Author: Rabbi Schell

  • Two Nations in One Womb

    Two Nations in One Womb

    I was moved, and proud, when our cheder students stepped up last Shabbat to share readings and testimonies at our Remembrance Shabbat. Knowing that the next generation is taking on the responsibility of remembering makes me hopeful that, indeed, the future is in good hands. Remembrance Shabbat often marks, as it does this year, the beginning of Interfaith Week.

    While writing this, I have just returned from an encounter with Bishop Martin, the Bishop of Kingston, whose portfolio in the Diocese of Southwark includes interfaith relations. We spoke about honest dialogue, and about how political trends over the past year have made some of our conversations very difficult. Perhaps struggle is part of our relationship with our closest siblings.

    “Two nations are in your womb” (Genesis 25:23)

    This week’s portion, Toldot, is perhaps the earliest picture of such a relationship. While Rebekah is pregnant, the twins struggle inside her so fiercely that she cries out in distress. God answers her: “Two nations are in your womb” (Genesis 25:23). Two peoples, already pulling in different directions before a single breath is drawn. Our tradition read Jacob and Esau as more than two brothers: later Israel and Edom, and in time, Jews and Christians. From before birth, the Torah tells us, this is a relationship of closeness and struggle, and it does not hide it. The rivalry does not fade as they grow. From a stolen birthright to a stolen blessing, the brothers compete for years, until one flees and the other stays, and they live apart with a wound between them.

    But next week’s portion, Vayishlach, brings the reunion. Esau runs towards Jacob, embraces him and kisses him (Genesis 33:4). In the Torah scroll, dots stand over the word vayishakehu, “and he kissed him”. Rashi tells us that some of our sages read it as a kiss with all his heart, and others as something closer to a bite. The tradition could not decide, and I find that rather honest. We know what this feels like: to hope for a kiss and to brace for a bite.

    This week of Remembrance and Interfaith Week asks both of us. Zakhor, remember. We do not forget what was done to us, and we teach our children not to forget. And yet the Torah also says: “You shall not abhor an Edomite, for he is your brother” (Deuteronomy 23:8). Remember, but do not hate. I will not pretend that this is easy. Memory that turns into hatred poisons the one who carries it. Memory that stays open can become the place where brothers meet.

    That is the stubbornness I want to name this Shabbat: to remember everything, and still to hope.

    May we remember truthfully. May we hope stubbornly. And may we keep walking towards our brothers and sisters, even when the road is hard.

    Shabbat Shalom
    Rabbi Adrian

  • Hearing Requires Room for Every Story

    Hearing Requires Room for Every Story

    The Theological and Interfaith Implications of the Church of England’s Engagement with Kairos II – A Research for a Sermon.

    A Research to understand the General Synod’s Decision and how it has impacted Christian-Jewish conversations in the UK by Rabbi Adrian Schell.

    Disclaimer: I conducted this research to prepare a sermon for my community, exploring why I and many Jewish leaders, organisations, and Christian friends were shocked by the Synod’s motion to ‘hear’ Kairos II. I aimed to gather and verify facts, but this document was made in emotional distress and may lack some nuances and cautions needed in interfaith work. My goal is to explain why Kairos II and the Synod’s decision to ‘hear’ it caused pain to the Jewish community.

    Introduction to the July 2026 General Synod Decision

    In July 2026, the Church of England General Synod convened in York and passed an amended motion concerning the ongoing Israeli-Palestinian conflict, marking a watershed moment in contemporary British religious politics. The motion, originally brought forward by the Diocese of Carlisle through the Ven Stewart Fyfe, Archdeacon of West Cumberland, called upon the Church to formally engage with a series of declarations authored by Palestinian Christian organisations.1 The most prominent and contentious of these documents is the 2025 text titled “A Moment of Truth: Faith in a Time of Genocide”, widely known as Kairos Palestine II or simply Kairos II.3 After hours of impassioned debate, procedural delays, and significant external pressure from Jewish communal leadership, the Synod voted overwhelmingly to formally “hear” the Kairos II document.3 The voting margins were substantial across all three houses of the Synod, with 25 Bishops voting in favour (none against, five abstentions), alongside 115 clergy (20 against, 30 abstentions) and 113 laity (27 against, 35 abstentions) supporting the motion.5

    The original text of the motion had asked the Synod to “receive” the document. Following severe pushback from Jewish communal organisations, who warned of the text’s deeply problematic theological and political assertions, the wording was amended from “receive” to “hear”.1 Proponents of this amendment, including the Archbishop of Canterbury, Dame Sarah Mullally, argued that hearing the heartfelt expressions of lived experiences does not equate to wholesale agreement with every political or theological claim contained within the text.2 This semantic shift was intended to serve as a delicate compromise, allowing the Church to demonstrate pastoral solidarity with Palestinian Christians in the Middle East without officially endorsing the document’s more inflammatory rhetoric.7

    However, an analysis of the Kairos II document reveals that it is not merely a pastoral plea for peace or a simple expression of regional suffering. It is a highly charged political and theological manifesto that explicitly labels the State of Israel as a “colonial enterprise built on racism”, accuses the state of enacting a deliberate genocide, and demands the dismantling of what it terms a system of “arrogant Jewish supremacy”.4 Furthermore, the document asserts that the Hamas-led massacres of October 7, 2023, were born out of decades of oppression, thereby contextualising and arguably attempting to mitigate the moral severity of those atrocities.4

    The decision of the Church of England to formalise its engagement with this specific text has triggered a profound crisis in Jewish-Christian relations across the United Kingdom.10 The Chief Rabbi, Sir Ephraim Mirvis, alongside the Board of Deputies of British Jews and the Movement for Progressive Judaism, strongly condemned the Synod’s decision, describing it as a tragedy for interfaith relations.9 The Council of Christians and Jews (CCJ) subsequently reported that the vote had raised deep concern and damaged decades of trust across the Jewish community.13

    By examining the theological weight of “hearing”, the historical legacy of the Church of England regarding colonialism, the demographic realities of the Middle East, and the breakdown of dialogical theology, this exhaustive report will analyse the profound structural and theological implications of the Synod’s decision. It will demonstrate how the Church’s attempt to navigate a geopolitical crisis has inadvertently validated supersessionist theology, undermined Jewish indigeneity, and severely compromised the future of grassroots interfaith relations.

    The General Synod Debate and the Anatomy of Kairos II

    To understand the magnitude of the interfaith rupture, it is necessary to first examine the mechanics of the Synod debate and the specific contents of the Kairos II document that the Church has now officially resolved to “hear”.

