Lt. Nathan Baskind, z"l

In one of his less famous, and less stirring, speeches, former congressman and then not-yet- president Abraham Lincoln concluded an 1859 address to the Wisconsin State Agricultural Society with the following parable:

“It is said an Eastern monarch once charged his wise men to invent him a sentence to be ever in view, and which should be true and appropriate in all times and situations. They presented him the words, ‘And this too, shall pass away.’”

“This too shall pass.” The pithy wisdom that whatever circumstances we are experiencing, good or bad, they do not last forever. To the person overflowing with happiness, “this too shall pass” is a reminder of the fleeting nature of life’s joys. To the person steeped in melancholy, “this too shall pass” is a reminder that sunnier days lie ahead. “This too shall pass” – in Hebrew, gam zeh ya’avor – a mantra, a maxim that I find myself returning to since waking up Wednesday morning to the news of Donald Trump’s defeat of Kamala Harris in the 2024 presidential election.

Whenever I enter this sanctuary, I remind myself that sitting in the pews are both those celebrating life’s simchas and those marking life’s sorrows, those whose hearts are filled with joy and those whose hearts are filled with sadness. That is as true today, – perhaps more so – as any other day.

There are people with whom I have spoken, whom we all know, who are in this sanctuary, for whom the election results were crushing, a defeat far greater than the loss of one’s preferred candidate or policy position. People who believe this election result to be a profound rejection of dearly held values, of civil discourse, the rule of law, and human decency. Young women gaming out the shelf-life of their IUDs, panicked at the prospective erosion of their reproductive rights and bodily autonomy. Jews fearful at the thought of a mercurial and transactional president who, time and again, has trafficked in dangerous verbal tropes. There are folk – many folk, Jewish folk – fearful for what this week’s news spells for the long-term future of American democracy and the Jewish people.

And there are people with whom I have also spoken, whom we all know, who are in this sanctuary, for whom the election results were affirming, a welcome and long overdue rebuke to a woke culture run amok, a poke in the eye to a cultural elite more worried about identity politics than inflation and illegal immigration, to a world, as Peggy Noonan described, in which every item at Walgreen’s is now locked up behind plexiglass. Jews grateful for a president-elect who makes no bones about his support for Israel, with a proven track record of results. As one person put it to me the other day, “Where would you feel more comfortable wearing a yarmulke and holding an Israeli flag – a MAGA rally or the DNC?” There are folk – many folk, Jewish folk – grateful for the news of this week, a godsend for the Jewish people and a case statement for the enduring vitality of American democracy.

As a pastor, I learned long ago that pointing out past pain does not lessen present sorrow. The knowledge that others have also experienced setbacks does not diminish what we ourselves are experiencing. The most it provides is perspective, the realization that you are not the first to stumble, to lose a loved one, or in the case of this week, lose an election. The contested election of 2000, the riots of 1968, the battle for civil rights in the 1960s, the Civil War in the 1860s – this is not the first time an American generation, or even our generation, has been called on to weather a divided electorate. I understand those who are presently filled with apprehension, I understand those who are more sanguine. I have no idea if this week’s news signals a new era of American politics or just the cyclical democratic process at work. I cannot say with certainty, “This too shall pass.” Nobody can. What I can do is reflect that we are not the first to stand at such a crossroads. We too must have perspective, look long, and see the big picture. 

When we look at this week’s Torah reading, traditionally our focus is on its opening verses. God calls on Abraham, “Go forth, lekh l’kha, from your native land . . . to the land that I will show you” (Genesis 12:1). God promises that Abraham will be a great nation, be a blessing, and all the families of the earth shall be blessed by him. Inspiring as the words may be, what we often gloss over is just how elusive the promise turns out to be. No sooner does Abraham set out on his journey than famine strikes, prompting him to reroute south to Egypt. Abraham’s entrance on the world stage is poorly received by the autochthonous tribes. Not once but twice his wife Sarah is taken captive. Not once but twice Abraham must save his nephew Lot from attack. There is strife within the first family – a subject to which we will return – and Abraham himself questions God’s justice in regard to the decree against the wicked cities of Sodom and Gomorrah. Not only is the promise of future progeny waylaid by the first couple’s fertility challenges, but when they finally have sons with the arrival of Ishmael and then Isaac, Abraham can’t seem to keep them out of harm’s way, sending Ishmael into the wilderness and binding Isaac on the altar. For all the promise of this week’s parashah, it is a promise unfulfilled in Abraham’s lifetime.

But it goes deeper. Deflated and perhaps despairing, Abraham confronts God. Bamah edah ki irashenah? Loosely translated: How shall I know what will become of me? This is Abraham at his most vulnerable: questioning, perhaps, the wisdom of following God’s call in the first place. God’s response to Abraham’s torment is curious. Not only does God make clear that the promises made to Abraham will be unfulfilled in his lifetime, but they will not be fulfilled for a very long time to come, his descendants destined to be strangers in a strange land. An exchange that, on the one hand, comes with a sting in that Abraham is forced to come to terms with the envelope of his mortality, but on the other hand, provides him with the gift of perspective. God prompts Abraham to look at the big picture, to recognize there is a larger story at hand, that the journey of Lekh L’kha is not about any single destination in time or space, and that our present unease neither defines us, nor will be remembered as our legacy. It is a realization that ultimately becomes Abraham’s source of solace and strength as he moves forward in his journey. Put one foot in front of the other, God tells Abraham, you got this; of all people, you can do it with a broken heart. 

