Shabbat Bo
Shabbat 1 February
Dear Members and Friends,
There is something deeply poignant in our reading of the Torah this week which concludes with the account of the first moments of the Exodus from Egypt.
'The length of time that the Israelites lived in Egypt was four hundred and thirty years; at the end of the four hundred and thirtieth year, to the very day, all the ranks of the Eternal One departed from the land of Egypt’ (Exodus 12:40-41).
I have been watching footage of the three Israeli hostages, Agam Berger, Arbel Yehoud and Gadi Mozes, released on Thursday with five Thai agricultural workers, Pongsak Thaenna, Sathian Suwannakham, Watchara Sriaoun, Bannawat Seathao and Surasak Lamnao, all of whose families and friends were waiting and watching anxiously to witness their freedom.
The slight figure of Arbel Yehoud, dressed in army fatigues, being led through bellowing crowds of tightly masked men, waving guns aloft, filming the scene on their ‘phones, her face expressing apprehension and dread, evoked a terrible uncertainty about the future and a show of strength and power from the fighters jostling her. For 482 days, Arbel had been held by Palestinian Islamic Jihad, together with Gadi Mozes, an eighty-year-old kibbutznik.
One can scarcely imagine the relief and turmoil these hostages are experiencing as they are reunited with their families.
I ask myself – how did the Israelites leave Egypt after the years of slavery, during God’s ‘night of vigil to bring them out of the land of Egypt’? Were there Egyptian fighters jostling the women and children or the elderly men, pressing against them, waving weapons, roaring into the air their message of force and power?
Or were the Egyptians mourning over the losses of their firstborn, the decimation of their animals and land, the pollution of their rivers on account of the signs and wonders inflicted on them? Had they retreated into their homes, defeated by the power of the plagues and by the terrible tragedies it had cost them?
The Torah tells us that the Egyptians urged the people on, impatient to have them leave the country, frightened that their lives would be taken next – ‘We shall all be dead’ (Exodus 12:33), ‘for there was no house where there was not someone dead.’
None of the commentators focus on the Egyptian experience, but then why would they? The Torah tells the story of the Israelites – the oppression they experienced, their back-breaking work as slaves; the unleavened bread they took with them out of Egypt, the spoil they ‘borrowed’ from the Egyptians, as payment for the work they had done as slaves.
The trauma of being strangers in a strange country was over. They would look back only to remember the law to love the stranger, because, as the Torah says, you know the heart of the stranger, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt. From here on, they would look forward; they would form themselves into a people; they would create observances, festivals, laws and customs that would keep them together as a people. The leyl shimurim, ‘night of vigil’, of keeping watch, was not only God ‘watching’ over Israel to bring them out of the land of Egypt, but their ‘observance’ of Pesach, Shabbat and other festivals and rituals to commemorate this extraordinary event.
This week, I had the sad privilege and honour of officiating at LJS member, Ann Kirk’s funeral, just less than two months after her husband Bob. Both left Germany in 1939 on the Kindertransport, Ann dying just two days before Holocaust Memorial Day. The trauma of their exodus from Nazi Germany as children and the loss of their parents made them determined to look forward into the future, building a family, of whom they were immeasurably proud and whom they loved so deeply.
It took fifty years before they began to speak of their childhood experiences, to their family, to classrooms of children, to British army recruits in Germany, to scores, if not hundreds of organisations and thousands of individuals. For this Holocaust education and service to the community, they both received the British Empire Medal.
What courage and determination did it take for them to revisit the traumatic disruption and losses of their childhood and to turn their stories into inspirational and encouraging lessons for others – for those also displaced from their homes, and for those experiencing prejudice and hatred?
One day, perhaps, the men and women taken hostage to Gaza will tell their stories of imprisonment and torture. And perhaps as our compassion is awakened, we will be more willing to listen to stories of ordinary civilians in Gaza, the victims of their own cruel and merciless regime and of the ferocious war against them.
Shabbat Shalom
Rabbi Alexandra Wright
Friday 8 February
Dear Members and Friends,
Last week, I had the privilege of participating in marking Holocaust Memorial Day at Westminster Abbey. The ceremony was organised by Westminster School and its chaplain, Fr. Dan Warnke. It was a very moving ceremony, with a speech by one of the school’s Jewish students about her family history during the Holocaust.
