My dear friends,
Jewish tradition teaches us to pay attention to time, because time is where holiness lives. This Shabbat Ha Gadol, as I stand here for the last time as Chairman, I feel above all a deep sense of gratitude for the time shared, for the responsibility you entrusted me with and for the privilege of serving this community.
Our portion today, from Leviticus 7:22 to 8:13, seems at first glance an unlikely place for an inspiring farewell. It speaks of forbidden fats, sacrificial procedures, and the elaborate ritual through which Aaron and his sons are consecrated for sacred service. Not, perhaps, the material of soaring sermons. But there is the underlying theme of Moses passing on the authority for ritual and priestly duties to Aaron and his sons as instructed by God
And so, the more I sat with these verses, the more they seemed appropriate for a moment like this.
Leviticus reminds us that holiness is rarely dramatic. It is built from discipline, boundaries, and small acts performed faithfully over time. The Torah insists on details: what may or may not be eaten, what must be offered, how the priest is clothed, how the oil is poured. To modern ears it can feel remote. But beneath the ritual lies a profound idea: that service to God is not abstract. It takes form in action, structure, and responsibility.
In chapter 8 we see Moses dressing Aaron for the priesthood. Garment by garment, symbol by symbol, Aaron is prepared for a role larger than himself. It is not a moment of personal glory. It is a moment of obligation.
Leadership in Jewish life has always worked like that. No one truly “owns” a role. We inhabit it for a time. We are figuratively dressed in its garments for a season, and then—as required—we pass them on.
We both literally and metaphorically just like with Elijah and Elisha “pass the mantle”.
The Torah is intentionally caring and detailed in the way it describes this process. Moses does not simply declare Aaron a priest. He anoints him, guides him, prepares him. Sacred roles are never meant to be owned; they are handed from one set of hands to another.
That idea has stayed with me throughout my time as Chairman.
A synagogue is not sustained by one person, nor even by a committee. It lives because of something deeper: the steady devotion of people who show up, who care, who argue, who repair, who give their time, their wisdom, their patience. Those who give of themselves to BSRS and to educating our adults and our children.
Judaism has survived for thousands of years not because we were powerful, but because we were faithful in the small things. Lighting candles. Showing up to pray. Teaching our children. Caring for each other. Resilient in our faith and in Jewish values.
Leviticus is the book of those essential fidelities.
Here I am reminded of the words of Abraham Joshua Heschel, who wrote in The Sabbath that “Judaism is a religion of time aiming at the sanctification of time.” Holiness is not found only in extraordinary moments but in the steady rhythm of sacred acts — week after week, generation after generation.
That is what I have seen most clearly during my time in this role. Not grand gestures, but quiet acts of responsibility. The person who unlocks the door early. The person who checks on a member who has not been well. The volunteer who does the unseen work that allows the community to function. The person who keeps us safe. The person who arranges our adult education or who is responsible for our religious services. The person who ensures the kitchen is kosher for Pesach and takes charge of all the arrangements for the BSRS Seder.
Those, too, are garments of service.
There is another theme in these verses that speaks to our moment. The Torah places boundaries around what may and may not be consumed. It is a reminder that not everything belongs to us. Some portions are set aside as sacred or set aside just because that is what is ordained.
In our time, when the world feels chaotic – when we watch events in Israel with heavy hearts, when religious and political extremism threatens to drive a wedge between Israel and the diaspora, when antisemitism reminds us that Jewish history never quite becomes simple – it can be tempting to feel overwhelmed.
But Leviticus teaches a different posture. We do not control history. What we can control is our faithfulness to jewish ethics and values. Our commitment to live as Jews with dignity, honesty, and compassion to all fellow human beings.
That is today’s version of our temple offering.
The Italian Jewish writer Primo Levi, reflecting on the darkest chapter of Jewish history in If This Is a Man, observed something deeply unsettling but profoundly true: “It happened, therefore it can happen again.”
Levi did not say this to cultivate fear. He said it to cultivate responsibility. Memory, for Jews, is not passive. It is a moral discipline.