    The Mechanics of the Synod Vote

    The debate surrounding the motion was highly fraught, carrying over from Sunday evening into Monday morning due to procedural delays and intense discussions on the floor.3 The motion called on the Church to affirm the dignity of all peoples in the region, reject antisemitism and anti-Muslim hostility, and encourage deeper theological reflection across the Church.5 Crucially, it included a mandate to review ethical investment policies in light of the July 2024 International Court of Justice Advisory Opinion on the illegality of Israel’s occupation.15

    The most heavily debated clause was the instruction to engage with the Kairos Palestine declarations. The Bishop of Lichfield, Dr Michael Ipgrave—a former chair of the Council of Christians and Jews—supported the amendment changing the word “receive” to “hear”.1 He cautioned that this change must be more than cosmetic, stating that while the Church recognises the document as springing from the trauma of the Palestinian people, it does not recognise all its language as acceptable for the Church’s own use.2

    Archbishop Sarah Mullally, who had recently returned from a pilgrimage across the Diocese of Jerusalem and the West Bank, delivered a speech acknowledging the palpable fear among both Palestinians and Israelis.17 She stated that the threat to Palestinian Christians is existential and called for active solidarity.18 While she acknowledged the concerns of the Chief Rabbi, the Board of Deputies, and the Co-Leads of the Movement for Progressive Judaism, she argued that the urgency of the situation demanded difficult conversations and the risk of engaging across divides.2 Ultimately, the Synod chose to override the explicit warnings of the Jewish community, opting to pass the amended motion by a vast majority.5

      Data sourced from the July 2026 General Synod voting records.5
    Data sourced from the July 2026 General Synod voting records.5

    The Content and Ideology of Kairos II

    The Kairos II document, issued in late 2025 by the Palestinian Christian Ecumenical Initiative, is a 14-page text intended to serve as a theological and political update to the original 2009 Kairos Palestine document.4 While it poses as a route to understanding, a textual analysis reveals a document heavily steeped in absolute political maximalism and aggressive theological displacement.

    Key assertions within the Kairos II document include:

    • Accusations of Genocide and Apartheid: The document repeatedly characterises Israel’s military actions as genocide and ethnic cleansing. It asserts that Israel operates a sophisticated regime of apartheid and arrogant Jewish supremacy.4

    • Delegitimisation of the State’s Foundation: It describes the State of Israel, established in 1948, as a continuation of European colonial enterprises built on racism and ethnic superiority.4 It frames Zionism solely as a settler-colonial movement, stripping it of its status as the national liberation movement of the Jewish people.4

    • Contextualisation of Terrorism: In Section 1.6, the document addresses the October 7, 2023, massacres, claiming that invoking self-defense is invalid. It states that the Hamas attack was “born out of decades of injustice, oppression and displacement,” thereby weaponising historical context to rationalise unprecedented violence against civilians.4

    • Rejection of the Two-State Solution: Section 4.2 explicitly rejects proposals for a “weakened, conditional state,” dismissing the standard international framework for a two-state solution and instead demanding the dismantling of the current system built on Jewish supremacy.4

    • Endorsement of BDS: Section 2.5 explicitly values and endorses global movements of boycott, divestment, and sanctions (BDS) against Israel, viewing them as moral and creative resistance.4

    The Board of Deputies briefing warned the Synod that these claims are not merely attacks on Israeli government policy, but constitute a libel against Jews everywhere, erasing Jewish faith, identity, and historical experience.10 The Chief Rabbi noted that the document uses extreme rhetoric to challenge the very concept of a Jewish state.3 By formally resolving to “hear” this document, the Church of England has structurally entangled itself with these maximalist positions.

    The Theological Semantics of “Hearing”: Bureaucracy vs. Covenant

    The central defence articulated by the General Synod for engaging with Kairos II relies on the legalistic and bureaucratic distinction between “receiving” a document and merely “hearing” it.1 Synod members clarified that the engagement did not require the Church to endorse every sentence, framing the act of hearing as a passive, pastoral acknowledgement of trauma.7 However, in the realm of theology—particularly within the Abrahamic traditions—hearing is never a passive bureaucratic gesture.

    The Shema Yisrael and the Act of Listening

    To understand the profound injury this semantic defence causes to the Jewish community, one must examine the theological concept of hearing in Judaism. The central declaration of Jewish faith is encapsulated in the Shema Yisrael (“Hear, O Israel: the Lord our God, the Lord is One”).22 The Hebrew root word sh’ma is a complex motif that defies simple English translation. As the late Chief Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks extensively documented, sh’ma encompasses a multitude of interconnected actions: to hear, to listen, to pay attention, to understand, to internalise, to respond, and to obey.23

    Rabbi Sacks pointed out a structural phenomenon in biblical Hebrew: there is no distinct verb that means “to obey”.25 Instead, the Torah uses sh’ma. In modern Hebrew, a distinct Aramaic loanword, letzayet, is used to convey blind obedience, such as following military orders.25 But biblical theology rejects blind obedience in favour of active listening. When the Torah commands Israel to “hear,” it demands an active cognitive and spiritual engagement.25 Faith, in this framework, is a form of listening to the Divine word and to the message of history.27

    Sacks elaborated that in Western, Hellenistic culture, understanding is primarily a visual metaphor (e.g., “I see what you mean,” “insight,” “perspective”).26 In contrast, Jewish culture is fundamentally auditory. To hear is to bear witness.27 Sacks translated the opening of the Shema not as a passive reception of sound, but as an active imperative: “Listen. Concentrate. Give the word of God your most focused attention. Strive to understand. Engage all your faculties, intellectual and emotional”.23

    The Institutional Validation of “Hearing”

    When this theological understanding of hearing is applied to the Church of England’s actions, the Synod’s bureaucratic defence collapses. A major religious institution cannot formally decree that it will “hear” a deeply theological document while simultaneously claiming that the act of hearing is devoid of spiritual validation or endorsement. In a religious context, to hear a testimony is to grant it moral and spiritual authority; it is the prerequisite to integration and action.25

    By formally voting to hear Kairos II, the Church of England is not acting as an archivist filing a controversial report; it is acting as a moral arbiter. It has elevated a document that systematically delegitimises the Jewish state to the status of an acknowledged truth.10 The semantic retreat from “receive” to “hear” fails to mitigate the theological damage because, for the Jewish community, hearing implies internalisation and a corresponding ethical response.24 If the Church is truly “hearing” a document that labels Jewish self-determination as a genocidal, racist sin, the inevitable theological consequence is the legitimisation of that worldview within Anglicanism.

