Rabbi Gabriel Botnick encourages us to recognise optimism in the light of the Chanukah candles

According to the Talmud, God created humankind on the sixth day following Rosh Hashanah. As that first autumn progressed, Adam noticed that the days were getting shorter – that there was a decreasing amount of light in the world – and he worried that the world was coming to an end, and so he observed an eight-day period of mourning. But then, shortly after midwinter, he noticed the days began to lengthen once more and that this must simply be the way of the world, so he observed an eightday period of celebration, lighting candles each day to contribute even more light to the world. And thus, Adam laid the foundation for what would eventually become our celebration of Chanukah.

Of course we do not understand this story to be factual, yet it still speaks to a profound truth in life: that light and darkness – joy and pain – ebb and flow independently of our own actions. And just as every night is followed by the dawn of a new day, so too all periods of darkness eventually give way to brighter days.

This truth applies to each of us individually: dark clouds of depression at some point give way to renewed feelings of happiness and hope, and highs of elation in turn are supplanted by struggles and pain. It is therefore paramount – especially when all hope seems lost – to remind ourselves of this cyclical nature of life.

And this truth also applies to us collectively: our people will experience periods of safety and prosperity as well as periods of worry and strife. The very recent past has reminded us far too well of this fact, and so now, more than in a long time, we must remind ourselves that this too will pass.

This year, like last, many of us may have struggled to decide whether to position our Chanukah candles in the window where they could be seen by others (and therefore draw attention to ourselves as Jews) or to place them somewhere more discreet inside our homes. So, I encourage you to consider our sages’ portrayal of Adam that first winter following Creation: do not allow yourself to become overwhelmed by the prospect of darkness, but celebrate this celestial reminder that brighter days are awaiting us. Why not hasten their arrival by contributing as much of our light as possible?

Cantor Paul Heller officiated at a moving rededication in Austria

Earlier this year, the Government of Lower Austria and the Institute for Jewish History in Austria invited me to participate in the inauguration of the restored synagogue and old cemetery of St. Pölten, about 40 miles west of Vienna, where my paternal family comes from.

Jews have been part of Lower Austria’s population for over a millennium. In the Middle Ages, they primarily lived in imperial cities where they found legal and economic protection, enabling the rise of a local Jewish bourgeoisie. However, by the late 15th century, most towns were judenfrei due to campaigns of persecution. Only Vienna retained a small Jewish community during the 16th and 17th centuries. In the 18th century, partial toleration policies led to a Jewish return, and by the 19th century, there was renewed immigration, with Jews settling in St. Pölten, the capital of Lower Austria, and its surrounding towns, as well as in Vienna.

In March 1938, Austria was incorporated into Germany. The Anschluss was greeted enthusiastically by the majority of the population. Persecution of the Jewish population commenced soon afterwards and then came 9 November 1938, Kristallnacht (‘Night of Broken Glass’), pogroms that were particularly brutal in Austria. Most of the synagogues in Vienna and elsewhere, including St. Pölten, were destroyed and the cemeteries vandalised. The events of that night were not just an attack on buildings but a devastating blow to a vibrant culture and community that had flourished for centuries.

In the following decades , it became clear that restoration and preservation of Jewish sites in Lower Austria were important to local communities, as well as to the museum sector. A large investment was made by the government of Austria in recognition of the profound tragedy that Kristallnacht and subsequent persecution had inflicted upon the Jewish community.

The restored synagogue and memorial at the destroyed cemetery of St. Pölten reverberate with the history and heritage of my family and others. As we stood together, participating in their inauguration, we felt that the act of restoration was more than a symbolic gesture. It was a testament to resilience, to the endurance of memory, and to the importance of reclaiming heritage. The ceremonies served as a powerful reminder of the importance of honouring history, especially in places where that history had been so violently interrupted. I was struck by the mixed emotions of the participants, mostly descendants, who came together from across the globe – joy at the revival of sacred spaces, tempered by the sombre remembrance of those who were lost. We were joined by local dignitaries, uniting people of diverse backgrounds, to honour the memory of our ancestors who had faced unimaginable hardships, with presentations that still resound in our minds.

The gathering instilled in all of us a sense of responsibility to preserve the lessons of the past. In this way, the synagogue and cemetery are not just relics; they are living memorials that breathe life into our shared history and identity. The work done by the Institute of the History of Jews of Austria (INJOEST) under Dr Martha Keil has brought to light what would have remained in the archives.