And perhaps that too is part of what it means to live as a covenantal people: to remember honestly, to face the world as it is, and still to insist on dignity, justice, and hope especially as we treasure the concept of Am Yisrael.
Our tradition answers darkness not with despair but with responsibility.
And responsibility always begins with the ordinary.
I have often thought of something written by Jonathan Sacks, who reminded us that “the highest form of leadership is not power but influence, not the force of personality but the ability to inspire others to become leaders themselves.”
That idea has shaped how I see this community.
Serving as Chairman has never felt to me like holding authority. It has felt more like being temporarily entrusted with a mantle that belonged to others before me and will belong to others after me.
And tonight, like Aaron being clothed by Moses, we are reminded that leadership is always part of a longer chain.
What matters is not the individual but the continuity.
Rabbi Sacks once wrote something else that has stayed with me. Reflecting on the endurance of the Jewish people, he said: “Civilisations come and go, but the Jewish people continued to tell their story, teach their children, and keep faith with the past while building the future.”
That quiet continuity is one of the great miracles of Jewish history.
My hope for our synagogue moving forward is simply this: that we continue to be a place of seriousness and kindness and Ruach. A place where Jewish life is lived thoughtfully. A place where questions are welcome, where faith is deepened, where community is real.
And perhaps most importantly, a place where we remember gratitude to God and to each other
The older I become, the more central gratitude feels to Jewish life. Gratitude for the miracle of being part of a people that has carried its covenant across centuries. Gratitude for the privilege of gathering here week after week. Gratitude for each other.
And here Levi offers one more insight that has stayed with me for many years. After everything he witnessed, he wrote that the true opposite of hatred is not heroism, but attention — the simple act of recognising another person’s humanity.
In its own quiet way, that too is a priestly act. My own gratitude today is very deep.
Thank you for the trust you placed in me. Thank you for your patience, your friendship, and your willingness to share this responsibility. And thank you for reminding me, again and again, that a synagogue is not merely an institution. It is a living community of souls seeking meaning.
The portion ends not with a speech but with preparation. Aaron is clothed, anointed, and ready to begin his service.
That is how Jewish leadership works. One person steps back, another steps forward, and the sacred work continues.
And before I sit down, allow me to share one quiet prayer for the Jewish future.
For two thousand years the Jewish people learned, painfully, how to live without power. We endured exile, discrimination and persecution, yet we carried with us an extraordinary moral inheritance. Now, in the modern State of Israel, Jews again possess power – political power, military power, the power of sovereignty. It is a historic blessing, but also a profound test.
Here the words of Primo Levi remain deeply unsettling. Reflecting on the catastrophes of the twentieth century, he warned: “Monsters exist, but they are too few in number to be truly dangerous. More dangerous are the common men… ready to believe and to act without asking questions.”
Our task, as Jews and as human beings, is never to become those people. We must speak up and speak out. We Progressive Jews are the endangered majority whose voice must be heard. Israel must return to being a liberal democracy with equal rights for all its citizens as set out in the declaration of independence
My prayer is that we learn to carry power with the same moral seriousness with which we endured powerlessness; that we resist the temptations of extremism; and that the Jewish state reflects not only the strength of the Jewish people, but the ethical depth of the Jewish tradition.
May this community continue to grow in wisdom, compassion, and strength.
May we continue to seek God not only in great moments but in the quiet disciplines of daily life.
The writer Hermann Hesse observed in his book Siddhartha that knowledge can be communicated, but wisdom must be lived. Perhaps that is the deepest truth of Jewish life. Our tradition does not survive or thrive through institutions. It is because generation after generation choose to live it, to embrace it , to pass it on.
And may we always remember that the true garments of holiness are humility, responsibility, and love for one another.
I have worn my mantle only for a short time. The community is what endures. The sacred work continues, as it always has, carried forward by each generation and it is their duty to do so.
Thank you for allowing me to be a part of this continuity Shabbat shalom.