    The Resurgence of Supersessionism and the Erasure of Covenant

    The theological injury inflicted by the Synod’s vote is compounded by the specific theological mechanisms employed within the Kairos II text. The document leverages the biblical motif of a God who hears the cries of the oppressed, drawing a direct parallel between the suffering of the Israelites in the biblical Exodus and the current suffering of the Palestinian people.4 

    While the theological impulse to align the Divine with the oppressed is a core tenet of liberation theology, Kairos II executes this alignment by transferring the covenantal relationship entirely away from the Jewish people.29

    The Legacy of Replacement Theology

    This theological manoeuvre reflects a deeply ingrained tradition of supersessionism, or replacement theology. Historically, supersessionism is the Christian doctrine asserting that the Church has succeeded the Israelites as the definitive people of God, thereby rendering the Jewish covenant obsolete and void.31 For nearly two millennia, this theology provided the ideological foundation for systemic antisemitism, forced conversions, pogroms, and the continuous persecution of Jewish populations across Europe.29

    While major Christian denominations, including the Catholic Church (via Nostra Aetate in 1965), have formally repudiated supersessionism in the post-Holocaust era, elements of replacement theology frequently resurface disguised as political liberation theologies.29 The authors and ideological predecessors of the Kairos movement, such as Rev. Naim Ateek of the Sabeel Ecumenical Liberation Theology Center, have historically promoted narratives that strip the Hebrew Bible of its specific Jewish context.30 Ateek has previously written that Zionism commits a “theological injustice” and described the establishment of Israel as a relapse to the concepts of an “exclusive, tribal God”.30

    The Erasure of Jewish Indigeneity in Kairos II

    Kairos II operationalises this supersessionist legacy by framing the State of Israel not as a sovereign nation involved in a complex geopolitical and territorial dispute, but as a profound theological aberration.4 In Section 3.7, the document explicitly condemns “Christian Zionism” as a moral corruption and a theological distortion.4 It claims that Christian Zionism relies on a “tribal, racist god of war and ethnic cleansing,” language that echo classic anti-Judaic tropes contrasting the vengeful God of the Old Testament with the universal God of the New Testament.4

    The document demands that the global church repudiate any theology that legitimises the Jewish return to the land.4 It appropriates the Hebrew Bible, utilising the prophetic calls for justice to condemn modern Jews, while entirely ignoring the central, unrevoked biblical promises regarding the Jewish connection to the land of Israel.29

    By doing so, Kairos II constructs a narrative where the indigenous Palestinian Christians are the sole true inheritors of the biblical legacy, while Jewish Israelis are depicted exclusively as foreign European colonisers.4 This narrative comprehensively erases Jewish history. It ignores the continuous, unbroken Jewish presence in the Levant spanning millennia, the reality of Jewish indigeneity, and the demographic fact that the majority of modern Jewish Israelis are descendants of refugees who fled severe persecution in the Middle East and North Africa, not Europe.10

    The Board of Deputies of British Jews highlighted this erasure in their briefing to the General Synod, arguing that falsely labelling Zionism as a purely European settler-colonial project is a destructive libel.10 The adoption of Kairos II by the Church of England lends institutional and moral credibility to a document that fundamentally rejects the right of the Jewish people to national self-determination.10 It resurrects the spectre of replacement theology, validating a path that mirrors some of the most violent anti-Jewish theologies of past centuries.

    Historical Humility: The Church’s Colonial Legacy vs. Anti-Zionist Rhetoric

    A primary objection to the Church of England’s endorsement of Kairos II lies in the profound lack of historical humility exhibited by the Church. The document repeatedly castigates Israel as a “settler-colonial” entity and a product of the “imperial mindset”.4

    The Church of England is not a neutral, innocent bystander in the history of colonialism; it was the spiritual, moral, and structural backbone of the British Empire.35 For centuries, the Church provided the theological justification for imperial expansion, the subjugation and cultural eradication of indigenous populations across the globe, and, most damningly, the transatlantic slave trade.37

    Furthermore, this ignores the fact that the Jewish people are themselves historical victims of British colonial policies in the Middle East. As noted in the Board of Deputies briefing, when the British government issued the White Paper of 1939, it severely restricted Jewish immigration to Mandatory Palestine.10 This colonial policy effectively closed the primary avenue of escape for European Jews fleeing the impending Holocaust.10 The statelessness enforced by British imperial authorities directly contributed to the conditions that allowed for the annihilation of two-thirds of European Jewry.10

    For the contemporary Church of England to champion a document that labels Jewish refugees, who returned to their ancestral homeland to escape persecution, as “colonisers,” is a profound distortion of historical realities and a failure of institutional humility.4

    Demographic Realities: The True State of Middle Eastern Christians

    One of the most emotionally resonant aspects of the Kairos II document, and a primary factor in the General Synod’s decision to support it, is its desperate plea regarding the declining Christian population in the Holy Land. The document asserts that the continuous emigration of Christians constitutes a real danger to the Christian presence in Palestine, which it claims is “now at risk of ethnic cleansing and extinction” driven entirely by the Israeli occupation.4

    The General Synod responded deeply to this narrative. The Archbishop of Canterbury cited the palpable fear she witnessed in the region and warned that Christian villages in the West Bank are on the brink of disappearing.17 However, while the decline of the Christian population in the Palestinian territories is a documented, empirical, and tragic reality, the attribution of this decline solely to the State of Israel is factually inaccurate. It completely ignores the broader, hostile geopolitical and religious dynamics of the Middle East.46

    The Disappearance of Christians from Bethlehem

    The demographic shift in Bethlehem, the birthplace of Christianity, provides a stark and representative example of this complex reality. In 1948, Bethlehem was a thriving Christian centre, with Christians comprising approximately 85% to 86% of the city’s population.48 

    Today, estimates suggest that the Christian population in Bethlehem has plummeted to between 10% and 12%, with Muslims now accounting for the vast majority of the city’s residents.46

    Kairos II attributes this exodus entirely to Israeli policies, citing the security barrier, military checkpoints, land seizures, and restricted movement.4 While these factors undoubtedly inflict severe economic hardship, restrict movement, and cause deep psychological distress for all Palestinians, independent surveys and demographic studies reveal a much more multifaceted crisis. The population decline is heavily influenced by a lower birth rate among Christians compared to the Muslim population, combined with significantly higher rates of emigration, as Christians often have better international networks for relocation.49

