There follows an edited version of Rabbi Botnick’s sermon at a special Shabbat service on 1 March to mark the end of our 85th anniversary year:

He started by referring to a meaningful message within the text of that week’s Parsha. The Torah reading had begun a nearly two-month-long narration looking at the description, building and accounting for the works that went into the Mishkan, the Tabernacle that wandered with the Israelites through the wilderness. David later brought it to Jerusalem and Solomon eventually built a more permanent structure, the Temple. The entire narrative had begun with God instructing Moses to tell the Israelites, ‘Make for me a holy space.’

We have all this description of these items, the materials that went into them, and all the various labours that were needed to make them. We spend literally weeks reading about this over and over again. Why? What’s so significant about the building of this Mishkan? Why do we spend more time focusing on this rather than on the story of the Exodus or on the story of giving the Torah and the Ten Commandments?

Rabbi Botnick spoke of Mordecai Kaplan, probably one of the most influential people in 20th-century Judaism, who had started out in the Orthodox world and founded the Young Israel movement of Orthodox synagogues in the USA. He then developed the concept of the Jewish Community Center, where a synagogue could be a gathering place for more than just prayer. It can be a place where you come together to have meals, learn, have wonderful events, and even work out – a place for Jew to live Jewishly with one another. He went on to found Reconstructionist Judaism, a relatively small denomination primarily in the United States, but with ideas that are pervasive throughout the Jewish world.

In his seminal text, ‘Judaism as a Civilization’, Kaplan tried to rid Judaism of its authoritative concept of a distant, abstract God and make it much more about people. He said that’s really what Judaism has always been about anyway – the people. Around the middle of his text, he shares his vision of this new idea of Judaism as a folk religion. He says that the significance of the traditional Jewish religion ‘does not derive from the cognitive element of its God idea but from the conduct in which that idea has found expression.’ This may not be the easiest concept to follow, but what he was saying, in essence, is that our faith is rooted not in the idea of God as such, but in the rites and customs that we’ve practised throughout history in acknowledgment of our God.

This is actually echoed by the continuation of that opening verse of the long Mishkan narrative: ‘Make for me a holy space, and I, God, will dwell amongst you.’ It’s by doing something, by actively building a space together, that God then becomes present in our lives. The holy space isn’t so much holy because it’s where God lives; it’s holy because God lives amongst the people. It’s the people working together, contributing their money, their precious items, their time, and their skills, as they did for the Mishkan, that make the space holy. God isn’t so much present in the Mishkan without us taking the steps to build that Mishkan and to practice our religious observances within it. It doesn’t matter at all what you think God is. What matters is that our individual ideas of God have led us to build a beautiful and open community together. God lives in this space because we make this space holy by coming together.

For 85 years, people, originally German Jewish refugees but now from all over the world and many different backgrounds, have come together to make this a truly holy space. This is a unique, special and precious community. Every synagogue talks about being a warm and inviting community, but most of them aren’t. We don’t say that anywhere in our literature or on the plaques outside, but we truly are. This is a special community, and it’s special because of the efforts of every single one of you, whether it is serving on the board as an honorary officer, sitting on a committee, helping run events, volunteering as a greeter or security, singing in the choir, playing the organ for us, or helping with the children. Each and every one of you has played a role in building this holy space, not just so you have a place to encounter the Divine, but so that others can benefit from that work as well. That is what makes this space so special. That is why we come together to congregate in this space – not so much because of God, but because of how we come together to experience something so much bigger than ourselves, which we might call the Divine. Whatever it is, it truly is special. It is a holy space, and it feels as if the Divine is dwelling amongst us because of each and every one of you.

Rabbi Gabriel Botnick on the use of words – and a hidden word in the Book of Esther

Have you ever criticized someone not for what they said, but for what they didn’t say? We often see this when someone delivers a less-than-heartfelt apology: ‘I’m sorry you were hurt by what I said.’ Such words do not constitute a true apology. Rather they simply pass off responsibility to the person who was hurt. However, if one were to say, ‘I’m sorry for saying something so hurtful towards you’ – that would indeed be an apology.

In other situations, it might not be as important for someone to be so forthright in their language. For instance, when speaking to a relative after a death, one might consider it insensitive – or even hurtful – to keep reminding them of their loved one’s death. Instead, when speaking with a mourner, we often use more euphemistic language: ‘I’m so sorry for your loss.’ Everyone knows exactly what that ‘loss’ is, so there’s no need to use more vivid or painful language.

