Liberty’s Inscription Is Ours, Too

“Proclaim liberty throughout all the land unto all the inhabitants thereof.”

—Leviticus 25:10, inscribed on the Liberty Bell

On this Memorial Day weekend, as we read Parashat Behar, we find ourselves confronted by both ancient wisdom and present sorrow. This week’s portion is etched into the heart of American freedom, inscribed on the Liberty Bell in Philadelphia. That bell, cast in hope, still reverberates metaphorically through our Jewish story in America.

I imagine a Jewish immigrant—maybe from Minsk or Kishinev, fleeing violence and looking for a new start—standing in Independence Hall and seeing those Hebrew words, “U’kratem dror ba’aretz l’chol yosh’veha.” For the first time, he realizes: here, the language of our Torah is the language of the nation’s dream. He weeps, not just for the past, but for the audacity of hope, the possibility that in this land, liberty could mean safety—for Jews, for all people.

It is a hopeful vision, but it has always been challenged by reality. This week, that reality became heartbreakingly close, as Kansans, Americans, and Jews around the world mourned the murder of Sarah Milgrim of Kansas and her boyfriend Yaron Lischinsky in Washington, D.C. They were targeted simply for being Jews. Although Yaron was not Jewish, his murderer couldn’t have known it. Their loss is a devastating reminder that even here, even now, antisemitism is not history—it is our present.

And yet—I am not shocked. I wish I could be. But I have watched as the chant “Free Palestine” echoes on American streets, as keffiyehs become symbols not only of Palestinian national pride, but synonymous with Jew-hatred. I have seen lies about Israel—grotesque accusations of genocide—spread from the margins to the mainstream. Last week, I warned that these lies would bear poisonous fruit. This week, they did.

But Parashat Behar does not let us remain in despair. The same Torah that tells us to proclaim liberty also commands us to sanctify the cycles of our lives. It insists that the land itself must rest and renew, that every jubilee brings release, and that hope is not naïve but necessary. Our tradition knows the dangers of hate and exile—and still, it commands us to dream, to build, to hope.

The Liberty Bell cracked, but it did not shatter. The inscription remains, calling each generation to remember what liberty demands: vigilance, compassion, resilience. American Jews have always answered that call. We have served this country, enriched its culture, and built communities in its heartland. We have insisted that America live up to its promise—not just for us, but for everyone.

We honor Sarah and Yaron not by retreating in fear, but by refusing to be silent or small. We honor them by living as Jews—openly, proudly, lovingly. We honor them by teaching our children the words inscribed on the Liberty Bell, and by insisting those words must include us, too.

Hope is an act of defiance. To mourn and still believe in the American promise, to grieve and still celebrate Shabbat, to remember and still insist on our dignity—this is our response. God hears our tears, but God also hears our songs, our prayers, our laughter.

As we mark Memorial Day and Parashat Behar, we will not surrender to cynicism or despair. May Sarah Milgrim and Yaron Lischinsky’s memories be a blessing, and may we honor them by living Jewish lives filled with courage, compassion, and the audacity to hope.