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TFTW Archive 2025 September

Shabbat Vayelech/Shuvah

Dear Members and Friends,

May we cross the threshold of this new year gently, without grievance, without dread of the future, but with hope that God will accept our regret and prayers and offer balm and comfort for troubled spirits.

This Shabbat, as we read of Moses’ acknowledgement of his old age and of how he reminds the people that he will not be crossing the Jordan river with them, we see him letting go of his role as leader, encouraging the people and handing over leadership to Joshua. Vayelech Moshe – ‘Moses went and spoke these things to all Israel’ (Deuteronomy 31:1). He does not simply address the people from where he sits, he seeks them out. One hundred and twenty years of age, no longer able to ‘to go out and come in’, we imagine him, nevertheless, leaving his tent, moving his tired legs among the ranks of his people, calling them together, turning from his own fate, to that of the people. In a few more chapters, he will ascend Mount Nebo and die there, remaining on the east bank of the River Jordan as Joshua leads the people into the Promised Land.

Unlike the man of Bialik’s poem we read at Yizkor on Yom Kippur, the man who ‘died before his time’, whose ‘life’s song was broken off halfway,’ a poem that is lost for ever, Moses has one last song for the people ‘Shirat Ha-azinu’. It is not a blessing for the people – that will come afterwards as he addresses each of the tribes, remembering their past, distilling their roles.

Shirat Ha-azinu reflects on his faith in a God whose ways are just, true and upright, but whose children are crooked and perverse, who are ‘dull and witless’. How could this people have turned against a God who had found them in an ‘empty howling waste’, had watched over them, guarded them like an eagle that bears its young on its wings? How did a people, nurtured in its infancy on honey, oil, milk, the best of lambs and goats, turn away from God, worshipping ‘demons, no-gods, gods they had never known…’?

Parashat Ha-azinu is often read together with the Haftarah for Shabbat Shuvah, although not this year, when our parashah is Vayelech, the shortest parashah in the Torah. The poem’s relentless assault on the treacherous nature of the people is harsh, a severe judgement from an old man who has lived through the tragedy and triumph of his people.

Yet the Haftarah from Hosea mitigates the harshness of that judgement with its exhortation to each one of us on this Shabbat Shuvah, to ‘return… to the Eternal One your God.’ It is a momentous cry in the Aseret Y’mei Teshuvah – the Ten Days of Repentance – to recognise guilt, to repent, to confess our failings and appeal for mercy and to reject past practices, turning away from bad habits and damaging behaviour.

Hosea offers his own people a framework for repentance. But more significantly, his words set the tone of this season of repentance for us today. You stumbled because of your sin, he says, you forgot the ways of God, you strayed away from truth, from justice and compassion. You set up false-gods, ‘no-gods’, you gave in to anger and prejudice, to hatred and bitterness; you held on to grudges and personal wars when reconciliation seemed impossible.

Take these words with you, says Hosea. Acknowledge guilt, seek healing, repay God’s love with your love. For the fruits of letting go of all that embitters us in the past, are like the lily, like the cedars of Lebanon, the beauty of an olive tree, new grain, the blossom of the vine, the fragrance of its wine.

Addressing the Northern Kingdom of Israel in a time of political instability, foreign domination and populist practices that drew people towards idolatry and apostasy, Hosea’s words are all the more remarkable for their wisdom and counsel of hope.

In these days between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, may we, too, take encouragement and comfort from the words of this Haftarah, and train ourselves to mirror God’s care and love for us, and bless ourselves and others with consolation, love and hope.

Shabbat Shalom and g’mar chatimah tovah – may you be sealed in the Book of Life for goodness and blessing.

Alexandra Wright

Shabbat Nitzavim

Dear Members and Friends,

On Monday night, we will celebrate the beginning of the new 5786 year. Like any significant milestone, Rosh Hashanah is not only the time to celebrate, but it also provides us with the reason to reflect and think about how we can improve our lives. In today's message, I would like to focus on one of the recurring themes in the past year - the role of refugees, immigrants, and asylum seekers in our society.

This week’s Torah portion opens with this timely and topical verse: ‘You stand this day, all of you, before your Eternal God — your tribal heads, your elders, and your officials, every householder in Israel, your children, your wives, even the stranger within your camp, from woodchopper to waterdrawer’ (Deuteronomy 29:9–10).

I would like to pause and reflect on the phrase ‘even the stranger within your camp’. At the very moment when Moses reaffirms the Covenant before the Israelites cross into the Promised Land, the Torah makes sure to include not only leaders, not only Jewish families, not only children, but also outsiders. It is a remarkable vision of a welcoming and inclusive society.