The use and intentional exclusion of certain words can be both productive and harmful. Our early rabbis understood this dual nature of language and taught it through the metaphor of fire, which can be both productive – by providing warmth and healthy food – and harmful by threatening total destruction. The rabbis taught that the Torah is written as ‘black fire upon white fire’, that is, the black letters of the Torah and the white spaces in between are both seen as fire. It makes sense that the written words of Torah can be seen in that way, capable of inspiring passion and offering sustenance, while holding the potential to burn those who struggle with its teachings. But the rabbis also teach us that sometimes we need to look deeper into the Torah to understand what is not being said explicitly, but rather what can be understood through critical reading. In these instances, the white fire of the Torah can be even more profound than the black fire.

This philosophy stands out most dramatically in the Book of Esther, which we read at our Purim service and celebration, as the Book of Esther is the only book in the Bible that does not contain the name of God. So, if God’s name isn’t in the Book of Esther, why is this text included in the Bible? Well, drawing on the metaphor of black fire on white fire, the rabbis teach us that God actually is present in the text – just in hidden ways. In fact, the name Esther itself means ‘I will hide.’ Of course, this ‘hiding’ could refer to the fact that Esther hides her Jewish identity from her husband, the king, but the rabbis prefer to see the name Esther as an allusion to a verse in Deuteronomy, in which God says, ‘I will hide my face’ from the Israelites at a later time (Deut. 31:18). The Bible explains that Esther’s real name was Hadassah (Esther 2:7), which may not seem so significant at first. But the rabbis say this name alludes to a verse in Isaiah that says, ‘Hadas (myrtle) will rise up and be to God as a name.’ (Isaiah 55:13). In other words, the name Esther may be a placeholder for the name Hadassah, which in turn is a placeholder for the name of God.

Finally, there is yet another way in which the name of God may be hidden in the text of Esther. There is a tradition to write the Megillah so that the first word of almost every column is ‘HaMelech,’ which means ‘the king.’ On the surface, each use of HaMelech clearly refers to King Achashverosh. But on a deeper, mystical level, each HaMelech might be a hidden reference to God, who is also known by this name.

So, is the name of God really absent from the Book of Esther? Technically, yes. But in reality, I don’t think it is. One could easily read the story of Purim and conclude that God played no role in our victory over the wicked Haman. But the rabbis teach us not to be so quick in making this assumption. And more importantly, the rabbis are actually trying to teach us not to be so quick in assuming that God doesn’t play a role in our lives today. Just because we can’t see or hear God doesn’t mean God isn’t there. Rather, God is hidden in our world, and we are all tasked with figuring out how best to reveal God’s presence. Who knows, you might find God in nature, in our traditions, or even in the words and actions of our everyday heroes.
Chag sameach!

Rabbi Gabriel Botnick encourages us to recognise optimism in the light of the Chanukah candles

According to the Talmud, God created humankind on the sixth day following Rosh Hashanah. As that first autumn progressed, Adam noticed that the days were getting shorter – that there was a decreasing amount of light in the world – and he worried that the world was coming to an end, and so he observed an eight-day period of mourning. But then, shortly after midwinter, he noticed the days began to lengthen once more and that this must simply be the way of the world, so he observed an eightday period of celebration, lighting candles each day to contribute even more light to the world. And thus, Adam laid the foundation for what would eventually become our celebration of Chanukah.

Of course we do not understand this story to be factual, yet it still speaks to a profound truth in life: that light and darkness – joy and pain – ebb and flow independently of our own actions. And just as every night is followed by the dawn of a new day, so too all periods of darkness eventually give way to brighter days.

This truth applies to each of us individually: dark clouds of depression at some point give way to renewed feelings of happiness and hope, and highs of elation in turn are supplanted by struggles and pain. It is therefore paramount – especially when all hope seems lost – to remind ourselves of this cyclical nature of life.

And this truth also applies to us collectively: our people will experience periods of safety and prosperity as well as periods of worry and strife. The very recent past has reminded us far too well of this fact, and so now, more than in a long time, we must remind ourselves that this too will pass.

This year, like last, many of us may have struggled to decide whether to position our Chanukah candles in the window where they could be seen by others (and therefore draw attention to ourselves as Jews) or to place them somewhere more discreet inside our homes. So, I encourage you to consider our sages’ portrayal of Adam that first winter following Creation: do not allow yourself to become overwhelmed by the prospect of darkness, but celebrate this celestial reminder that brighter days are awaiting us. Why not hasten their arrival by contributing as much of our light as possible?