Choosing Life – My Yom Kippur Sermon

I want to begin today by taking you back to a place many of us would rather forget: middle school.

Everyone knows that the years spent in middle school are perhaps the hardest for many students to navigate. During this time children learn to interact on a more mature level, and as a result, these three years often morph into a form of social torture. Throughout this period, pre-teenagers find themselves being accepted and rejected from the clicks that are rapidly forming around them. Being part of the popular crowd becomes essential for the development of confidence and feelings of self-worth. Being left out can feel tragic.

When the clicks close ranks, the children who are left out face challenging circumstances. One of the most common repercussions is that they are forced to sit by themselves in the lunchroom. If they try to sit at a table with other students, they may face a hurtful walk out, which leaves them even more embarrassed.

In more extreme cases, the children complain of being bullied by their peers.

Imagine now that these children, instead of receiving support from the adults, are blamed for not making enough of an effort to improve their relationship with other children.

Sadly, at times, this type of situations repeat in the adulthood. 

The speech of Israeli Prime Minister at the UN reminded me of that situation.  It was hurtful to watch a mass walkout, which was staged in advance, when Benjamin Netanyahu addressed the United Nations on September 26.

From Y Net Global Israeli newspaper came the quote, “According to Israeli officials, seventy-seven delegations were either absent from the hall altogether or left at the start of Netanyahu’s remarks.”

We are not describing middle school behavior, although the scene at the UN sadly reminds me of lunch time in middle school.

Believe it or not, there were only a few countries that remained in the hall, among them the United States, the United Kingdom, Canada, Bahrain and the UAE (the two countries that signed Abraham Accords in 2020) and Israel, of course.

This staged gesture was designed to humiliate the leader of a country which is actively fighting its enemies on multiple fronts. How is that for bullying?

Now, I recognize that some of you are not huge fans of Benjamin Netanyahu and that’s your right. After all, criticism of our leaders is part of our tradition. But this moment was not about policy. This was about something deeper. It was about inflicting humiliation and exclusion while demonstrating moral blindness.

This walkout was meant to send a message — not just to Netanyahu, but to Israel as a whole – “You don’t belong here.”

It is especially outrageous because just two days prior, the UN hosted President Masoud Pezeshkian, who addressed the 80th General Assembly on September 24, and not a single country walked out.

Let that sink in. No one walked out during the speech of the President of a regime that funds terror, crushes dissent, and threatens genocide. But seventy- seven leaders walked out on Israel.

This brings us to our Torah portion today — Nitzavim.

The parasha begins with these words – ““Atem nitzavim hayom kulchem — You are standing today, all of you, before the Lord your God.”

The Hebrew word nitzavim means “standing”. It is important to note that in this context, it doesn’t mean passively standing, as in my sermon last night pointing out those who stood watching with their hands folded while the town was burning. 

Nitzavim has a much stronger connotation. It means standing firmly, actively, resolutely and defiantly as God is making a covenant with us.

In addition, Nitzavim is a call to all of us, to Jews of all denominations, Jews of all political views, Jews who are observant and not, Jews by birth and Jews by choice.

Everyone was needed then and everyone is needed now.

And then, in chapter 30, verse 19 , we are given the most powerful teaching: “I have set before you life and death, blessing and curse — therefore, choose life.”

You see, the second most important concept of Judaism after recognition that God is One, is the sacredness of human life.

We learn from the Torah that we can even choose not to follow the commandments if it is done in order to preserve life. For example, we can break the rules of observing Shabbat for the sake of saving a life (pikuach nefesh in Hebrew).

The Torah itself is called The Tree of Life – as if life springs out of its sacred teaching.

That is how we were able to survive from generation to generation, surviving one persecution after another.

But it is more than just survival. Choosing life is about holding onto meaning, purpose, and hope – even in the darkest of times.

October 7, 2023 has become another dark time in the history of Jews.

That beautiful morning of Simchat Torah, the terrorists carried out the surprise attack they had planned with the support of Iran as they descended upon peaceful towns, kibbutzim, and the site of the Nova festival. They slaughtered entire families. They tortured children, babies in front of the eyes of their parents and then burnt everyone alive. They raped women, they inflicted unimaginable suffering, they carried hundreds to their dungeons – tunnels that were built on the money, partially collected by UNRWA, which should have been invested in to infrastructure and education. They abducted men, women, holocaust survivors, and peace carriers whose life’s goal was to find a peaceful solution to the conflict and to have a dialogue with their neighbors across the street (that is how close Gaza is to the kibbutzim that were attacked).

I am not telling you anything you don’t already know, right? And yet, even we, Jews, American Jews are uncomfortable with that truth of what happened.

You know why? Because it shatters our faith in humanity. It is because we, Jews, are focused on Tikkun Olam – we are committed to repairing the world, to standing with the oppressed and to defending the vulnerable.

This is a very noble thing we engage in. But it is much harder to shift our focus from the issues here, in the United States, that get our attention – such as immigration, racial equality, freedom of choice, LGBTQ plus rights, advocacy against gun violence – to focus on what is happening in Israel.

But somehow… when it comes to Israel, our voices start to shake.

We hesitate.

We whisper when we should speak loudly.

We qualify our grief.

We worry about being too vocal. Too defensive. Too Jewish.

Why?

