Tag: jesus

Yom HaKippurim 5787: A Day for Soul-Searching

On By marvinsk2 Comments

Shalom all,

This evening, September 20, at sundown, Jews in Israel and around the world will enter Yom HaKippurim – the Day of Atonement, the tenth day of the Hebrew month of Tishrei. It is the culmination of the Ten Days of Repentance that began with Rosh Hashanah – a day set apart for fasting, prayer, repentance, and serious reflection before God.

The biblical foundation of Yom HaKippurim is found especially in Leviticus 16, where the Torah describes the annual Day of Atonement, and in Leviticus 23, which calls it a “holy convocation” and a day to humble oneself before God (v. 27). The Day of Atonement was not simply another appointed day in Israel’s calendar. It was the annual culmination of the biblical sacrificial system: the High Priest entered the Holy of Holies, atonement was made for the sanctuary and for the people, and the sins of Israel were symbolically carried away. Its purpose was to restore the relationship between a holy God and a sinful people.

Yom HaKippurim also carries a biblically prophetic significance. The Day of Atonement looks beyond the annual ritual toward the ultimate purposes of God for Israel: cleansing from sin, reconciliation with God, repentance, and redemption. The prophetic Scriptures repeatedly connect Israel’s future restoration with a profound spiritual turning toward God. Zechariah 12, for example, speaks of a future day when God pours out upon the house of David and the inhabitants of Jerusalem “a spirit of grace and supplication, so that they will look on Me whom they have pierced; and they will mourn for Him, as one mourns for an only son, and they will weep bitterly over Him like the bitter weeping over a firstborn.” (v. 10); Zechariah 13:1 then declares that “a fountain” will be opened for the cleansing of sin and impurity.

For those who read the Hebrew Scriptures through the lens of Messiah Yeshua, this prophetic dimension becomes especially significant. The New Testament later interprets the Day of Atonement’s priesthood, blood sacrifices, entrance into the Holy of Holies, and removal of sin in relation to Messiah’s atoning work. Hebrews 9–10 explicitly develops this connection. Yet the prophetic promise itself remains striking: the story of Yom HaKippurim ultimately points toward Israel’s cleansing, repentance, restoration, and reconciliation with God.

Yet beneath the rituals lies a profoundly personal question: What happens when we stop looking at the failures of others and honestly examine ourselves before a holy and merciful God? That question is captured with extraordinary simplicity in Psalm 130: “If You, Lord, should mark iniquities, O Lord, who could stand? But there is forgiveness with You, that You may be revered.” (Psalm 130:3–4)

The psalmist begins not with the sins of others, but with his own. If God were to keep a perfect account of every iniquity, who could stand before Him? The answer is both humbling and hopeful: “There is forgiveness with you.”

This understanding of forgiveness is rooted deeply in the Older Testament’s revelation of God’s character. When God revealed Himself to Moses in Exodus 34:6-7, He declared Himself to be: “compassionate and gracious, slow to anger, and abounding in lovingkindness and truth … who forgives iniquity, transgression and sin.”

Again and again, Scripture returns to these characteristics. Psalm 86:5 declares: “For You, Lord, are good and ready to forgive, and abundant in lovingkindness to all who call upon You.” Psalm 103:10-12says that God: “has not dealt with us according to our sins” and He removes our transgressions “as far as the east is from the west.”

And perhaps most beautifully, the prophet Micah asks: “Who is a God like You, who pardons iniquity…?” The prophet answers his own question: “He does not retain His anger forever, because He delights in unchanging love.” Then comes the extraordinary promise: “He will again have compassion on us”; He will tread our iniquities underfoot and will cast all our sins into the depths of the sea. (Micah 7:18-19)

There is a striking connection here with Psalm 130, which begins: “Out of the depths I have cried to You, O LORD.” Micah’s prophecy ends with God casting our sins into: “the depths of the sea.” The person who cries to God from the depths discovers that God is able to remove the very sins that brought him there.