Standing together, the air filled with prayer, reminded us that the roots of prayer and the tradition surrounding it are at least as important as the text itself. We reaffirmed our commitment to tolerance and understanding, for it is vital that we should all learn from our history to prevent the repetition of such atrocities. The legacy of those who endured the horrors of the Holocaust must continue to guide us, reminding us of the importance of fighting against hatred and discrimination in all forms. The Central European experience of antisemitism, directly linked to the history of fascist and socialist regimes, is also linked to post-war amnesia and socio-political negligence. So it will not suffice just to arrive at reconciliation and to open up closed narratives about Jews. The institutions set up to implement the restoration, preservation and conservation of locations where the desecrated synagogues and cemeteries once stood, and the cultural authorities responsible for the protection of monuments, can be used to educate future generations with exhibitions, workshops and cultural events. In Austria, under the guidance of INJOEST, we can hope that with God’s will, despite recent worrying political trends, truth and peace will prevail.

Rabbi Gabriel Botnick encourages us to take a more relaxed approach to the High Holyday services

Ever since I was a young child, I have loved going to synagogue on the High Holydays. Not so much for the religious or spiritual experience – I only learned to appreciate this aspect of the holydays well into adulthood. I also didn’t love my parents forcing me into an itchy woollen suit or constraining necktie, but I still loved going to shul on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. I loved sitting with my family in the balcony, where I had a perfect view not only of the rabbi and cantor, but the choir and organist as well. Best of all, I had a perfect vantage to see which of my friends were sitting where, whose hat and jewellery was the most ostentatious, and who dozed off during the rabbi’s sermon – all sights that brought me much joy.

But despite these decidedly nonreligious aspects of attending High Holyday services, my favourite memories are of standing between my parents, singing beautiful and familiar melodies in an unfamiliar tongue, and just feeling like I was connected to something much bigger than myself – to the hundreds of other Jews in the synagogue, the millions of other Jews around the world, and the myriad generations that came before me who all enjoyed the same experiences.

In short, there are many reasons to come to synagogue on the High Holydays. Some people come for the music while others come for the sermon. Some people come to connect with their friends while others come to disconnect from the demands of life. There’s no one reason to come to shul on the holydays and no reason is better – or more legitimate – than another.

In Judaism, we often speak about the three kinds of relationships we enjoy – with others, with God, and with ourselves. The only reason for coming to synagogue that matters is the one that helps you connect on a deeper level with any or all three of these relationships. But just coming to synagogue isn’t always enough to effectively achieve the connection you seek. You may very well arrive at shul with the best of intentions, but end up feeling lost in the liturgy, turned off by the language, or befuddled by the rituals. But this does not need to be the case.

If you find yourself in services feeling more distant from God, others, or yourself compared to before you walked through the doors, then try mixing things up. Don’t worry about doing the holydays the ‘right way’. Don’t worry if you’re on the wrong page or if you fail to bow at the proper time. Those things don’t matter – they’re only there to help you in your quest to connect. Instead of giving in to feelings of foolishness or inadequacy, try using those moments to empower yourself by finding your own way to connect. Flip through the pages of the machzor, find a passage that resonates with you, and take some time to meditate on ways to embody the themes of that text. Close your eyes and allow yourself to get swept away by the singing of the cantor and choir. You could even come prepared by bringing along a beloved book that might help you achieve clarity of thought.

There’s no one right way to ‘do’ High Holyday services, just as there’s no one right reason to show up in the first place. My only wish for you is that, by joining us at Belsize for the High Holydays this year, you’ll find your own, meaningful way to deepen your connection with the relationships that matter most.
Shanah Tovah!

Rabbi Gabriel Botnick reinterprets a surprising Rabbinical teaching

As I sit down to write this piece, my desk is flooded with the sunlight that took far too long to arrive this summer. The rays pull my attention away from the task at hand to appreciate the beauty of nature, which had been obscured by months of clouds and rain.

Of course, I’m not the only one reacquainting myself with the magnificence of the natural world – it seems everywhere I go in London these days there are people enjoying aimless perambulations, afternoon refreshments at outdoor cafés, and the company of guests in their gardens. In short, summer has finally arrived and nearly no one is taking it for granted.