    Crucially, the emigration is also driven by internal, inter-communal pressures. Surveys conducted by research groups such as The Philos Project and the Palestinian Center for Policy and Survey Research indicate that a significant percentage of Palestinian Christians feel unsafe due to the rise of radical Islamist ideologies in the region.46 According to a 2020 survey, 40% of Palestinian Christians indicated they feel that Muslims do not wish to see them in Palestine; 44% reported facing discrimination when seeking employment; and nearly 30% reported being subjected to religious slurs such as “crusader” or “non-believer”.47

    Actions by radical Islamist groups, and the failure of the Palestinian Authority to adequately protect Christian citizens, have created a climate of intimidation and harassment that makes life increasingly untenable for the Christian minority.46 By exclusively blaming Israel for this complex crisis, Kairos II provides political and theological cover for the systemic religious intolerance permeating the broader Middle East. The Church of England, by accepting this single-issue narrative, fails to address the root causes of the persecution facing their co-religionists across the region.46

    Religious Freedom and Minority Rights in Israel

    The narrative of Israel as the sole oppressor of religious minorities is further contradicted by the thriving religious diversity within Israel’s own internationally recognised borders. The State of Israel is the only country in the Middle East where the Christian population has historically grown or remained relatively stable, rather than facing the catastrophic, violent declines seen in nations such as Syria, Iraq, and Egypt.47

    Israel’s legal framework, carrying forward the Ottoman millet (court) system, guarantees the autonomy of recognised religious communities over matters of personal status, such as marriage and burial.54 This structural protection extends beyond Christianity and Islam to include smaller, highly vulnerable post-Islamic religious groups that face severe, often lethal, persecution elsewhere in the region.

    The ability of the Druze and Baha’i communities to thrive safely and openly under the sovereignty of the Jewish state stands in stark contrast to the narrative presented by Kairos II.56 By formally hearing a document that characterises Israel solely as a racist, exclusionary, and apartheid regime, the General Synod deliberately ignores the vital, demonstrable role Israel plays as the primary protector of religious pluralism and minority rights in an increasingly hostile and homogenised region.4

    The Weaponisation of Antisemitism and the Collapse of Dialogical Theology

    Perhaps the most damaging aspect of the Kairos II document, and the most painful for the Jewish community to see endorsed by the Church of England, is its treatment of antisemitism and its explicit rejection of genuine interfaith dialogue.

    Delegitimising Jewish Pain

    In Section 3.8, Kairos II issues a sweeping condemnation of “all who exploit and support the charge of antisemitism to silence the Palestinian voice of truth”.4 The document explicitly rejects any attempt to conflate antisemitism with opposition to Israeli policies, arguing that the misuse of the term distorts the reality of genuine antisemitism.4

    While it is a generally accepted political principle that criticism of the Israeli government is not inherently antisemitic, the specific linguistic framing used in Kairos II serves a darker purpose: it preemptively invalidates any Jewish concerns regarding the deeply antisemitic tropes often embedded within anti-Zionist rhetoric.10 By asserting that accusations of antisemitism are merely cynical political weapons used to protect an apartheid regime, the document attempts to dictate to the Jewish community what does and does not constitute hatred against them.5

    This framing creates a destructive hierarchy of suffering. In the theology of Kairos II, Palestinian pain is authentic, sacred, and demands global solidarity, while Jewish pain—particularly the severe, ongoing trauma following the October 7 massacres and the subsequent global surge in antisemitic incidents—is treated with suspicion, viewed as a manufactured political shield designed to deflect accountability.10 The Board of Deputies of British Jews noted that this formulation is a prescription for division, explicitly designed to erase the lived experience and complex identity of Jewish people worldwide.5

    The Boycott of Zionists and the Destruction of Dialogue

    The rejection of Jewish identity culminates in Section 3.12 of Kairos II, where the document calls upon the global church to “distinguish between dialogue with Jews and dialogue with Zionism”.4 The text explicitly demands that churches boycott dialogue with any Zionist voices that support the existence of the State of Israel, demanding instead that churches only amplify “prophetic Jewish voices” that align with the Kairos anti-Zionist narrative.1

    This demand fundamentally destroys the basis of modern interfaith relations. According to comprehensive demographic surveys, such as those conducted by the Institute for Jewish Policy Research (JPR), approximately 80% of British Jews agree that Israel is the ancestral homeland of the Jewish people and support its right to exist as a Jewish state; 64% explicitly identify as “Zionist”.10 For the vast majority of the global Jewish population, a connection to the land of Israel is not a modern political add-on, but an integral component of their religious, historical, and cultural identity.60 By demanding that the Church boycott dialogue with Zionists, Kairos II is effectively demanding the excommunication of the mainstream Jewish community from the interfaith table.60

    The Betrayal of Martin Buber’s Dialogical Theology

    This demand represents a total collapse of dialogical theology, a philosophical and interfaith framework pioneered by the Jewish thinker Martin Buber. In his seminal 1923 work, I and Thou (Ich und Du), Buber proposed that true spiritual and human encounters occur only when individuals relate to one another with absolute mutuality.61 He distinguished between the “I-It” relationship, where a person treats another as an object to be analyzed, categorized, or used, and the “I-Thou” relationship, where a person encounters the other as a fully realised, complex subject.61

    In genuine dialogue, the self and the other reciprocally acknowledge each other’s existence, complete with all their complexities, flaws, and deeply held beliefs.65 Buber argued that interreligious dialogue requires an agenda-less openness; it is not about seeking ideological consensus or converting the other, but about establishing a living, mutual relation without effacing the boundaries or identities of the participants.65 Dialogical theology insists that we cannot dictate the identity of our dialogue partner before we allow them to speak.66

    Kairos II violently rejects Buber’s framework. It dictates that Christians must only engage with Jews who have been stripped of their Zionist identity, essentially demanding ideological purity as a prerequisite for conversation.1 It forces Christians to treat the mainstream Jewish community not as a “Thou” to be encountered in all its painful complexity, but as an “It” to be filtered, categorized, boycotted, and demonised.60 By voting to hear this document, the Church of England has validated a theology of exclusion. The Church has chosen the comfort of political alignment with a radical narrative over the difficult, vulnerable, and sacred work of genuine interfaith encounter.5

    The Impact on Grassroots Interfaith Relations

    The fallout from the General Synod’s vote has been immediate, severe, and widespread, threatening to unravel decades of meticulous, hard-won relationship-building between Christian and Jewish communities in the United Kingdom.3

