be a Jewish one. Shana tova.”
At the same time P!nk was preparing Rosh Hashana dinner in her Greenwich Village townhouse, my rabbinic colleague Angela Buchdahl was preparing to deliver her Erev Rosh Hashana sermon uptown at Central Synagogue. “So many of us over these past years have felt real fear, despair and anger, about what is happening to Jews in America,” she said in a powerful talk about America’s 250th birthday. “And our response is often to hunker down with other Jews. To focus only on Jewish issues. To give only to Jewish causes.” But Rabbi Buchdahl cautioned her congregation against that impulse. “The prophet Jeremiah wrote, ‘Dirshu et shalom ha’ir… ki bishlomah yihyeh lachem shalom.’ ‘Seek the peace and prosperity of the city to which I have carried you… because if it prospers, you will prosper too.’ You must work for the wellbeing of the society around you,” she said, “because your fate is bound up with theirs. That’s not just civic advice. It’s a theological claim about how Jews are meant to live in the world.”
I agree, and this decidedly Jewish impulse is found not only in the prophets like Yermiyahu or Amos as I detailed last night, but also among our first family. Who was the first Jew? Well, where do we get our name? We are Yehudim because we are named for a tribe called Yehuda. And it’s the character of Yehuda, Judah, I want to explore with you today. Perhaps more than any other Biblical character he exemplifies a leader who comes to realize that people matter, that to be a Jew in the world is to stand up with us, for us, within the Jewish camp but also for others within and beyond our walls.
Judah’s story occurs within the story of Joseph, what literary scholars call a “nested narrative,” a tale of his relationship with Tamar that, ostensibly, has nothing to do with the framing Joseph story. Except it does, because lest we forget, it’s Judah who suggests selling Joseph into slavery. I would argue this story within a story which marks the beginning of Judah’s redemption arc, has everything to do with the story of the Jewish people, thousands of years later, here in Los Angeles and around the world. The Judah story is one of shared destiny, of truth and the inversion of hierarchies, of reconciliation and finding common ground. It’s a story of divine-human partnership. Ultimately, it’s a story of family—our complicated, messy, sometimes dysfunctional, Jewish family—and why we should be proud to wear our Magen David necklaces, our kippot, to post about our trips to Israel, to call ourselves Yehudim.
His story begins:
וַיִּקַּ֧ח יְהוּדָ֛ה אִשָּׁ֖ה לְעֵ֣ר בְּכוֹר֑וֹ וּשְׁמָ֖הּ תָּמָֽר׃
“Judah got a wife for Er his first-born; her name was Tamar” (38:6).
But unfortunately, this is not a happy tale; things go terribly wrong. Er dies. They follow the custom of Levirate Marriage. Tamar marries Onan, Er’s brother. Onan dies. And here’s the problem. Judah has one more son, Shelah, and by right, Tamar is meant to marry him next. But Judah denies this. “…for he thought [to himself] maybe Shelah too will die like his brothers” (v. 11).
I think we can have some rachmanis for Judah here. Perhaps he’s just in pain, having buried two sons. Still, he does that thing people with authority sometimes do; he blames the victim. He punishes Tamar for her husbands’ fates. And you might think that’s where the story would end as it does for so many women living in patriarchal societies throughout history. But it doesn’t, and it doesn’t because of what Tamar does next. And then it doesn’t because of what Judah does after her. And those two choices, I think this is not hyperbole, alter the fate of the Jewish people and the world.
So, what happens? Understanding the precarious position of single women in antiquity, and using what little power is afforded them, a clever Tamar takes matters into her own hands. She learns that Judah’s wife has died. She stations herself at a crossroads, removes her widow’s veil and plays the harlot. Judah notices her (but not who she is) and hires her. But he doesn’t have the money to pay, so as collateral she demands his seal, cord, and staff – basically he leaves his driver’s license behind. And Tamar knows exactly what she’s doing; when Judah returns to pay her, she’s disappeared. Meanwhile, Tamar has become pregnant which, as you might guess, is risky business for her. And indeed, when Judah first finds out he condemns her to death, not yet knowing that he is the babies’ father. Now, Tamar has a choice before her. Collateral in hand, she can go public and ruin his reputation, or she can handle things more discreetly, give him the opportunity to right a wrong, which she does. In a very cinematic moment, as she’s being arrested (as it were), she returns his identifying objects. “I am with child by the man to whom these belong…” (v. 25).