Because it’s complicated? Because Israel isn’t perfect?

Of course it’s complicated.

Of course Israel is not perfect. No country is.

But October 7 was not complicated.

October 7 was evil.

It was pure, unfiltered, genocidal hatred.

And if we cannot say that clearly — if we cannot stand up for our people, even now — then what are we doing?

And this is exactly what the Torah portion Nitzavim, which we will hear shortly, speaks about. We have an obligation to stand with our people first and foremost. The Jews of Israel are no less deserving of our support – the support of all of us as American Jews.

That is what this moment demands of us.

Because choosing life — bacharta ba’chayim — does not only mean preserving our own bodies. It means preserving our truth, our dignity, our voice and our identity.

It means standing when the world walks out.

It means speaking up when silence is easy.

It means holding fast to our people, even when the world tries to shame us for doing so.

If we, Jews are turning our backs on Israel, how can we expect the rest of the world to offer support?

Let me now speak directly to a claim that’s been repeated across social media, in rallies, on campuses, and even from some global institutions: they say that Israel is committing genocide in Gaza.

It’s a powerful accusation. It’s designed specifically to provoke people’s outrage, inflame antisemitism and ultimately to isolate Jews (not only Israelis).

But it is not true. And to remain silent while this lie spreads is to allow truth itself to become a casualty of war.

Let us be clear. Genocide is not a word to be thrown around for rhetorical gain. It has a legal definition under international law — the deliberate, coordinated, systematic extermination of a people because of who they are.

That is not what Israel is doing in Gaza.

That is what Hamas tried to do to Israel on October 7.

Israel’s response has been military — yes, painful, and yes, tragic in its cost — but its intent has never been to annihilate a people. Its intent is to dismantle a terrorist army that hides behind civilians, that stores weapons in schools and mosques, that uses hospitals as command centers.

If Israel was committing genocide, there would be no humanitarian corridors, no airdropped aid, no field hospitals, no warnings before strikes.

If Israel was committing genocide, the casualty numbers would look very different.

If Israel was committing genocide, Hamas leaders wouldn’t still be operating beneath schools, in bunkers, and in Qatar-funded villages while their own civilians suffer.

Instead Israel has continued to supply electricity and water to Gaza (which is unprecedented for any other country at war), just like it did before the war. It has risked, and continues to risk, (per John Spencer, an expert on urban warfare) lives of its own soldiers to save the lives of Palestinians, who Hamas puts in harm’s way. Yes, Israel paused some aid delivery for a short period of time but that was NOT because it wanted to starve the Palestinians, but because these supplies were misused by Hamas, who prevented their own people from getting the necessities while instead profiting from it.

This is not genocide. This is a nation defending its citizens, against a terror organization that commits war crimes as its daily strategy.

And let’s not forget: Israel withdrew from Gaza in 2005 — completely. Every settlement, every soldier. It left behind greenhouses, infrastructure, and the hope for peace. What did it receive in return?

Thousands of rockets. Tunnels of terror. And October 7.

And yet we still pray for peace. We are still hopeful the day will come when Israelis and Palestinians will live side by side. We mourn every innocent life – of course we do. Remember – we cherish life more than anything else.

But we will not accept attempts to discredit Israel and its struggle to rid itself, and the world, from evil forces.

We will not accept a moral version where Israel’s self-defense is called genocide, and true genocide is ignored or excused.

To accept this would not only betray Israel — it would betray truth, justice, and the sacred commandment to choose life. It would betray all the victims of October 7 and the forty eight hostages, twenty of whom are believed to be alive, and are still in the hands of Hamas.

We all remember Eli Sharabi, who was released from Hamas captivity on February 8, 2025. His image reminded us of the photos of prisoners of the concentration camps. He lost three-quarters of his weight, with his eyes and cheeks sunken in. He wrote a book about his ordeal. It is a very powerful recollection of his time spent as a hostage in Gaza Strip.

His story reminded me of the book, “Man’s Search for Meaning” by Viktor Frankl. Frankl, like Eli Sharabi, survived the Nazi’s concentration camp. Thanks to his strong spirit and love for life he was able to find meaning in each day even when it seemed like there was no hope for the future whatsoever.

That is what Eli and Viktor had in common. Sharabi’s book gives us a true picture of the encounter that took place as he describes the full horror of the plight of the hostages who were kept in the tunnels. Despite the difficult conditions, he was able to survive because of his faith, his strong desire to live, his love for the family and his hope to see them again one day.

Unfortunately, upon his release, he learned that his two teenage daughters Noiya and Yahel and his wife Lianne were killed. After recovering, he visited their graves. Here is what he writes of that time, “I fall to my knees. I can’t see anything. Everything is blurry. The sky. The view. The other headstones…Everything fades away. Only Yahel, Noiya and Lianne exist.

 Forty minutes later, I tell Osnat (his sister) ‘Ok, let’s go.’ She looks at me puzzled. ‘It’s ok, I tell her. ‘Let’s go.’ I signal to everyone – It’s over, finis. I pick myself up and start walking slowly toward the exit of the cemetery. This here is a rock bottom. I’ve seen it. I’ve touched it. 

Now, life.”

Eli survived to tell this story. He had the courage to overcome an unimaginable tragedy and found meaning to face the new day while his love for his wife and daughters will never cease.