This is the God whom Yom HaKippurim invites us to encounter: holy, but merciful; righteous, but compassionate; aware of our iniquities, yet willing to forgive.

And this is where the prophetic significance of the Day of Atonement becomes particularly powerful. The biblical story does not end with Israel merely repeating an annual ritual. The prophets point toward a day of deeper cleansing and repentance, when God Himself brings about a profound spiritual transformation. Zechariah speaks of a future outpouring of “grace and supplication,” mourning, and then cleansing from sin.

In other words, Yom HaKippurim points both backward and forward: backward to God’s provision for atonement, and forward to the prophetic hope of complete cleansing, repentance, restoration, and redemption.

We should note that there is an important paradox in Psalm 130. The psalmist does not say that God’s forgiveness makes sin insignificant. Rather, he says: “If You, LORD, should mark iniquities, O Lord, who could stand?” Sin matters precisely because God is holy. But mercy means that God’s holiness is not the end of the story. This is why the psalm continues: “But with You there is forgiveness, that You may be revered.” Forgiveness should produce reverence.

The biblical term, often translated “fear of God”, needs to be understood as: awe, humility, reverence, and the recognition that we stand before Someone greater than ourselves. Knowing that God is merciful should not make us careless about our conduct. It should make us more willing to confront it honestly.

The psalm reaches its climax by moving from the individual to the entire nation: “O Israel, hope in the LORD! For with the LORD there is steadfast love, and with Him is plentiful redemption. And He will redeem Israel from all his iniquities.” (Psalm 130:7-8)

This is a remarkable progression: guilt → confession → forgiveness → hope → redemption. The psalmist does not leave Israel removed from God when sin separated them from Him. He directs Israel toward hope, because God’s nature is characterized by steadfast love and plentiful redemption. That message seems particularly appropriate this Yom HaKippurim.

And it is precisely here that Psalm 130 and the prophetic significance of Yom HaKippurim converge. The ultimate hope is not simply that Israel will survive another year, nor merely that an annual ritual will be completed. It is that God will redeem Israel from her iniquities. The prophetic picture is one of God bringing His people through repentance and mourning into cleansing and restoration.

A time for introspection:- Israel enters this Yom HaKippurim after a period in which the country has experienced extraordinary military involvement, loss, fear, uncertainty, and responsibility. Soldiers have been required to make difficult decisions; families have endured separation and loss; civilians have experienced danger; and the country as a whole has been forced to confront questions about security, responsibility, morality, and the future.

There are legitimate differences of opinion about military policy, particular operations, the conduct of the war, and the decisions made by political and military leaders. Yom HaKippurim does not require us to settle those disagreements. It does, however, give us an opportunity to ask a different kind of question: What should I examine in myself?

Before considering the failures of governments, armies, commanders, political leaders, opponents – or anyone else – we can consider our own words, attitudes, actions and omissions: Has fear or anger hardened us? Have we spoken about other human beings in ways we would not want God to hear? Have the pressures of war diminished our compassion? Have we confused strength with righteousness? Have we failed to acknowledge our own mistakes, because we have become preoccupied with the mistakes of others? We need to remove the log from our own eyes before we can see clearly enough to remove the speck from someone else’s eyes. (Matthew 7:3-5)

And perhaps most importantly: Are we willing to allow God’s mercy to change us? This is not an argument for abandoning convictions or ignoring legitimate security concerns. Nor does moral introspection require us to treat every action or every side in a conflict as morally equivalent.

Rather, it is an invitation to recognize that human beings can be called upon to exercise great power while remaining subject to a higher moral accountability. For those serving in the IDF, that responsibility can be especially profound. The reality of military service can involve decisions made under extraordinary pressure, sometimes with incomplete information and terrible alternatives. Unlike some societies that exalt a culture of death, Israel values life does and goes to extraordinary lengths in carrying out its responsibility to protect it. It reminds us of the moral seriousness that accompanies such responsibility.