Now comes Judah’s turn. Remember, he holds the cards; she’s given up her leverage by returning his personal effects. We can imagine the camera tightening on Judah. What will he do? Who will he choose to be? The brother who sold Joseph into slavery? The father consumed with grief who condemned his widowed daughter-in-law to death? Or will he choose a different path, admit he’s the father, do the right thing. He pauses. The audience holds its breath. He speaks: צָֽדְקָ֣ה מִמֶּ֔נִּי. “She is more in the right than I.”
On Yom Kippur we should take note: the first Biblical exemplar of teshuvah is Yehudah, the man for whom our entire people would come to be named. As Jonathan Sacks writes: “Joseph became mishneh le-melekh, ‘second to the king.’ Judah, however, became the father of Israel’s kings. However great an individual may be in virtue of his or her natural character, greater still is one who is capable of growth and change. That is the power of penitence, and it began with Judah.”
So why does he do it? How does he begin to become the Judah worthy of our name? The 16th century kabbalist Rabbi Isaac Luria, the Ari z”l describes Judah’s growing realization that he contains within him greater possibilities for holiness, even godliness. Afterall, the letters of God’s name Y.H.V.H. exist within Y.H.V.D.H. (Yehuda). Along these lines, and centuries before the Ari, Rashi brings an intriguing midrash on this verse. As Judah is speaking these words צָֽדְקָ֣ה מִמֶּ֔נִּי., a bat kol, a heavenly voice also cries out מִמֶּ֔נִּי, “from Me,” as if to say, this act of grace, of reconciliation, of justice, also emerges from heaven and proclaims:
גָּזַרְתִּי שֶׁיֵּצְאוּ מִמֶּנָּה מְלָכִים,
“I have decreed that kings will come forth from Tamar,”
וּמִשֵּׁבֶט יְהוּדָה גָּזַרְתִּי לְהַעֲמִיד מְלָכִים בְּיִשְׂרָאֵל
“And from the tribe of Judah I have decreed there will be kings in Israel.”
Tamar, despite the comingling of her grief and subjugation, stands up for herself and insists on a more righteous outcome. Judah, choosing no longer to be the man who would sell out his kin, joins her on that path, and their shared journey sets them and the future Jewish people on the road to Jewish national self-determination.
And this, I would suggest, is why the model of Judah is so powerful. To be a Jew is to refuse to accept what is in favor of what can and should be. To be a Jew is to learn and evolve in relationship with one another and with God. As Dara Horn points out in her book (p. 277), “Most of ancient literature’s heroes come from the ruling class. But [our] story’s heroes are often runaways, disfavored second sons, defiant nonroyal women, children of the enslaved….” And unlike many other ancient stories, she explains, our characters evolve! “After twenty years of adventures,” says Horn, “Odysseus [not Christopher Nolan’s version but Homer’s Odysseus] returns home as the same person he was when he left….”
Conversely, our Jewish heroes learn from their mistakes and they grow. And when they don’t, we are meant to learn from their failures. “The implications of this…,” Horn argues, “are vast, suggesting a dramatic idea about human potential…that people can choose to change.” This is certainly true for Judah and Tamar who discover each other’s humanity and, in so doing, draw God’s compassion, even God’s providence, into the world. The tale of Judah and Tamar, this nesting narrative, is critical character development for Judah, but it’s not existential. It is actually later in the Joseph story that Judah becomes worthy, not just of our admiration but our identification with him. Six chapters later, he risks his own life to repair a different past wrong. In that moment Judah becomes the model Jew.
Here’s the end of the story: Tamar gives birth to Zerach and his brother Peretz who is ten generations removed from King David. But Jewish sovereignty in Eretz Yisrael is hundreds of years away. In this moment, a small clan of Hebrews descends on Egypt during a famine, and the stage is set for our future liberation. Joseph plays his part. Each of the brothers and Jacob too, play theirs. But it is Judah who wins the day, who emerges a true leader. Having sold his brother into slavery, having tortured his father’s psyche with a bloody coat and false report of Joseph’s early demise, we now find Judah standing before his brother Joseph, Vizier of Egypt, who has not yet revealed his identity, and Judah is faced with a dilemma. Does he allow Benjamin, Joseph’s only full brother, to suffer a similar fate? Or does he risk himself to save the lad?