    The Fracture of the Council of Christians and Jews

    The Council of Christians and Jews (CCJ), a premier organisation dedicated to fostering dialogue, deepening relationships, and combatting prejudice, issued a statement expressing deep concern over the Synod’s actions.13 The CCJ highlighted that the Kairos II document does not represent the views of all Christians in the Holy Land and issued a stark warning to clergy that standing in solidarity with Palestinians must not come at the expense of UK community cohesion or the safety of local faith communities.13

    The Synod’s decision places dedicated interfaith practitioners in an impossible position.60 For years, leaders within the CCJ and the Progressive Jewish community have worked tirelessly to hold the space for multiple truths.60 They have acknowledged the profound suffering, displacement, and human rights issues facing the Palestinian people, while simultaneously defending the fundamental right of the Jewish people to self-determination and security.10 They have modelled a Buberian dialogical approach that seeks empathy, mutual understanding, and ultimately, a two-state solution.10

    By officially accepting Kairos II, the Church of England has bypassed these nuanced, grassroots efforts.60 The Kairos II document explicitly rejects the framework of a two-state solution, dismissing any proposals for a state that lacks full sovereignty over all borders, and aligns itself closely with the maximalist goals of the Boycott, Divestment, and Sanctions (BDS) movement.3 The Church has essentially sidelined the peacemakers in order to appease a vocal, radical faction that seeks the total delegitimisation of Israel.10

    The Marginalisation of Progressive Voices

    Progressive Jewish leaders find themselves acutely betrayed by this institutional shift. The Progressive Jewish movement has long championed social justice, human rights, and the dignity of the Palestinian people.10 Progressive rabbis frequently challenge the Israeli government’s policies regarding settlements and the occupation of the West Bank.18 However, this critique is fundamentally rooted in a deep love for Israel, a recognition of Jewish indigeneity, and a commitment to Israel’s survival as a democratic, Jewish state.18

    When the General Synod validates a document that conflates any form of Zionism with racism, colonialism, and genocide, it leaves Progressive Jews with no safe harbour in the interfaith world.12 The Archbishop of Canterbury expressed a desire to hear the concerns of the Movement for Progressive Judaism during the debate, yet the institutional mechanism of the Church proceeded to formally acknowledge a text that aims to silence those very leaders.2 This action demonstrates that the Church of England is currently unwilling to hold the tension of competing narratives. By validating Kairos II, the Church has opted to import the Middle Eastern conflict into the UK, exporting division and theological hostility rather than fostering peace and reconciliation.10

    Conclusion

    The Church of England’s decision in July 2026 to formally “hear” the Kairos II document marks a critical, damaging, and historically retrograde juncture in contemporary Jewish-Christian relations.20 The institutional defence that “hearing” does not equal “receiving” or endorsing is a bureaucratic evasion that entirely fails to withstand theological scrutiny.1 In the Abrahamic tradition, as defined by the Shema, to hear is to bear witness, to internalise, to validate, and to elevate.25 By granting a formal synodal platform to Kairos II, the Church is performing an act of religious validation.

    Through this validation, the Church of England has entangled itself with a document that systematically erases Jewish indigeneity, flirts dangerously with the historical evils of supersessionist theology, and attempts to dictate the boundaries of Jewish identity by demanding a boycott of Zionism.4 The Church has engaged in this aggressive moral posturing against Israel while simultaneously grappling with its own profound, empirically documented legacy of global colonialism and chattel slavery, demonstrating a severe lack of historical humility.38

    Furthermore, the document’s deliberate misrepresentation of the demographic realities in the Middle East—attributing the complex crisis of the Christian exodus solely to the Jewish state—provides theological cover for regional Islamist extremism.46 It ignores the verified reality that Israel remains the sole guarantor of religious freedom and physical safety for minority groups like the Druze and the Baha’i in the Levant.54

    The ultimate casualty of the General Synod’s vote is the methodology of dialogical theology itself. Authentic interfaith relations, as envisioned by Martin Buber, require the courage to encounter the other as a fully realised subject (a “Thou”), not to demand their ideological surrender or the severing of their core identity as a precondition for conversation.64 If the Church of England wishes to repair the profound rupture it has caused, it must move beyond the zero-sum political activism disguised as theology found in Kairos II.71 It must return to the difficult, granular work of grassroots dialogue, acknowledging the genuine pain and trauma of the Palestinian people without requiring the theological, historical, and physical erasure of the Jewish community.10

    Works cited/studied

    1. Synod votes to stand in solidarity with of Palestinian Christians and ‘hear’ their voices in amended motion | The Church of England, accessed on July 16, 2026, https://www.churchofengland.org/media/news-and-press-releases/synod-votes-stand-solidarity-palestinian-christians-and-hear-their-voices-amended-motion

    2. Synod votes to stand in solidarity with of Palestinian Christians and ‘hear’ their voices in amended motion – Anglican Ink, accessed on July 16, 2026, https://anglican.ink/2026/07/14/synod-votes-to-stand-in-solidarity-with-of-palestinian-christians-and-hear-their-voices-in-amended-motion/

    3. Synod votes to ‘hear’ document that speaks of ‘genocidal war on Gaza’ – The Church Times, accessed on July 16, 2026, https://www.churchtimes.co.uk/articles/2026/17-july/news/uk/synod-votes-to-hear-document-that-speaks-of-genocidal-war-on-gaza

    4. Final_Kairos_document_II_English.pdf

    5. Religion news 14 July 2026, accessed on July 16, 2026, https://religionmediacentre.org.uk/morning-news-bulletin/religion-news-14-july-2026/

    6. Church of England backs document branding Israel a ‘racist colonial state’, accessed on July 16, 2026, https://www.ynetnews.com/article/sjc118mr4mg

    7. Post from Middle East Eye, accessed on July 16, 2026, https://www.youtube.com/post/UgkxR2_2iBWaNi6veAUaMVvXTQzCRPpbocvo

    8. Church of England votes to hear Palestinian Christians on Israeli genocide in Gaza, accessed on July 16, 2026, https://www.middleeasteye.net/news/church-england-backs-palestinian-christian-voices-despite-pro-israel-backlash

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  • Welcome Is Not Enough

    Welcome Is Not Enough

    On Pride, Parashat B’ha’alotecha, and the Difference Between Opening a Door and Sharing the Room

    Written and first published for Progressive Judaism: https://progressivejudaism.org.uk/latest-thought/

    Pride Month begins next week. Not everyone in our communities will feel the same way about it, and I think it’s worth mentioning that upfront. For some, Pride brings genuine joy. June is a month of celebration and visibility. For others, it causes discomfort and even a sense of threat. This message is for both.