For everyone else, there is also a responsibility: how we speak, how we judge, how we respond to suffering, how we treat those with whom we disagree, and whether we retain compassion in circumstances that naturally provoke anger.

Ultimately, Yom HaKippurim is not a celebration of human perfection. It begins with the recognition that none of us is perfect. Psalm 130 gives voice to that reality: “If You, LORD, should mark iniquities, O Lord, who could stand?” And then comes the answer: “But with You there is forgiveness.”

That is the hope. The God before whom we examine ourselves is not portrayed in Scripture as eager to destroy the repentant sinner. He is the God who is merciful and gracious, slow to anger, abounding in steadfast love, ready to forgive, and rich in redemption.

And because He is merciful, we can face the truth about ourselves without despair. We can confess without pretending. We can repent without humiliation becoming hopelessness. We can ask forgiveness – and extend forgiveness to others. And we can enter the coming year determined, with God’s help, to live differently.

Perhaps this is especially important during times of war. When the world around us becomes filled with conflict, it becomes easy to focus exclusively on what others have done wrong. Yom HaKippurim gently turns our gaze in another direction. Look inward. Listen. Examine. Repent.

And then, having encountered the mercy of God, begin again. For the psalmist, the final word is not guilt, but redemption: “With Him is plentiful redemption.” And the prophetic hope of Yom HaKippurim reaches even further: beyond confession toward cleansing, beyond mourning toward restoration, and beyond judgment toward reconciliation with God. Zechariah’s vision of a future outpouring of grace and supplication and the opening of a fountain for cleansing gives this ancient holy day an enduring prophetic dimension. 

And so Psalm 130:4 captures the heart of Yom HaKippurim in one sentence: “With You there is forgiveness” – and recognizing that forgiveness should lead us not to complacency, but to reverence, repentance, humility, and a renewed commitment to live rightly.

Forgiving is “for giving”. For those who have received forgiveness, it is now your turn. Don’t hold onto what you need to give.

Bless, be blessed and be a blessing. 

Marvin

©20.10.2026 / 9 /Tishrei 5787

A New Year’s Prayer, 5787

On By marvinsk2 Comments

10 September, 2026
© Marvin S. Kramer

Shalom all,

As the sound of the shofar rises in the morning air,
calling your heart to awaken,
may you hear within its ancient cry
a promise never forsaken.

For this is the Feast of Trumpets –
a holy pause, a sacred start,
when heaven calls you to remember,
to turn again, but with all your heart.

As the shofar calls us higher,
may we listen to its cry;
may it awaken faith within us,
and give us strength to do what’s right.

May your heart be filled with compassion,
may your faith be steadfast and true;
may your hands bring comfort to the hurting,
and may mercy flow through all you do.

May you have wisdom to rise above anger,
may you speak the truth with love;
may you choose the path of courage,
and trust in the grace from above.

May God heal you and keep you safe,
may His love and grace be near;
may He lift the gloom that shadows you,
and strengthen you throughout the year.

May your family be united in love,
may you experience its joy in your life;
may the bonds that hold you all together
prove stronger than division and strife.

May those who seek to harm you
learn that hatred cannot have the final word;
may you answer threats with wisdom,
and let righteousness be heard.

And when the shofar’s final sound
hangs trembling in the air,
remember: you are not powerless.
You can answer its call with prayer.

So may this Rosh Hashanah
bring renewal to your soul,
may God guard you and guide you,
and make what is broken whole.

May this be a year of healing,
a year of courage, a year of peace,
a year in which swords are turned to plowshares,
and the sound of the shofar heralds release.

Shanah Tovah u’Metukah.

May you be strengthened to pray fervently,
may you be generous enough to give,
may you be humble enough to listen,
may you be bold enough to forgive,
and may you be courageous enough to build unity
when others would choose division.

And when the world asks you what hope looks like,
may your life be part of the answer:

Bless, be blessed, and be a blessing.

© Marvin S. Kramer

The Day History Refuses to Forget: What Tisha b’Av Still Demands of Us

On By marvinsk1 Comment

Shalom all.

