Rabbi Mark Glickman’s sermon is from a Shabbat service on October 13th. The information said in his sermon does not reflect the constantly changing information that has occurred over the last two months.
When my wife Caron and I were in Israel last February, we went with a couple dozen of my colleagues to a small cluster of communities near the Gaza border called Sha’ar Hanegev. Our hosts there welcomed us at the local community centre and showed us into a meeting room. Over tea and cakes, we had the chance to meet Ofir Libstein, the mayor of Sha’ar Hanegev.
Mr. Libstein shared with us something of what life was like for him and his neighbours living in that troubled corner of the world. He spoke about the Palestinians on the other side of the border and acknowledged that, while some people in Gaza certainly wished him harm, he was confident that most of the Palestinians there were just like him—people with husbands, wives, children, and friends, just trying to live their lives as peaceably as they could.
Last Saturday, Hamas terrorists murdered Ofir Libstein in a firefight at Sha’ar Hanegev.
Saturday, October 7, was the deadliest day in the history of the Jewish people since the Holocaust. These are the pictures of just some of the victims.
The terrorists murdered more than 1,300 people in Israel. But that number—1,300—hides so much. They were old, and they were young, they were married and they were single. They had families, they had partners, they had friends. Many were non-Jews living or working in the Jewish state.
“He who destroys a single life,” the Talmud says, “is considered to have destroyed a world.” In Saturday’s violence, 1,300 lives came to a sudden end at the hands of terrorist evildoers. We mourn their deaths; we pay tribute to their lives. About 250 others were taken hostage, and we pray for their safe return.
We are here tonight to celebrate Shabbat. And we are here to grieve. And we are here to reflect. And we are here because we need one another. And we are here in search of God’s comfort and guidance. When you kill one Jew, you injure the Jewish heart. And we are here to nurse our wounded heart together. It was Israelis who were attacked on Saturday, but, as Yehudah Amichai’s poem notes, the diameter of that bomb extends much farther—even to here in Calgary and beyond.
As your rabbi, I’m supposed to comfort you at this juncture but I’m finding that difficult because right now I need comforting, too.
This is a moment that calls for moral clarity on the part of the Jewish people. Israel was attacked by terrorists. Old and young were slaughtered—men, women, and children. The killers went to their victims’ homes, to their town centres, and to a music festival, and they filmed their multi-pronged pogrom so they could brag about it to the world as it happened and afterward.
There are those who blame Israeli policy for these attacks, arguing that Israel’s occupation of the West Bank and Gaza and its treatment of Palestinians somehow paved the way for the horrors of last Saturday. Yes, there has been longstanding conflict between Israelis and Palestinians. But when you and I are having a dispute, however nasty my own behaviour might be, you don’t come to my home and kill my family. Such a response is never called for, it’s never “understandable,” it’s never a result of previous mistreatment. Accusations that Israeli policy brought this on are simply attempts to blame the victims, and to excuse unconscionable acts of terror. It is a perspective that we should refute at every possible opportunity.
There are those in the media who refer to the perpetrators of this violence as freedom fighters, and as people struggling for peace, who act on behalf of the rights of their people. That terminology is wrong—the perpetrators were terrorists. People who are fighting for national liberation don’t attack concert-goers. People who want peace in their land don’t murder peace activists. Those who want a better world for their people don’t commit brutal acts of terror.
Let’s be clear. Like many of us, I’m opposed to the occupation. Like many, I dream of a state for the Palestinian people just as we Jews have. And I, too, am horrified at some of the ways Israel has treated those who live in Gaza and the West Bank. But none of this—none of it caused this week’s carnage.
“Yes, but the occupation,” some people say. “Yes, but the corruption of the Netanyahu government. Yes, but . . .”
For the murder of infants, there is no “yes, but.”
For the slaughter of innocents, there is no “yes, but.”
For taking the elderly and the wounded hostage in a war zone “yes, but” has no place.