    I have learned to be wary of certain words in synagogue life. “Harmony” is one of them. It sounds entirely virtuous. In practice, it can become a respectable cover for comfort, for the hope that nobody will ask anything that might unsettle the room. Our portion this week offers no such protection.

    Parashat B’ha’alotecha includes the Erev Rav, often translated as the “mixed multitude”, referring to the non-Israelite crowd who left Egypt alongside Israel (Rashi on Numbers 11:4). Rabbinic commentators have often used them as a ready explanation for any trouble experienced during the Exodus. Tensions appear, and blame settles on those whose place feels least secure. It is one of the oldest habits in society, and way older than any modern politics.

    The text gives less support to that rabbinic reading than we sometimes imagine: The Israelites as a whole complain. Leadership wavers. Fear spreads. The Erev Rav may be linked with disturbance, but disturbance is not the same as guilt. Friction often reveals what was already fragile. At its best, it becomes the pressure that pushes a community towards a truer shape. A congregation discovers who it actually is not only in moments of calm, but when it has to answer honestly whose needs count and whose pain is heard.

    I do not want to tidy the Erev Rav into a soft symbol of diversity. The portion does not do that either, and it would be dishonest to pretend otherwise. They are connected with discontent and strain. But I also do not want to accept the scapegoating as the last word. Their presence says something basic about Jewish beginnings. The people who left Egypt were not uniform. From the start, the covenantal community included those who complicated simple categories. Difference is not a late interruption of Jewish life. It has been there from near the beginning, shaping what the community had to become.

    That matters as Pride Month arrives. Queer Jews, trans Jews, Jews of colour, Jews-by-Choice, people from interfaith families, are often spoken about as though they have arrived to test the patience of an established norm. B’ha’alotecha implies a different truth. Those who unsettle a community’s self-image have always been part of the way Jewish life is made, contested, and renewed.

    Welcome still matters.

    A closed door can wound quickly, and most of us know that. But welcome alone leaves power exactly where it was. Someone opens the door, someone sets the terms, someone decides how much difference is acceptable before things get uncomfortable. Belonging asks something different. It means nobody acts as the landlord of the covenant. It means LGBT+ Jews help shape the language and the practice of our communities too, not as guests whose presence is noted with warmth, but as people for whom it is also theirs to build.

    That gap between a welcoming and belonging becomes most visible when the subject is Trans-inclusion. Abstract support is easy. Ordinary arrangements are harder. Toilets, changing arrangements in youth camps, the language on membership forms, or the assumptions quietly built into the way we speak about bodies. All of this reveals whether a community is prepared to share space or only to speak kindly about the idea of sharing it.

    Real disagreement lives here, and it deserves genuine honesty rather than a passing acknowledgement. Some women experience discussions about single-sex spaces through long memories of fear, harassment, or violation. Bodily privacy is not a theoretical matter for them. A community committed to dignity must take that seriously, and that kind of pain is not dissolved by goodwill.

    Trans people know a different kind of bodily fear. Many told me that they enter public space already braced for scrutiny or challenge. Directing someone to the accessible toilet is sometimes presented as a practical compromise. However, it once again marks a person out as a problem that needs to be managed. Most synagogues cannot rebuild their premises, and financial and architectural constraints are real. But a congregation still has choices about whether suspicion or trust will govern the room. Architecture sets limits. It does not set the moral tone.

    Instead, the Jewish concept of Makom, Sacred Space, could be really helpful. Space is never only physical. A room can feel warm and welcoming or cold and uninviting, even when the walls do not move. And our fundamental understanding that every person is created b’tzelem Elohim, in the image of God, is not a decorative phrase to reach for in hard moments. It places a genuine demand on us. If I require another person to become less visible so that I can remain undisturbed, I am not defending holiness. I am defending my preference for familiarity.

    Our Torah portion pushes this challenge even further with the ruling for Pesach Sheni, the second Passover. A group of people find themselves excluded from the Passover offering through no fault of their own. They do not accept this quietly. They come forward and ask: “לָמָּה נִגָּרַע (Lamah nigara) – Why should we be excluded? (Num. 9:7)” That is not a request for nicer treatment. It is a challenge to the structure itself. Moses takes it seriously. The law changes. A new path opens inside the covenant.

    The people in the wilderness ask why they should be excluded. The Torah does not silence them. The Torah brings them in. That experience belongs in any honest conversation about Pride as well. Pride carries real joy, and that joy has been genuinely earned. It also carries the memory of people who grew tired of being asked to wait politely, to be grateful for partial permission, or to stay quiet for the sake of other people’s ease. “Lamah nigara?” belongs to Queer history as much as it belongs in our portion.

    Communities become more faithful, I think, when those pushed to the edge refuse to stay there and ask the centre to change. That process is rarely tidy. It involves real disagreement and competing fears, and it asks us to stay with discomfort long enough for something honest to emerge. It is a conversation worth having properly. Not only during Pride Month, but if you ask me, now is a good time to start it.

    Happy Pride Month.

    Rabbi Adrian Schell serves as rabbi of Wimbledon Synagogue in South West London. Rooted in Progressive Jewish thought, he aims to build a contemporary Judaism that values diversity, encourages honest theological questioning, and ensures every individual is recognised as an essential part of the communal sacred space.

  • The Holiness of Doing Nothing

    The Holiness of Doing Nothing

    Beginning of this week, I was wiped out, literally. I had to spend two days in bed to recharge after the craziness of the last weeks. The terror attacks leave marks on everyone’s soul, regardless of how far away we are from the epicentre. So, I was exhausted, my body told me, I need to rest, Chayim told me, I needed to rest, and actually, our Torah portion for this week, says something similar, so with the collected wisdom of 4000 years plus, I rested (and I apologise if I had not yet the time to respond to all the emails that reached me over this long weekend).

    Parashat Behar opens with one of the Torah’s most radical ideas. Every seventh year, the land of Israel must observe a shmita [sabbatical year]. No sowing, no pruning, no harvesting. The fields are simply left alone. Not because the land is broken, but because rest is not a reward for good work. Rest is a commandment.

    Read that again. God does not say: work hard, produce well, and then perhaps you have earned a little quiet. God says: You will stop. Completely. Periodically. Not as a treat, but as a sacred obligation.