Every nation has its anniversaries – days of triumph, independence, or remembrance. But few have a date like yesterday, Tisha b’Av, the Ninth of the Hebrew month of Av, a day that seems to gather catastrophe into itself as if history chose a single point on the calendar to return to, again and again, with a warning. Across centuries, empires have risen and fallen, yet this date persists – quietly, solemnly – calling the Jewish people not only to mourn, but to reflect, to question, and perhaps most urgently, to change. 

To understand Tisha b’Av is to step into a long arc of history that stretches from the destruction of ancient Jerusalem to the complexities of modern Israel. It is not merely a religious fast day; it is a lens through which past failures and present challenges come sharply into focus.

A Pattern of Destruction
The origins of Tisha b’Av lie in two defining calamities: the destruction of the First Temple by the Babylonians in 586 BCE, and the destruction of the Second Temple by the Romans in 70 CE. According to Jewish tradition, both occurred on the same date – the Ninth of the month of Av – an alignment so striking that it shaped centuries of theological and historical reflection.

Scholars and bloggers often emphasize that these events were not simply military defeats. They were the culmination of internal fractures – political infighting, moral decline, and what rabbinic tradition famously calls sinat chinam, baseless hatred among Jews themselves. But primarily, these events happened because most of Israel, as a nation, distanced themselves from God. 

This interpretation is echoed in more analytical and policy-oriented publications, which frequently frame historical collapse not only as the result of external enemies, but of internal vulnerabilities. The lesson is not lost: nations rarely fall solely because of their adversaries; they fall when internal cohesion erodes.

Beyond the Temples: A Date Marked by Tragedy
As Jewish history unfolded, more tragedies seemed to gravitate toward this date. The fall of Betar in 135 CE, crushing the Bar Kokhba revolt; the expulsion of Jews from England in 1290 and from Spain in 1492; and later associations drawn with events in more modern history – all became part of the collective memory of Tisha b’Av.

Media commentaries often highlight how these accumulated memories transformed Tisha b’Av into something more than an historical commemoration. It became a repository of exile itself – a symbolic anchor for the Jewish experience of displacement, loss, and endurance.

Even more populist or advocacy-driven platforms frame the day as part of a broader narrative of survival, connecting ancient destruction to modern threats facing Israel. While their tone may differ from more academic outlets, the underlying message converges: history is not distant; it is present.

Causes Beneath the Catastrophe
The fast associated with Tisha b’Av is not only about what happened, but why it happened. Rabbinic tradition is unusually introspective in this regard. It does not attribute the destruction solely to Babylon or Rome, but turns inward, identifying corruption, injustice, and internal division as central causes.

Modern analysis mirrors this ancient introspection with commentators often pointing to polarization and societal fragmentation as key risks in contemporary states, including Israel. Similarly, essays circulated through more liberal-leaning newsletters explore the cultural and ideological divides within Jewish communities worldwide.

Even publications with broader geopolitical lenses or opinion-driven platforms frequently emphasize the dangers of internal discord, albeit through different ideological frameworks. Across the spectrum, one theme emerges with striking consistency: division weakens resilience.

Tisha b’Av in Modern Israel
In today’s Israel, Tisha b’Av is observed in ways that blend ancient ritual with modern sensibility. Synagogues fill at night for the reading of Eicha (the Book of Lamentations), its haunting poetry echoing through Jerusalem and beyond. Many sit on the floor or low stools, dim lighting replacing the usual brightness – a physical embodiment of mourning.

The streets, particularly in religious neighborhoods, grow quieter. While not as universally observed as Yom Kippur, the atmosphere is palpably different. In Jerusalem, the Western Wall becomes a focal point, with thousands gathering in subdued reflection.

Coverage in Israel-linked media often captures this duality: a modern, bustling State that pauses – if only partially – to remember its ancient losses.