This event made me reflect on the moment in history we are in now. As time moves forward, we are witnessing the fading presence of the last Holocaust survivors among us. These thoughts were amplified by the recent death of two of our members—Holocaust survivors Bob and Ann Kirk. Both were extraordinary people, so deeply valued by many of us.
We are likely the last generation who will have had the privilege of hearing Holocaust survivors’ stories firsthand. What happens when the last survivor is no longer here to tell their story? Who will fill this gap? What will change?
To some extent, technology has given us a possible answer. While we may not always have their physical presence, we can still listen, learn, and engage. There are countless video and audio testimonies available online. In addition, Artificial Intelligence and digital platforms now enable us to interact with survivors' testimonies in ways unimaginable before. Through advanced technology, we can ask them questions and receive answers drawn from their recorded testimonies, creating an interactive dialogue that preserves their words and their ‘presence’.
There are several groundbreaking initiatives that have been working to ensure that future generations will still be able to ‘meet’ survivors.
The most advanced of such projects is the Dimensions in Testimony by the USC Shoah Foundation. It allows individuals to engage in real-time conversations with AI-generated representations of Holocaust survivors, responding to thousands of possible questions.
Please open this link and spend some time ‘talking’ to a digital AI-based version of Pinchas Gutter, who was born to a Hasidic family in Lodz, Poland, on July 21, 1932:
https://iwitness.usc.edu/dit/pinchas
Pinchas’s family was deported to the Majdanek concentration camp, where his parents and sister were murdered. Pinchas was then transferred to forced labour camps in Skarzysko-Kamienna and Tschenstochau-Rakow, Poland, and later to the Buchenwald and Colditz concentration camps in Germany. From Colditz, he was sent on a death march to the Theresienstadt ghetto in Czechoslovakia.
You can ask Pinchas questions and have a conversation with him as if he is on Facetime or a Zoom call with you.
These are not just technological advancements; this is a new form of remembrance. Such projects ensure that as we become the storytellers on behalf of survivors, we do so with accuracy, authenticity, and profound respect.
This week’s Torah portion, B'Shallach, tells of the Israelites’ miraculous crossing of the Red Sea. As they faced the impossible, the waters parted before them, paving the way to freedom. We still remember this moment in our prayers, stories, and figures of speech. In many ways, Judaism is centred around the narrative of Exodus.
Just as the Israelites carried the memory of their liberation forward, so too must we carry the memories of Holocaust survivors into the future. It is our duty to listen, learn, and pass on the stories of the Holocaust atrocities. May we never allow silence to take the place of memory. And may we, with the tools of our time, continue to bear witness—for them, us, and the generations yet to come.
Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Igor
Friday 15 February
Dear Members and Friends,
What does it mean to build bridges in times of deep division? This week's parashah, Yitro, offers us an extraordinary model of cross-cultural wisdom and unexpected alliance. At its heart is a remarkable encounter: a Midianite priest, Jethro, observing the exhaustion of his son-in-law Moses as he single-handedly judges all disputes among the Israelites. Jethro's revolutionary advice - to create a tiered system of judges, reserving only the most difficult cases for Moses - would reshape the governance of the Israelite people and teach us enduring lessons about shared leadership and cross-cultural wisdom.
This ancient wisdom resonates powerfully today as we navigate our own moments of crisis and possibility. We find ourselves holding both profound grief and tentative hope, seeking wisdom in how to move forward in deeply challenging times.
The release of Or Levy, Ohad Ben Ami, and Eli Sharabi last week brought a complex mixture of relief and renewed pain. Their physical condition upon release speaks to the suffering they have endured, while our hearts remain heavy for those still held captive. We stand in an uncertain place, watching and waiting to see if the fragile ceasefire will hold, praying for the safe return of all those still captive and for swift humanitarian aid and safety for both Palestinian and Israeli civilians.
The parashah's message of unexpected alliances finds contemporary echo in this week's historic bridge-building moment, as senior Muslim and Jewish leaders in Britain signed the Drumlanrig Accord, presenting it to King Charles III at Buckingham Palace. Like Jethro - himself a man of religious commitment, hospitality and wisdom - these leaders crossed traditional boundaries to forge new paths forward.
