The jarring notes of the shofar — they have always mesmerized me. 

I can recall being a child attending the youth services at Temple Israel in Great Neck, marveling at the talent of the individuals capable of creating these sounds from an animal’s horn. But, if I stepped back, I would reflect that it has always been how that sound resonated to me — as a wake-up call. It commanded me to listen, pay attention, and then, maybe, take action to improve myself in the coming year. So, it has been with the Jewish people. The shofar has represented our “clarion call” to act, even in the darkest times. 

Recently, I came across a meaningful story that perfectly brings this idea to life. In the darkest days of the Holocaust, a prisoner in Auschwitz did something extraordinary: he miraculously hid a shofar from his captors, risking his life for this simple symbol of our faith. He could have focused on his survival alone, which would have been understandable. Of course, he must have known that keeping such an item, a ritual symbol of Jewish practice, put him at great risk. But that is precisely what this man did. In fact, the account states that not only did he secret away this Shofar, but he actually used it – he blew it in the practice of our holiday tradition. 

We have all heard the shofar – it does not make an inconspicuous sound – so why would he do such a thing? Why would he take that risk? During an inhumane death march, in the most brutal of winter conditions, as he was near death, he made a fateful decision — he passed the Shofar to another prisoner. 

That other prisoner was Chaskel Tydor. Chaskel could have abandoned the Shofar, focusing only on his survival. But he too chose a different path. He clung to it. Through unimaginable suffering, Chaskel carried the Shofar with him until liberation. 

I think in a time when we were powerless against our ruthless oppressors, even the smallest defiant act to preserve our Jewish identity was worth it. It demonstrated the simple fact that the Jewish spirit refused to be broken. These 

men of great courage chose to preserve a symbol of their Jewish traditions – I would say – not in spite of the risk, but because of it. It was a statement to the world: We are still here. Even in the shadow of death, our traditions live on. Our faith endures. 

Chaskel’s and this Auschwitz victim’s story is our story—the story of a people who refuse to be broken. And this story is not an anomaly. Our history is dotted with countless accounts of Jewish people practicing their religion in the face of persecution, refusing to abandon their faith despite the risks. 

I have been blessed to travel around the world, and in almost every destination, I have borne witness to once-thriving Jewish societies that are today but a shadow of their prior vibrant selves. Whether it is the site of the Krakov Ghetto, the Jewish quarters of Rome, Morocco, or Prague – each has revealed a common thread. There are always accounts of the Jewish people who risked everything to practice their religion… in secret. These quiet acts of resistance preserved their faith and dignity, even as they faced unimaginable suffering… and as one society perished, new ones could be established that carried our traditions to the next generation. L’Dor V’Dor 

This unbreakable devotion to our religion is one of the most powerful forms of resistance. Being Jewish—proudly Jewish—and continuing to live our traditions, valuing our Jewish identity, has been at the core of what has allowed us to survive as a faith, time and time again. 

October 7th – unbelievably, a year ago, was another clarion call. In the aftermath of that day and since then, Jews across the world have stood up—proud, defiant, and resilient. I read that, in the two months following October 7th, sales of Stars of David rose by 450%. This didn’t surprise me because that moment inspired me, too. For the first time, I felt compelled to wear a Star of David to publicly and unapologetically display my Jewish pride – my Jewish identity. Thank you, Richard Wasserman and my Oheb friends for an incredible gift! 

And this year has challenged all of us. The Jewish people are facing one of the most profound existential threats since the Holocaust. Around the world, anti-Semitism is raging. Jews are targets of physical attacks, and Jewish institutions are under constant threat of terrorist events. It is hard to be a Jew today. 

But here’s the point: practicing Judaism and staying connected to our community is our act of resistance. In a world that would have us forget who we are, to live as Jews is to resist. 

Victor Frankl, an Austrian Holocaust survivor, once said, “Between stimulus and response, there is a space. In that space, we have the power to choose our response. In our response lies our growth and our freedom.” This power to choose our response has been our strength for centuries. 

This power to choose our response has made this past year bearable. Thankfully, each of us at Oheb knows we have been part of a larger response. None of us was alone. Over the past year, we have come together as a community to share our stories, to grieve, to comfort each other, to learn from each other, and occasionally disagree on difficult topics, but always in the spirit of how our local synagogue can be the bedrock of our Jewishness. 

So, what does it mean to practice Judaism today? Some define it as traditionally keeping the Sabbath, observing kashrut, laying tefillin, daily prayer, and so on. But I want to add a bit more to that definition. Practicing Judaism means showing up and being part of this community in whatever way speaks to you. This Yom Kippur let’s recommit to our Jewishness and define its practice in whatever way is most relevant to each of us. 

To practice may mean… 

• Volunteering at the Bobrow Food Pantry, packing bags on a Wednesday evening, or distributing food on Sunday morning. 
• Joining us for First Fridays—even if life makes you late, just come for dinner. 
• Attending one of our wonderful adult education programs -—like the four-part series Rabbi Treu just taught on the Elul holidays. 
• Bringing your young children to our top-notch Zeman School, led by our amazing Gavin Hirsch, which is now tuition-free due to the generosity of Arthur Schechner. Park your car and stick around for bagels and shmoozing – that is the practice of Judaism 
• Joining a committee to help plan a fundraiser (please save the date and show up for our big one on December 7th), run a social event, or work on a social action initiative. 
• Being part of the Sisterhood or Men’s Club . 
• Attending one of our spiritual and uplifting Saturday morning services, led by our creative and inspirational clergy – Rabbi Treu and Cantor Kissner. 
• And yes, to practice is to financially support Oheb Shalom so that we can continue to deliver the diversity of offerings that connect with our congregants – spiritually, educationally, and socially. 

So, Practicing Judaism means being engaged with our Oheb Shalom community – in whatever way you choose. 

I would be remiss in not noting that while we have been blessed, truly blessed, to add so many new families into our congregational home over the past few years, and there is undoubtably a new sense of vibrancy here at Oheb, the financial pressure on synagogues around the country, including our own, is real. This keeps me up at night. Because I know—that without a strong, local synagogue, we risk losing something vital for each of us—not just here but for Judaism as a whole. We can’t rely on always having our local synagogue serve us if we do not actively support it. And, we risk missing the opportunity to connect to the next generation, like a Steven Alexander (who you met on Rosh Hashanah), who has the potential to be impacted by our Oheb community. 

As we hear the clarion note of the shofar at tomorrow’s Neilah services, please consider my charge to you: 

Get out of your comfort zone. Engage in at least one new way at Oheb Shalom this year. Twenty-five years ago, if you had told me I’d be standing here as president, giving these remarks, I would have laughed – seriously! And yet, here I am. Hineni—I am here. And if I can do this, I know every one of you can engage more deeply, in ways big or small. 

So, let’s get uncomfortable together. As Victor Frankl said, we have the power to choose our response, and our growth and freedom lie in our response. Our Jewish identity is being threatened, and this can feel paralyzing if we let it — Let’s choose, together, to further strengthen this wonderful synagogue and our community, to make it even more vibrant, as our collective act of resistance. 

L’Shanah Tovah to you and your families. May you all be inscribed in the Book of Life, and may the year ahead be one of health, happiness, and peace—for us, for Israel, and for Jews around the world, and may our hostage come home. 

Thank you.