At the same time, secular Israelis may engage with the day more culturally than religiously. Some attend public readings or discussions about social unity and historical memory. Others treat it as an opportunity to reflect on national identity in a broader sense. This diversity of observance itself reflects the complexity of Israeli society itself.

Memory as Responsibility
But, Tisha b’Av is not only about remembering destruction; it is about preventing its recurrence. This is where the day’s message becomes both timeless and urgent.

An important point that needs to be stressed is that national resilience depends on more than just military strength – it requires social cohesion, shared purpose, and functional institutions. These insights resonate deeply with the traditional teachings associated with Tisha b’Av.

Similarly, commentary across Jewish and Israeli media returns again and again to the understanding that the Second Temple was lost not merely because of Rome, but because of internal division. The implication is clear: the lessons of Tisha b’Av are not confined to antiquity.

What It Means for Us Today
For a modern reader – whether in Israel or the diaspora – Tisha b’Av poses uncomfortable questions. Are we more unified than those who came before us? Have we learned to balance disagreement with mutual respect? Can a society remain strong if its internal bonds are fraying?

These are not abstract concerns. In an era marked by political polarization, cultural clashes, and rapid change, the themes of Tisha b’Av feel strikingly contemporary. The warnings embedded in this day are not relics; they are diagnostics.

Even across ideologically diverse platforms, there is a shared recognition that unity, however difficult, is indispensable. And, of course, it finds its way into political discourse, particularly now, in an election year. The forms of expression may vary, but the conclusion converges: survival is not guaranteed by strength alone.

A Day That Looks Forward
Paradoxically, Tisha b’Av is also a day of hope. Jewish tradition teaches that the Messiah is born on this day, a symbolic assertion that from the depths of destruction can emerge the seeds of redemption. 

This idea reframes the day entirely. Mourning is not an end in itself; it is a catalyst for renewal. By confronting the causes of past failures, individuals and societies can begin to chart a different future.

In today’s Israel, this forward-looking aspect is increasingly emphasized. Discussions about unity, resilience, and shared destiny often accompany the traditional observances. The day becomes not only a remembrance of what was lost, but a commitment to what can still be built.

The Enduring Message
Tisha b’Av endures because it refuses to let history fade into abstraction. It insists that the past remains relevant – that the same forces that once led to destruction can reappear in new forms.

Across the wide spectrum of media, the underlying lesson resonates: resilience is not only about defending against external threats but about strengthening internal bonds.

If there is one message that Tisha b’Av carries into the present, it is this: history does not merely happen to us. It is shaped by our choices – by how we treat one another, by how we handle disagreement, and by whether we can sustain a sense of shared purpose even in times of strain.

The Ninth of Av is, ultimately, a mirror. It reflects not only what was lost, but what is at stake. May its message resound not only throughout this land, but throughout the world.

“Weeping may last for the night, But a shout of joy comes in the morning.” (Psalm 30:5)

Shabbat Shalom. Bless, be blessed and be a blessing.

Marvin

Remembering! – Memorial Day for the Fallen Soldiers of Israel and Victims of Terrorism

On By marvinsk1 Comment

Shalom all,

The siren pierces the air and for two minutes, everything stops. It is not the warning of incoming missiles that we had gotten used to hearing. It is a call to remember.

Cars freeze in the middle of highways. Conversations fall silent. Heads bow. And in that stillness, a nation holds its breath – not because it has forgotten how to live, but because it refuses to forget those who no longer can.

Last night began Memorial Day in Israel for the fallen soldiers and victims of terrorism. But it is not just a date. It is not just the ceremony that took place this evening. It is a wound that never fully closes. It is a whisper that becomes a cry: Remember me.

We see their faces. Not as a number. Not as a statistic etched into a report. But as someone who laughed, who loved, who had plans – plans that were never meant to end this way.

They were someone’s son. Or someone’s daughter. Maybe they were a brother who teased too much, a sister who cared too deeply. They were a woman’s husband or a husband’s wife. They were the parents, who sparked the joy of their children in a loving embrace or word of encouragement. Maybe they had a favorite song, a place they loved to go, a dream they hadn’t yet spoken aloud.