The Accord begins by acknowledging our shared heritage: "Muslim and Jewish communities around the world share a profound spiritual heritage. Both traditions are rooted in monotheism, the sanctity of life and a commitment to justice. Global tensions, particularly in the Middle East, often strain relationships between these communities leading to misunderstandings and fractures at a local level. In times of crisis, these fractures can deepen escalating Islamophobia, Antisemitism and societal polarisation." (For more information, visit: https://www.liberaljudaism.org/2025/02/historic-muslim-jewish-accord-presented-to-king-charles-iii/)
This theme of support and alliance carries through from last week's parashah, where we read of Aaron and Hur holding up Moses' heavy hands during the battle with Amalek. The Torah's use of the word 'emunah' - meaning faith - to describe Moses' steady hands caught the attention of Reb Nachman of Bratzlav, who taught that this revealed a deeper truth: "There is a faith which is only in the heart, and that is not enough. It must pervade the whole body, as with Moses whose hands 'were faith'." Now, in Yitro, we see this embodied faith expressed differently - through the wisdom of cross-cultural dialogue and practical leadership solutions.
The wisdom of these connected parshiot speaks directly to our present moment. Through both Jethro's practical guidance and the earlier example of Aaron and Hur's physical support, we learn that meaningful change often comes through unexpected channels and that sustaining faith - emunah - is not a solitary endeavour but one that requires community, support, and practical action. Their examples remind us that leadership requires both the humility to receive guidance and the wisdom to implement it.
May our own actions reflect this deep faith, as we work towards peace and understanding, supporting one another through these challenging times. And may we, like Moses, find the strength to build bridges, even - perhaps especially - when the path ahead seems uncertain.
Shabbat Shalom
Rabbi Elana Dellal
Friday 21 February
Since April 2023, the Movement for Reform Judaism (MRJ) and Liberal Judaism (LJ) have been working closely together to create a new, unified Movement representing all of Britain’s Liberal and Reform Jews. This year, we approach the two Extraordinary General Meeting votes for LJ and MRJ that – if passed – will formally unite the two organisations into one Progressive Jewish Movement.
Please visit the Path to Progressive Judaism
website to learn more about this historic journey.
In this week’s Thought for the Week, I would like to reflect on this prospect and share my concerns, excitement, and hopes for the future of Progressive Judaism in the UK.
As the founding synagogue of Liberal Judaism, the LJS holds a unique place in British Jewish history. We are the largest community within our movement, deeply rooted in the fabric of British society for over a century. But when MRJ and LJ become one, we will no longer be the defining community of a single movement – we will be part of a broader and much larger organisation. Some people might feel a sense of loss because of this fact.
However, becoming a more prominent Movement does not mean losing our identity. The LJS was built by visionary people who believed that Judaism should speak the language of intellectual modernity while retaining deep spirituality. It was founded to be a beacon of Jewish thought, an inclusive home for those seeking meaning, and a bridge between tradition and progress. That mission remains as important as ever. Uniting with Reform Judaism does not diminish our legacy but allows us to share our vision with a broader spectrum of British Jews.
It is natural to have concerns about the consequences of merging with a larger organisation. Rabbi John Rayner used to say: “It is better to be small and right than big and wrong.” This raises important questions: Will the new movement be bold in its values, or will it dilute them to appeal to the wider mainstream? Will it be broad enough to include all voices yet still courageous in standing for justice? Can we remain true to our ideals while embracing a larger, more diverse community?
We cannot yet answer these questions, but we must continually ask them. If we succeed, this new movement will be both large and influential. If we grow, we must still be inclusive, attentive to those on the margins, and unafraid to challenge the status quo. Growth should not mean conformity. Strength should not come at the cost of our moral clarity.
Such success is possible but not guaranteed. We can only shape the future of Progressive Judaism if we actively participate in it. This is not a project for someone else – it belongs to all of us.