We live in a world that struggles with this idea. Suspicion towards immigrants, refugees, and asylum seekers is a common and trendy feature of public debate today. There are protests and marches against immigration. Politicians and commentators sometimes paint refugees as threats to our safety and cohesion, rather than as human beings in need of dignity and shelter, who want to be included and contribute. 

The medieval commentator Ramban noticed that the opening verses of Nitzavim imply that non-Jews had joined the people in the wilderness. In his commentary, he suggests that not only did Moses accept them, but he also assigned them roles in the community and even in the service of the Tabernacle. Ramban insists: “The intent is not to say that they deceived him, but rather that they came to him seeking peace.” In the time of Moses, outsiders who wanted to join us were not only tolerated, but they were also believed and trusted.

There is always a temptation to imagine that those who are different from us might not be sincere, that they might have hidden agendas. Yet Ramban challenges us to see strangers as seekers of peace. Of course, there might be some who will misuse the system, but the default position must be trust in their humanity and good intentions. Therefore, our task, as a community, is to practice openness rather than suspicion, to build bridges rather than walls.

Jewish history itself is a living testament to this principle. Throughout the ages, Jewish people were recipients of the kindness. Our ancestors were strangers and refugees countless times: Abraham and Sarah leaving their homeland in search of a better life; the Israelites crying out from slavery; Jews expelled from Spain, Portugal, and England; Jewish refugees fleeing pogroms in Eastern Europe; Holocaust survivors arriving on Britain’s shores, often with nothing. Each time, survival depended on the kindness of others. Time and time again, there were local communities that offered refuge to Jews and allowed us to flourish, contribute, and become loyal citizens.

It is important to stress, however, that we must not treat Jewish history as a unique exception. It is easy to say, “Yes, Jews were good immigrants, but others are different.” Today, there are political forces that want us to think this way and use this message to divide us from other refugee communities. This is a dangerous narrative. No group integrates on its own. Integration requires opportunity and communal effort. If refugees are pushed to the margins, told they do not belong, then they will remain outsiders. If they are welcomed with dignity and given chances to contribute, they will, like our own ancestors, enrich society with loyalty, creativity, and resilience.

Jews living in Britain today are beneficiaries of a society that, despite its imperfections, opened doors to many of LJS’s parents and grandparents. To welcome other refugees today is to repay that kindness. It is also to act in the spirit of Torah: to stand together, with the stranger, in covenant with God. 

The sages of Mishna remind us: “Do not despise anyone, and do not discriminate against anything, for there is no person that has not his hour, and there is no thing that has not its place” (Avot 4:2–3). Every person has a time and purpose. May we have the courage to recognise this in every stranger, and to treat refugees not as potential threats but as partners in the work of building a more compassionate world.

 

Shabbat shalom and shanah tovah.

May you be inscribed for a healthy and peaceful year.

Rabbi Igor

Shabbat Ki Tavo

Dear Members and Friends,  

One theme that animates much of our Torah and Jewish texts is the idea of Covenant, a sacred agreement between God and Israel. Most famously, we have the covenant made at Mt. Sinai, when the Israelites receive the Ten Commandments and the Torah. This story is seen by our Sages as the pivotal moment that the Israelites begin their communal relationship with God and are solidified as a nation.  

In this week’s parsha, the Israelites make an additional covenant with God: Moses relays a list of blessings that Israel will experience if they behave righteously and act justly, along with an even longer list of curses that will befall Israel if they act wickedly, cause destruction or harm, or turn away from the Torah’s ethical path.  

“These are the terms of the covenant which God commanded Moses to conclude with the Israelites in the land of Moab, in addition to the covenant which was made with them at Horeb [Mt Sinai].” (Deut. 28:69). 

Why is an additional covenant required? Had the Israelites not already agreed to God’s commandments and, thus, entered into a relationship with the Divine? Why is God adding additional terms to their agreement now, as they are about to enter the Promised Land?  

By this moment, almost four decades have passed since the covenant at Sinai, and the new generation that prepares to enter the Land. Additionally, God and the People know each other better than they did at Mt. Sinai. Each has seen how the other reacts in moments of tension, and each has challenged and been challenged by this relationship. Over time, both God and the Israelites have evolved. This transitional moment serves as an opportunity to revisit and renew the covenant between God and the People.  

On the Hebrew calendar, we are midway through Elul, the month of reflection leading up to the High Holy Days. During this season, we have the opportunity to examine our own actions, relationships, and priorities. Just as the Israelites renew their covenant with God, Elul invites us to renew our own commitments to our values and our community. In this moment, we reflect on the year that has passed, take account of where we have fallen short, and commit to positive change in the new year.  

Just as the Israelites in our parsha stand in this transitional moment between their journey through the wilderness and entering the land, we stand in the liminal space between the year that has passed and new year.  