    We live in a culture that has confused exhaustion with virtue. Busyness signals importance. Productivity signals worth. If you are not constantly achieving something visible, something measurable, you risk feeling like a burden, a failure, or at the very least, a little embarrassed. The cult of output has crept into almost every corner of modern life, and honestly, it has crept into synagogue life too. We fill calendars, we launch initiatives, we measure engagement. And then our bodies simply say: no more.

    The Rambam [Maimonides], writing in the twelfth century, described a person who devotes their life to genuine inner service, to prayer, study, care for others, and presence with the Divine as someone for whom God becomes their chelek [portion]. They are not dependent on the relentless machinery of accumulation. They are freed from it. That sounds almost scandalously countercultural today, and yet it was written 800 years ago. Perhaps human beings have always needed reminding.

    What the Torah is naming in shmita is not laziness. The barren field is not a failed field. Unused ground is ground that is being restored at a depth no plough can reach. The same is true of us. The things that restore us rarely look productive from the outside: a long walk, a slow conversation, an afternoon with no agenda, sitting quietly with someone you love, or just sitting quietly. These things cannot be measured, and that is precisely why our culture treats them with suspicion.

    Rest is not what you do when everything else is finished. Nothing is ever finished. Rest is what you protect, deliberately, before everything else crowds it out (and yes, I will make sure to get better in it, too.)

    See you in Shul this Shabbat.

    Shabbat Shalom

  • We Will Not Hide Our Light

    We Will Not Hide Our Light

    Confronting Antisemitism in the UK

    Two days ago, a man with a knife walked into the streets of Golders Green and attacked two members of our community. Moshe Shine, 76. Shloime Rand, 34. Names we say out loud, because they matter. Because they are not statistics. Because it could have been any one of us who shops at Kosher Kingdom, who walks those familiar streets, who knows exactly what that neighbourhood smells like on a Friday afternoon before Shabbat.

    I have been trying all day yesterday and today to find the right words. The ones I wrote to our community, to Fleur, to Susan at St Paul’s, they all circled the same painful truth: the surprise is fading. And the fading of surprise may be more frightening than the attacks themselves.

    So tonight I want to speak honestly with you. Not to comfort too quickly. Not to wrap this in reassurance before we have sat with what is real.

    We are being targeted. Systematically. The attack in Golders Green did not happen in a vacuum. It follows Finchley Reform. It follows Heaton Park in Manchester. It follows the long, grinding accumulation of incidents, the marches, the online harassment, the defacement, the slurs, the “globalise the intifada” chants that have been allowed to echo, unchallenged, through the streets of our cities. Each incident alone might be explained away. Together, they tell a story. And the story is this: someone, or some movement, is trying to raise the cost of being Jewish in Britain, until the cost becomes too high and we disappear from public life entirely.

    We must name that logic, because once named, it loses some of its power.

    But I also want to say something else tonight, something I believe with every fibre of who I am. The feeling of helplessness many of us have felt this week, that tightening in the chest, that “again?” that catches in the throat, it is real. It is legitimate. 

    There is a word that stood out for me when I read the statement from the Home Secretary, Shabana Mahmood, broadcast on Radio 4. She called what is happening to our community an emergency. She said, as a British Muslim, she would never hesitate to stand with her Jewish brothers and sisters.

     She spoke about the new Crime and Policing bill, about the £25 million in new security funding, and about the fact that the existing public order legislation is no longer fit for purpose and must change. Now, politicians say things. We know that. But when the Home Secretary of the United Kingdom uses the word “emergency” on national radio, that is not nothing. That is a signal, and partly our signal, sent back to us. 

    Because we sent that signal. We have been saying it for weeks and months now.

    Some of you wrote to our MPs. I wrote to Fleur. My colleagues all wrote letters. Some were on the radio. The BOD issued statements. CST did too. Across the country, people have been speaking, meeting, and demanding. And slowly, the response is forming. Not fast enough. But it is forming.

    Here is the image I keep returning to. We are not the wolves crying “fire” when there is none, as we have been accused of doing. We are much more the canary. When the canary stops singing in the mine, it is not making a scene. It is telling everyone else that the oxygen is running out. That is what we are doing. We are not raising alarms out of fear alone. We are in pain, we are under attack, and we do not feel safe. Our vulnerability is an alarming signal to all communities in the UK.  To be clear: We are raising our voices because we can feel, precisely, what is happening to the social oxygen in this country. The air of shared civic life, of neighbours who look out for one another, of a Britain that holds its plural identity as a source of strength, that air is thinning. And our distress is the warning.

    Our Torah portion this week, Emor, contains a verse that I quoted in my letter to you yesterday, and I want to bring it here too. “You shall have one standard for stranger and citizen alike.” One law. One standard. Applied without exception. That is not a quaint ancient principle. That is exactly what we are demanding: We do not just need more concrete and cameras. We need the full force of the law applied to those who seek to terrorise Jews on the streets of the UK. We need a serious national plan to educate young people before hatred takes root. 

    A society that takes antisemitism seriously must make the cost of any form of hate far higher than it currently is. Society achieves that goal through education, law, political will, and the moral clarity of a country that says: not here, and not to our neighbours. Politicians must demand accountability from digital platforms. Companies must face consequences when they fail to remove hate speech or maintain policies that damage the cohesion of our local communities. Letting these platforms go unchecked allows a toxic environment to flourish at the expense of our shared peace.

    We have strength, and we have friends. We can be loud and noisy. As mentioned before, I have spoken with our local MP, Fleur, and with our dear friend Susan from St Paul’s Church Parkside, and so many more. Their kindness provides genuine comfort. Knowing that we are part of a wider community that refuses to remain silent gives us the strength to face the darkness that has touched our society. We are far more numerous than those who wish to divide us.

    Our leaders must ensure we no longer tolerate hate speech or marches that threaten the safety of our neighbours. The attack in Golders Green is a direct result of the horrific calls to globalise the intifada that have been allowed to go unchallenged. Freedom of speech does not include the freedom to dehumanise.

    We are not alone in that demand. Shabana Mahmood is saying it. Fleur is saying it. Susan is saying it from her church. The voices are there. Our task is to make sure they keep saying it, loudly, until saying it is no longer enough and doing it becomes the measure.

    This Shabbat, in Wimbledon, far from Golders Green in distance but not in feeling, we have lit our candles. As we do every week. And every week those candles say the same thing: we are here.

    We were here last week, and the week before, and we will be here next week. 