Let’s remember that although these attacks targeted mostly Jewish Israelis, Jews are not the only victims of Hamas’s terror. Hamas has caused great suffering on the part of Palestinians. Israel ended its occupation of Gaza in 2005, and soon afterward, Hamas took control of the area. It was a moment of such promise when Israel gave Gazans their autonomy. But Hamas squandered foreign aid in a morass of corruption. Hamas quashed their political opponents, often violently. And now, Hamas has brought the wrath of the IDF upon Gaza's citizens. Hamas has Jewish and Palestinian blood on its hands.
Let us hope and pray that, in the heat of war, Israel is able to remember this as it engages in the crucial task of defending itself against terrorism. There are more than two million people living in that little Gaza strip. There is no electricity, and Israel, who maintains external control of the area, has turned off access to food and water. The only way out might have been through Egypt, but Egypt hasn’t opened the door.
This is Shabbat B’reishit, when we Jews read the opening verses of the Torah. As I was reading the portion this week, my eyes were drawn to the story of Cain and Abel. Cain, according to the Torah, was history’s first murderer—the first person who rose up against their fellow human being and took their life. In this case, it was the life of Cain’s brother, Abel.
In 1981, Israeli poet Dan Pagis wrote about the aftermath of this murder from the perspective of Cain and Abel’s mother, Eve.
The poem is called “Written in Pencil in the Sealed Railway-Car,” and Pagis is using the story of Cain, Abel, and their mother Eve as an allegory for the Holocaust. A section of the poem reads:
here in this carload
i am eve
with abel my son
if you see my other son
cain son of man
tell him that i
I invite you to reflect for a few moments on these words. Eve sits in a railway car with the body of her murdered son. Her other son is Cain, Son of Man, Kayin ben Adam, Cain Son of Adam. She searches for him, but he is far, far away. And she wants to say something to him, she wants to share what she is thinking and feeling. But when it comes time to put words to what is in her heart, she falls into silence. She writes a message, but she can’t finish the thought.
There are no words.
Adonai oz l’amo yitein. Adonai y’vareich et amo vashalom. May God grant strength to our people, and may God bless our people with peace.
The sermon has been shortened for length and clarity.
Rabbi Mark Glickman’s sermon is from a Shabbat service on October 13th. The information said in his sermon does not reflect the constantly changing information that has occurred over the last two months.
When my wife Caron and I were in Israel last February, we went with a couple dozen of my colleagues to a small cluster of communities near the Gaza border called Sha’ar Hanegev. Our hosts there welcomed us at the local community centre and showed us into a meeting room. Over tea and cakes, we had the chance to meet Ofir Libstein, the mayor of Sha’ar Hanegev.
Mr. Libstein shared with us something of what life was like for him and his neighbours living in that troubled corner of the world. He spoke about the Palestinians on the other side of the border and acknowledged that, while some people in Gaza certainly wished him harm, he was confident that most of the Palestinians there were just like him—people with husbands, wives, children, and friends, just trying to live their lives as peaceably as they could.
Last Saturday, Hamas terrorists murdered Ofir Libstein in a firefight at Sha’ar Hanegev.
Saturday, October 7, was the deadliest day in the history of the Jewish people since the Holocaust. These are the pictures of just some of the victims.
The terrorists murdered more than 1,300 people in Israel. But that number—1,300—hides so much. They were old, and they were young, they were married and they were single. They had families, they had partners, they had friends. Many were non-Jews living or working in the Jewish state.
“He who destroys a single life,” the Talmud says, “is considered to have destroyed a world.” In Saturday’s violence, 1,300 lives came to a sudden end at the hands of terrorist evildoers. We mourn their deaths; we pay tribute to their lives. About 250 others were taken hostage, and we pray for their safe return.
We are here tonight to celebrate Shabbat. And we are here to grieve. And we are here to reflect. And we are here because we need one another. And we are here in search of God’s comfort and guidance. When you kill one Jew, you injure the Jewish heart. And we are here to nurse our wounded heart together. It was Israelis who were attacked on Saturday, but, as Yehudah Amichai’s poem notes, the diameter of that bomb extends much farther—even to here in Calgary and beyond.