And now – there is an empty chair. An unfinished sentence. A phone that will never ring again. Silent voices, like honor that needs no sound, that are not silent to the heart. They speak in the quiet places within us – calling us to remember, to try to live in the light of what was given for us.

Since the establishment of the State of Israel in 1948, more than 25,000 soldiers have fallen in defense of this land. Alongside them, over 5,000 civilians – men, women, and children – have been murdered in acts of terror. Since the last Yom HaZikaron (Memorial Day), an addition 170 Israeli soldiers have been killed during their military service.

More than 30,000 lives. Thirty thousand worlds. Thirty thousand stories that ended too soon.

But even that number feels wrong. Too clean. Too distant. Because no number can capture the weight of a mother collapsing at the door when the soldiers arrive to tell of her child who was killed while defending this country. No statistic can hold the silence of a child who will grow up without a father. No tally can measure the echo left behind in a home that will never be whole again.

“Do not mourn – only sing a song for me when I die”, the poem says (Remember Me; by Miriam Yalan-Shteklis, 1949). The poem, written in Hebrew, was read at the end of the Remembrance Day ceremony that took place last night on Mt. Herzl in Jerusalem. Its content is riveting. Its message direct – the voice of those who are no longer with us is not loud, but it is heard in the heart, in memory, and in the life that goes on.

But, the question lingers: How can we not mourn? How can we not break when we think of the moment they went out – into battle, into danger, into a reality they did not choose, but accepted because someone had to? They stood where we could not. They went so we could stay. They gave everything so that life here – fragile, beautiful, stubborn life – could continue.

There is something unbearably personal about this day. Because in Israel, no one is truly distant from loss. The fallen are not strangers. They are classmates, neighbors, cousins, friends of friends. Their names are spoken in familiar voices. Their faces are recognized in photographs that line schools, streets, and hearts. 

It means that when we say “they fell,” what we really mean is: We lost them.

And yet, somehow, life goes on. Children are born. Trees are planted. Songs are sung. Not because the pain has faded – but because their sacrifice demands that it doesn’t end with them. The poem notes that many who love will not return from battle and that even in death, their voices will be clear and their hearts will shine. The words are almost unbearable . . . because they are true.

Every ordinary moment – every cup of coffee, every laugh, every quiet evening – is built on something extraordinary and terrible: the willingness of someone else to give his life so that others may live. 

And so today, we do not look away. We do not soften the reality. We let it hit us fully – the cost, the grief, the unbearable weight of what has been given. Because if we forget, even for a moment, we lose something sacred.

As for those, who are no longer here: We remember their youth. We remember their courage. We remember their love. We remember that their hearts still shine. And we carry them with us – in every step, in every breath, in every fragile hope for a future that they helped secure, but did not get to see.

The siren ends. Life resumes. But something lingers in the air – a quiet, sacred obligation.

To live in a way that honors those who gave the ultimate sacrifice. To build what they gave their lives to protect. To stand, even when it is difficult, even when the world does not understand, even when hatred rises again.

Because this nation exists – not by accident, not by ease – but by sacrifice. Their sacrifice.

So today, and every day, we answer their cry:

We remember you. We will not forget. We cannot forget. God, help us never to forget!

“Behold, I am bringing them from the north country, and I will gather them from the remote parts of the earth, among them the blind and the lame, the woman with child and she who is in labor with child, together; A great company, they will return here.” (Jeremiah 31:8)

“Also I will restore the captivity of My people Israel, and they will rebuild the ruined cities and live in them; They will also plant vineyards and drink their wine and make gardens and eat their fruit. I will also plant them on their land, and they will not again be rooted out from their land which I have given them,” says the Lord your God.” (Amos 9:14-15)

“Weeping may last for the night but a shout of joy comes in the morning.” (Psalm 30:5)

Bless, be blessed and be a blessing!

Marvin