It is a message that does not end with Abraham but begins with him. From our founding father’s journey, to Jacob on the run from Esau, to Joseph being sold into Egypt, to our wilderness wanderings, to our Babylonian exile – in each and every instance, it is not so much that God intervenes to resolve the issue at hand, but rather that God reminds our ancestors that whatever setback they are experiencing is not the sum total of their story. To know that no matter how distant the horizon may be before us, we are part of a bigger narrative arc; our present station is not the sum total of our life and legacy.

This message is an ancient calling that is also our calling today – as Americans, as Jews, and as American Jews. Whether you are affirmed or dispirited by the news of the week gone by, ours is but a single scene in a story far bigger than we presently know. Our task therefore must be to respond to the larger questions. 

First: How will we keep our people together in such a time as this? 

Second: How will we continue to put the well-being of our people at the forefront of our concern? 

And third: How can we, no matter our political leanings, take agency in the face of our ever-changing landscape? 

In answering each of these three questions, I see our synagogue playing a vital role, a role that, I am proud to say, long preceded our present moment of tumult and tension. 

First and foremost, in a world of confusion and anxiety, our community will be an island of civility and a model for civil discourse. The promise is not that we will agree on everything nor, for that matter, that you will agree with every word spoken from this pulpit. The promise, rather, is that we will be an exemplar for respectful dialogue – well aware that while you may disagree with the person sitting in the pew next to you, that person is entitled to their opinion, and we engage with each other with the requisite humility and curiosity to listen and understand how we have each arrived at our opinions. When strife breaks out in the first family, specifically between the herdsmen of Abraham and those of his nephew Lot, Abraham calls for calm, explaining anashim ahim anahnu (Genesis 13:8), anashim meaning “individuals” and ahim meaning “kinsmen.” Why both words? Why not just one? Because, in order for any family – be it the first family, our synagogue family, or the global Jewish family – to stay together, we need to retain both our individuality and our kinship: anashim v’ahim, our diversity and our affinity. We owe it to each other and to ourselves to work in good faith to understand each other and give each other the benefit of the doubt even, and especially, if our politics differ. That is what our community stands for today, what we have always stood for, and what we will continue to stand for.

Second, as a Jewish community, like the shield of Abraham, we will be both proud and steadfast in our defense of the well-being of the people and the State of Israel. Always, but especially in this time of war, with hostages still in captivity – 400 days today – with Israel surrounded with a ring of fire by those seeking its destruction, we stand in solidarity with our brothers and sisters. When Israelis are attacked in the streets of Amsterdam as they were this week, when Jews are attacked on the streets of New York as they were this week, we make our voices heard. Be it from the right or the left, a thug on the street, the campus square, or the highest office in the land, our community has zero tolerance for antisemitism. We may all have differing views of how to secure the safety and well-being of the Jewish people and Jewish state – those, as noted, are fair and necessary debates to have as community. But to stand for the safety and well-being of the Jewish people and Jewish state – that is the buy-in to be part of this community; that is the very least you should expect from your synagogue and your rabbi.

Third and finally, and here I return to where I began – how will we get safely to shore. Abraham is heroic not because he was always successful; he wasn’t. To name but one example, his pleas to God on behalf of Sodom and Gomorrah fell short. But even when he didn’t succeed, he took agency for himself and those around him and picked himself up ready to fight another day. There is no fairy dust in this world. Things happen in this world because people make them happen. Abraham – Lincoln, that is – employed the “this too shall pass” parable in the negative to spotlight the misguided notion that individual, social, and political prosperity and happiness will be realized by the mere passage of time. Not so, said Abraham, both Lincoln and biblical. If we, in our own lifetime, want to see our ideals realized, we must actively cultivate them, nurture them, and fight for them. The message could not be clearer for us all, no matter whom you voted for. If you are affirmed in this hour, then leverage that victory to realize your ideals, consonant with the values and well-being of our people. If you are dispirited in this hour, then leverage that defeat to work to realize your ideals, consonant with the values and well-being of our people. Most of all, do so with an awareness that the person next to you, whomever they voted for, is similarly trying to swim to shore and that the goal is not just to get there, but to get there together. 

This too shall pass, gam zeh ya’avor. It is, in reflection, a nice thing to say but a terrible way to live. Ours is a time when we must be resolute in word and action, eyes wide open to the gravity of the hour, agents and authors in the unfolding narrative of our people and nation. We do not always get to choose the circumstances of our lives, but to reframe Viktor Frankl, we can and must always choose our attitude and response to those circumstances.

As Lincoln said in his Second Inaugural: “With malice toward none, with charity for all . . . let us strive on to finish the work we are in, to bind up the nation's wounds . . . to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace among ourselves and with all nations.”