Judaism cannot exist without Jews. Synagogues are not just buildings; they are communities sustained and owned by people who engage, organise, donate, volunteer, and lead. A movement is only as strong as the individual synagogues and leaders who care enough to make it thrive. If we, Progressive Jews, do not take responsibility for our future, no one else will. If we want our children and grandchildren to inherit a vibrant, forward-thinking, and proud Jewish identity, we must build its foundations today. The success of this new movement depends entirely on our willingness to show up, contribute, and embody the values we believe in.
In a world increasingly divided by ideology and isolation, we must tell a different story – one of unity and collaboration. In an era of destruction and wars, we must be the builders of bridges, the architects of a new and inspiring future.
There is still much we do not know. Many questions remain unanswered. There is only one thing I know about this new movement. It will only be what we make of it. If Progressive Judaism is to flourish, it will not happen on its own. It will require thought, debate, effort, and commitment. It needs people who care enough to shape, challenge, and guide it forward – it needs us, Progressive Jews. We do not yet know exactly what this new movement will look like, but we do know that without you—without all of us—it will have no future.
Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Igor
Friday 28 February
Where these materials were resourced in the middle of the desert among a group of former slaves and refugees is anyone’s guess. A critical reading of these chapters would suggest that the author of the inventory is drawing on his knowledge of Solomon’s Temple, a much later, larger, more well-endowed structure than a simple tent containing a box with the Ten Commandments engraved on two tablets of stone.
This Shabbat is also known as Shabbat Shekalim and in some synagogues, the Torah reader will roll the scroll on a few columns and read the beginning of Parashat Ki Tissa (Exodus 30:11-16). These verses deal with a census taken of the Israelite men eligible for conscription and required to pay a tax of half-a-shekel each. The purpose of the tax is stated as being kofer nafsho, translated as ‘a ransom for himself.’ The German expression ‘wergeld’ conveys the meaning of this term – ‘payment for killing of a man’. In other words, this is ‘blood money’, a way of atoning for the prospective death of one’s enemy during times of war. And the word kofer comes from the same root as kippur (atonement). So the tax is a form of atonement or expiation money for everyone from the age of twenty years and upwards – whether rich or poor, all must pay the same amount.
These two parashiyyot – read on the same Shabbat this year – have something to teach us. In the second, the expiation money for each man is the same – half-a-shekel – ‘the rich shall not pay more and the poor shall not pay less.’ Because, says the mediaeval grammarian and Bible commentator, Abraham ibn Ezra, no soul is worth less or more than another.
The gifts to be brought to endow the Sanctuary, however, are voluntary: ‘You shall accept gifts for Me,’ says God, ‘from every person whose heart so moves them…’ (Exodus 25:2). These donations must come from the goodness and generosity of a person’s heart; they must, says Rashbam in his commentary, come from something that is set aside from a person’s own property.
Inevitably, these parashiyyot encourage us to think about the sustainability of our own community at the LJS. Just as the Torah recognises that the people cannot have a Sanctuary without required levies and good-will donations, so our synagogue needs to recognise that we will only survive if our members pay their subscriptions – from 25 years-old and upwards (no one under the age of 25 is required to pay any kind of membership subscription) – and if our members, friends and visitors are willing to give donations of money to the synagogue.
We are dependent on the generosity of those of you who recognise the large capital expenditure we make regularly in order to keep our synagogue and cemetery in beautiful condition; you recognise that the LJS aspires to be a place of excellence – in learning, pastoral care, music and spirituality, and in exemplifying what it means to be a Jewish community that embraces all who want to explore and express their Jewish identity and Judaism.
There are many who subscribe to our ebulletins, who have access to our services, learning and events online, but who are not members of the LJS. I would like to think that every now and then, when you read or learn or hear something that offers you inspiration or comfort, you will think about the costs involved in sustaining our synagogue. We do not have a pay wall for those of you who join us online. We are a house of prayer for everyone.
Whether you are a member or not, it is very easy to donate to the LJS. Simply click here, fill in your details and how much you would like to give to the LJS. Perhaps you will think about giving something to us on a regular basis. You will have our sincere appreciation for your generosity.
On this Shabbat Terumah and Shekalim, your generous donation will ensure that the LJS will be sustained for future generations – ‘a sanctuary where God will dwell among us.’
Alexandra Wright
28 St. John's Wood Road, London, NW8 7HA, (020) 7286 5181 Email: ljs@ljs.org
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