As we look to the year ahead, let us consider how we might renew the proverbial covenants in our lives: our relationships with family and friends, engagement and action in our communities, and investing our time and resources in causes we care about. The High Holy Days invite us to consider the principles and ethics that animate our day-to-day lives, and to make the necessary changes in order to fully embody our values in the new year.  

Shabbat shalom, 

Lily Solochek 

Shabbat Ki Tetzé/Reflections on Interfaith Relationships

Dear Members and Friends,

This Jewish year is slowly coming to its end. It is time for reflection and analysis. In Jewish thought, particularly in Chassidic and Kabbalistic teachings, the month before Rosh Hashanah, Elul, is associated with a powerful metaphor - “Sovereign in the Field” 

Normally, the monarch is in the palace, majestic and distant, and only a select few with great preparation and ceremony can enter. But in Elul, the Sovereign “goes out to the field.” Just as a king meets his subjects in their ordinary setting without requiring palace etiquette, during Elul, every person can connect directly with God in sincerity, without special intermediaries or fixed ceremonies.

The past year has given us so many questions and reasons to reflect, repent and recalibrate. Today I will focus on a topic that has been on my mind for a long time – interfaith dialogue. As a progressive and liberal rabbi, I sincerely believe in the importance of building bridges and learning from all faiths and cultures. One of the most powerful moments in the last year was taking the LJS community to Central London Mosque and St John’s Wood Church on Shavuot. It was a moment of light and hope. 

However, any principle and position need to be balanced and well thought through. An interfaith relationship naturally raises many questions. What follows is a slightly extended version of an article published in the Jewish News this week. In it, I am reflecting on the role of Christian Zionists in the internal Jewish debate.

Like many others, a few weeks ago, I watched a video from the London rally for Israeli hostages, the one where two of my rabbinic colleagues were told to leave the stage. Enough articles were written and opinions expressed about that already. My point is different.

When I watched the moment of rabbis being removed, something caught my eye. A group in yellow Stop the Hate t-shirts climbed on stage. Among them was a woman wearing large, cross-shaped earrings - a visible expression of her Christian faith. Stop the Hate is not a Christian organisation. It is a Jewish group, though it seemingly draws visible support from Christian allies. Seeing this mix, in such a charged setting, made me wonder what happens when Jewish causes, especially those tied to Israel, become closely linked with Christian Zionist groups. What happens when a representative of one religion feels free to silence leaders of other religions?

Like any religious group, Christian Zionists are diverse. Some simply support Israel out of political conviction. Many people don’t think of theology when they go to protests. Others, however, are shaped by a religious vision rooted in 19th-century dispensationalism, popularised by John Nelson Darby and the Scofield Reference Bible — a framework nearly 150 years old but still treated in some circles as authoritative. For many in this tradition, the Jewish return to the land is part of a divine plan leading to the return of Jesus. Whether they expect Jews to “know Jesus” before or after that moment, they are certain it will happen. In the meantime, they offer strong expressions of solidarity, claiming it is unconditional, though often hoping it will draw Jews closer to Christian claims. The logic is simple: Jews in the land = prophecy fulfilled = one step closer to Jesus’ return. That’s not solidarity. That’s instrumentalising us for someone else’s endgame.

From within Christianity, such beliefs may be seen simply as theological truth claims, no different in kind from Judaism’s hope for the messianic age. The difficulty for Jewish–Christian relations lies not in the existence of such beliefs but in how they sometimes shape political action and the atmosphere within our communal life.

Some Christian Zionists, especially those who read biblical prophecy literally, treat ancient texts as political blueprints for modern Israel. This can lead to rigid positions on borders, sovereignty, and settlement expansion. And here is where support can start to feel conditional: if a Jew does not align with their theology and its political application, they may no longer be seen as the “right” kind of Jew. Applause can quickly turn to hostility, as we saw at the rally.

Interfaith cooperation can be worthwhile, and many Christian friends of Israel have no interest in proselytising. But we must still ask: what happens to Jewish self-determination when outside theological goals influence our political direction? Can the full spectrum of Jewish opinion be voiced if allies have hard-line expectations? How do we express gratitude for solidarity without allowing someone else’s narrative to define ours?

I do not doubt that many Christian Zionists sincerely believe their love for Jews is without condition. Yet history warns us that sometimes we need to be cautious. When the conversion does not come, affection can turn to rejection — as in Martin Luther’s bitter writings late in life. That is why alliances must be entered with eyes open. Friendship can be honoured and support welcomed, but the integrity of our voice, our values, and our own vision of Jewish life must remain ours to define.

Shabbat Shalom,

Igor

Sun, 9 November 2025 18 Cheshvan 5786