You might therefore be surprised to learn that our sages teach that it is forbidden to stop and smell the roses – as it were. In Pirkei Avot (3:7), Rabbi Shimon says ‘If a person is walking along while revising their Torah learning and interrupts themself to say, “how beautiful is this tree or field,” it’s as if that person has committed a capital offence.’

At first glance, this is an incredibly troubling teaching – how could it be so severe an infraction simply to admire a beautiful vista?! The Vilna Gaon explains this teaching by way of another, found in the Talmud (Baba Batra 79a), in which Rabbi Yonatan quotes Proverbs in order to say that anyone who separates themselves from Torah study condemns themselves to the pits of death. In short, for the rabbis, Torah is so important that it cannot be set aside for any matters other than physical or spiritual survival, and to them the appreciation of nature is certainly trivial in comparison.

However, I believe our sages are wrong here and miss the point of Rabbi Shimon’s teaching. The issue isn’t with someone interrupting their Torah learning to admire their surroundings – the issue is believing that such an act is disconnected from their Torah study.

In Psalm 92, which we recite every Shabbat, we say: ‘How great are Your works, Adonai! Your plans are beyond comprehension.’ That is, our tradition provides us with language to express awe and wonder at the impossibly complex grandeur of the universe. The challenge is to remember the One who created such beauty whenever we are so moved by it to take notice.

With the summer months lying in front of us, we will certainly find ourselves in moments of pastoral bliss. I invite you to use those moments not just to say, ‘how beautiful is this!’ but to allow yourself to contemplate the wonder of it all and to acknowledge the unfathomable source of that beauty.

Pesach remembered – and hope for the future: Cantor Paul Heller on the words that conclude our seders

Residing in Jerusalem for two years during my twenties,and proudly bearing an Israeli ID with Jerusalem listed as my city of residence, I grappled with the city’s rich religious diversity. My encounters with texts in our liturgy helped me to believe strongly in the significance of praying for Jerusalem’s place in the world.

Allow me to elaborate further, albeit within the constraints of this page: in my daily prayers, in the context of Zechariah’s prophecy and the longing for the day when God will be One and His name will be One, I am convinced that that day will become possible.

At our Passover Seders, as every year, we raised the bread of poverty, the matzah, and sang Ha lachma anya: we invited all those who wish to join us to come and sit at our table, a reminder that we are not alone. From the tones of Vehi sheamda to the joyful melodies of Chad gadya, the Seder evokes a range of emotions, reminding us of the trials and triumphs of the Israelites’ journey to freedom.

Music serves as a bridge, transcending words, and inspiring unity in diversity. Whether through the liturgy, traditional hymns, folk melodies, or contemporary compositions, music has the ability to foster empathy, understanding, and dialogue among communities divided by decades of strife.

At our choral concert in memory of Henny Levin on 14 April in our beautiful sanctuary, the words from Isaiah 57:19, Shalom lekarov ve lerachok amar Adonai (Peace to the near and far, says the Lord) were sung. This is a call to all of humanity. As we hope for peace in Jerusalem, Ir hashalom, the city of Peace, let us remember that Shalom is also one of God’s names, therefore the translation of Ir hashalom is also ‘The city of God’. In the final moments of the Passover Seder, as we sing the traditional refrain L’shanah habah b’Yerushalayim, ‘Next year in Jerusalem’, there lies a profound message of hope and inclusivity that extends beyond geographical borders. This statement, while rooted in the historical longing for return to the homeland, also serves as a call to action for global solidarity and empathy with all who yearn for freedom and peace.

‘Next year in Jerusalem’ takes on added significance this year. It becomes a prayer not only for the physical return to a sacred city but also for the restoration of harmony and coexistence among all inhabitants of the region. Regardless of nationality, religion, or ethnicity, this aspiration speaks to a universal desire for a future where individuals can live with dignity, security, and mutual respect.
The vision of peace in Jerusalem becomes a powerful medium for expressing shared hopes and aspirations of peace, not just for Jews. In the Middle East, where conflict often drowns out the voices of hope, our liturgy and music can serve as a powerful reminder for reconciliation and healing, not only for the Jewish people but for all.

Let’s sing again, with all our heart – L’shanah habah b’Yerushalayim –
Next year in Jerusalem!