As your rabbi, I’m supposed to comfort you at this juncture but I’m finding that difficult because right now I need comforting, too.
This is a moment that calls for moral clarity on the part of the Jewish people. Israel was attacked by terrorists. Old and young were slaughtered—men, women, and children. The killers went to their victims’ homes, to their town centres, and to a music festival, and they filmed their multi-pronged pogrom so they could brag about it to the world as it happened and afterward.
There are those who blame Israeli policy for these attacks, arguing that Israel’s occupation of the West Bank and Gaza and its treatment of Palestinians somehow paved the way for the horrors of last Saturday. Yes, there has been longstanding conflict between Israelis and Palestinians. But when you and I are having a dispute, however nasty my own behaviour might be, you don’t come to my home and kill my family. Such a response is never called for, it’s never “understandable,” it’s never a result of previous mistreatment. Accusations that Israeli policy brought this on are simply attempts to blame the victims, and to excuse unconscionable acts of terror. It is a perspective that we should refute at every possible opportunity.
There are those in the media who refer to the perpetrators of this violence as freedom fighters, and as people struggling for peace, who act on behalf of the rights of their people. That terminology is wrong—the perpetrators were terrorists. People who are fighting for national liberation don’t attack concert-goers. People who want peace in their land don’t murder peace activists. Those who want a better world for their people don’t commit brutal acts of terror.
Let’s be clear. Like many of us, I’m opposed to the occupation. Like many, I dream of a state for the Palestinian people just as we Jews have. And I, too, am horrified at some of the ways Israel has treated those who live in Gaza and the West Bank. But none of this—none of it caused this week’s carnage.
“Yes, but the occupation,” some people say. “Yes, but the corruption of the Netanyahu government. Yes, but . . .”
For the murder of infants, there is no “yes, but.”
For the slaughter of innocents, there is no “yes, but.”
For taking the elderly and the wounded hostage in a war zone “yes, but” has no place.
Let’s remember that although these attacks targeted mostly Jewish Israelis, Jews are not the only victims of Hamas’s terror. Hamas has caused great suffering on the part of Palestinians. Israel ended its occupation of Gaza in 2005, and soon afterward, Hamas took control of the area. It was a moment of such promise when Israel gave Gazans their autonomy. But Hamas squandered foreign aid in a morass of corruption. Hamas quashed their political opponents, often violently. And now, Hamas has brought the wrath of the IDF upon Gaza's citizens. Hamas has Jewish and Palestinian blood on its hands.
Let us hope and pray that, in the heat of war, Israel is able to remember this as it engages in the crucial task of defending itself against terrorism. There are more than two million people living in that little Gaza strip. There is no electricity, and Israel, who maintains external control of the area, has turned off access to food and water. The only way out might have been through Egypt, but Egypt hasn’t opened the door.
This is Shabbat B’reishit, when we Jews read the opening verses of the Torah. As I was reading the portion this week, my eyes were drawn to the story of Cain and Abel. Cain, according to the Torah, was history’s first murderer—the first person who rose up against their fellow human being and took their life. In this case, it was the life of Cain’s brother, Abel.
In 1981, Israeli poet Dan Pagis wrote about the aftermath of this murder from the perspective of Cain and Abel’s mother, Eve.
The poem is called “Written in Pencil in the Sealed Railway-Car,” and Pagis is using the story of Cain, Abel, and their mother Eve as an allegory for the Holocaust. A section of the poem reads:
here in this carload
i am eve
with abel my son
if you see my other son
cain son of man
tell him that i
I invite you to reflect for a few moments on these words. Eve sits in a railway car with the body of her murdered son. Her other son is Cain, Son of Man, Kayin ben Adam, Cain Son of Adam. She searches for him, but he is far, far away. And she wants to say something to him, she wants to share what she is thinking and feeling. But when it comes time to put words to what is in her heart, she falls into silence. She writes a message, but she can’t finish the thought.
There are no words.
Adonai oz l’amo yitein. Adonai y’vareich et amo vashalom. May God grant strength to our people, and may God bless our people with peace.
The sermon has been shortened for length and clarity.