Once again, a close-up on Judah; once again we hold our breath…. Take me instead, he insists. Just let my brother go free! (Gen. 44:32).
In this ennobling moment, when Judah recognizes his own divine calling and risks his own safety—in the palace, the public square, in the world—he speaks truth to power. He stands up for his brother, his family, for the possibility of our Jewish future. For all these reasons, the spell is broken. Joseph cries. He reveals himself to his brothers. They reconcile. And the story goes that one day a king named David would be born to the tribe of Judah. And one day, the land administered by his descendants would be called Judea, and its inhabitants Yehudim. And one day, those people would live around the world and also back in the land of our ancestors. And all of that becomes possible because Judah, at her instigation, does right by Tamar. Which makes the brothers’ reunion and healing possible. Which makes it possible for Jacob to reunite with his long-lost son. Which makes possible the entire book of Exodus, not to mention the unfolding of Jewish history in the 3200 years since then.
But even more than this, our story is the foundation upon which billions of people’s faith, legal systems, and ethics are built. “The influence of [Jewish] ideas,” writes Horn, “and the Jews’ refusal for thousands of years to become just like everyone else—this story matters not just for Jews, but for everyone, because it shows that freedom and pluralism are possible.” Hevre, our story is not just one of numerous erstwhile ancient civilizations. Our story is crucial, not because we’re better, but because our impact is greater. And that should make us proud.
Chazak v’ematz, Moses said to Joshua as he entered the Promised Land, be strong and courageous. That’s the courage P!nk demonstrated when she spoke out on Rosh Hashanah. “Something has changed in this country,” said wrote, “and I can read it in my own comments. ‘From the river to the sea.’ ‘Zionist,’ spat like it’s a slur, by people who couldn’t tell you the details of what I believe, because I hadn’t told them yet… I don’t think most of them hate Jews. I think somebody handed them a story where the Jew who won’t apologize for existing must be the villain…. But I’ve been portrayed as the villain before. I can take it. I just won’t take it quietly, and I’m not going to teach my kids to….”
What’s powerful about P!nk’s words is that she doesn’t take the bait, she doesn’t descend into jingoism, knee-jerk protectionism, or whataboutism. She doesn’t justify anyone’s bad behavior. The power of the Jewish story, she understands, is that we are chosen to inhabit not just our Jewishness but our humanity in full. Our heroes grow, learn, do teshuvah, do better. Compassion, empathy, insistence on just outcomes, these qualities make us Jews. That’s not a story we should whisper in our children’s ears; it’s one we must teach them to wear as a badge of honor. Ours is a story embedded in a people so powerful we inspired liberation movements, legal systems, two other major world religions—not to mention art, humor, music, science, and much more.
And we taught the world that being a human should mean I insist on being better today than I was yesterday. Have you ever wondered why the holiest day on our calendar is a Day of Atonement? What person says to their boss on a Monday: I can’t go to work, I can’t eat, I need to go to synagogue and say I’m sorry. You know what person? A Jew. Midrash Tanchuma teaches that each person has three names:
אחד מה שקוראים לו אביו ואמו
One given to him by his parents
ואחד מה שקוראין לו בני אדם
One given to him by others
ואחד מה שקונה הוא לעצמו
And one he acquires for himself. And this last one, says the midrash, is the most important.
One way to understand this is that Part III (the name we choose) is a refutation of Part II (the names we’re sometimes called) when we refuse to give up on Part I (the name we inherit from our ancestors, from Judah). Yes, some are calling us the worst names and others are using those names to justify doing the worst things. But no one else gets to tell us who we are. No one else gets to write our story. Being a Jew means not letting anyone flatten us into some projection of their insecurity or their hate. It means we live our values, in the best tradition of our namesake, in the world—growing and evolving, loving and learning. “What is hateful to you, do not do unto others,” taught Hillel. Don’t let anyone make you into something less than you are. Instead, become better than you were. Not for their sake, but for yours, for ours, for God’s, and for the world’s.
