Last winter, during the Q&A portion of a panel I’d participated in at B’nai Jeshurun, a synagogue on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, a 5-year-old Black girl’s question punctuated the evening’s conversation with a question that pierced my heart like an arrow.

As I watched the tragic death of George Floyd and the ensuing protests across our country and the world, I recalled Rabbi Paley’s introduction to Tikun Olam during my cohort’s first Wexner retreat. If ever there was a need for repair, it is now. Based on my experience, it is a tough road. Acknowledging that the dice are loaded in my favor was counterintuitive. It was not my daily experience.

A comfortable, well-educated, straight White male rabbi walks into a multiracial family.  That’s not a joke – it’s my spiritual autobiography.                Though every story is unique, “comfortable” does describe many of us who grew up White and Jewish. We rarely knew how advantaged we were, in myriad subtle ways, how much likelier we were to achieve success, thanks to something as random as skin tone and how hard others would

I have always disliked MLK Day. To be more precise, I have always disliked attending most commemorations of MLK Day. This has nothing to do with the legacy of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Rather, it is bound up with the peculiar cultural whiplash that I have experienced year after year attending ceremonies on MLK Day. Let me explain.  As a middle class Black child, my parents made any number

Dearest Friends, It was nearly six decades ago that Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel, z”l, spoke about the imperative to pursue justice. He expounded on Amos 5:24, “Let justice roll down like waters, and righteousness like a mighty stream,” and wrote: “A mighty stream, expressive of the vehemence of a never-ending, surging, fighting movement–as if obstacles had to be washed away for justice to be done. . . Righteousness as a

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