    So we do not hide. We do not shrink. We light our candles, we open our doors, and we let everyone see that we are still here, still singing.

    Shabbat Shalom.

     

     Found it online and liked it.
    Found it online and liked it.

  • We Will Not Hide

    We Will Not Hide

    Again! I found myself staring at the news alerts yesterday, feeling that familiar, heavy tightening in my chest. Another attack. This time, a knife on the streets of Golders Green. The shock is instinctive, but if I am brutally honest with myself, the surprise is fading. And that fading surprise is perhaps the most terrifying part of all.

    In the wake of such violence, the immediate instinct is to build higher fences. As several of my rabbinic colleagues and the Board of Deputies rightly highlighted today, securing our buildings is vital for our immediate physical safety. Yet, we must recognise a painful truth. If our only response to antisemitism is to retreat behind fortified walls, we are slowly yielding to our own erasure from public life.

    At the end of this week’s Torah portion, Emor, there is a striking and difficult story. A man, in the heat of a fight, curses using the Divine name. The Torah’s response is not to suppress speech through fear, nor to build walls between communities. The response is law, applied without exception to everyone. “You shall have one standard for stranger and citizen alike” (Leviticus 24:22). Equal accountability, without favour, without distinction. Hatred is confronted. It is not accommodated.

    A principle like that is exactly what we need now. Not more concrete and cameras, but the full force of the law applied to those who seek to terrorise Jews on the streets of London and the UK. We need a serious, funded, sustained national plan to educate young people before hatred takes root, to counter radicalisation happening in closed online spaces and offline communities alike, and to establish clearly that freedom of speech does not include the freedom to dehumanise. We also need an honest conversation in this country about integration and social cohesion policies that, with the best of intentions, have sometimes created separate worlds running in parallel rather than a shared civic life. Misunderstood tolerance is not tolerance at all. Mostly, it is the avoidance of honest engagement.

    Certain movements from the political Left and Right, extremist groups, and now violent proxies acting on behalf of a foreign regime are each, in their different ways, trying to raise the cost of being Jewish in Britain, to use a formulation from the BOD statement. Every layer of hostile pressure, from boycott campaigns to a knife on Golders Green Road, points in the same direction: First, make Jews feel unsafe in the street; then, push them behind barriers; then make those barriers so high that Jewish life retreats from public view, from shared spaces, from British civic life entirely. What appears as a series of attacks on individuals is, in reality, a sustained attempt to make Jewish existence invisible in this country. The end point of that logic is not security, but erasure.

     Our answer cannot only be defensive. A society that takes antisemitism seriously must make the cost of antisemitism far higher than it currently is, through education, through law, through political will, and through the moral clarity of a country that says, without equivocation: not here, and not to our neighbours.

    I want to end with a notion of hope. Our Torah portion outlines the many communal festivals we celebrate in our Jewish calendar. All of them, from Shabbat to Pesach and the High Holy Days, have in common that we are coming together as one community, one people.  That togetherness is our greatest strength. When we light our candles this Shabbat, let us not do so in hiding. Let us light them as an act of spiritual defiance and a statement of enduring presence. May we find comfort in our shared community this Shabbat, and the resolve to demand the safe, open future we deserve.

    See you in Shul this Shabbat.

    Shabbat Shalom

    Rabbi Adrian

     Emor = Speak!
    Emor = Speak!

  • Beyond Silhouettes: Choosing People Over Labels

    Beyond Silhouettes: Choosing People Over Labels

    During a recent election event in Wandsworth, it was unsettling to observe how easily people reached for categories instead of seeing the person. Labels like refugee, Muslim, or Zionist became shapes used to manage fear or assign blame. This sermon looks at the Torah portion of Kedoshim, which begins with a command defining our entire spiritual purpose: “You shall be holy, for I, the Eternal your God, am holy”. Holiness is not a static quality we own; it is a verb and an act. We also reflect on Israel at 78, considering how to hold onto the prophetic vision of equality despite a deeply fractured reality.

  • From Yom HaZikaron to Yom Ha’Atzma’ut

    From Yom HaZikaron to Yom Ha’Atzma’ut

    From “after the deaths” to “you shall be holy”.

    If you have ever experienced Yom HaZikaron in Israel, you know about the siren. For two minutes, everything just stops. People pull over on the motorway, stand beside their cars, and wait in silence. And then, only a few hours later, the sun goes down and the fireworks begin. The intense grief of Memorial Day gives way almost instantly to the street parties of Yom Ha’Atzma’ut.

    I must admit, I often find that shift quite jarring. It feels a bit too quick.

    But when you look at our Torah reading for this week, you realise that moving straight from grief to a demanding present is actually a very old Jewish pattern. We are reading the double portion of Acharei Mot and Kedoshim. The text begins by bluntly naming a trauma: “And the Eternal spoke to Moses, after the death of the two sons of Aaron…” [1]. It doesn’t linger on the pain or offer easy comfort. Instead, it moves straight into Kedoshim, delivering a radical communal command: “You shall be holy; for I the Eternal your God am holy” [2].

    As Rabbi Steven Abraham observes, this is the very arc of our tradition, moving “from trauma to holiness, from death to moral obligation” [3]. The call to holiness does not wait for a time of peace and serenity. It arrives precisely in the unresolved space after death.

    It is tempting to think of holiness as private piety, or perhaps just keeping strictly to the rules. But the medieval commentator Ramban warned that a person can follow the letter of the law and still be a “villain with the permission of the Torah” [4]. In other words, studying the rules, but not feeling them, or filling them with kindness and compassion, doesn’t make you holy. True holiness is recognising the ethical fabric of our society. It is the command to leave the gleanings of our harvest for the poor, to refuse to place a stumbling block before the blind, and to love the stranger as ourselves.

    This week, as we mark Israel’s 78th year of independence, the movement from grief to sovereignty feels more demanding than ever. The pain across the region remains acute, the political reality deeply fractured. What does it mean for us, sitting here in London, to mark this anniversary today?

    It means that our response to loss cannot simply be despair. Our response must be a recommitment to the work of Kedoshim. We honour those who have fallen not merely by standing for a siren, but by insisting on a society—both there and here—built on justice, truth, and compassion.

    As you enter Shabbat, I ask you: which verse from this holiness code will we, as the Wimbledon Synagogue community, choose to carry this year? Let us step out of the silence of mourning and into the demanding, necessary work of repair.

    Shabbat Shalom,

    Rabbi Adrian M. Schell

    Endnotes: [1] Mechon Mamre, “Leviticus Chapter 16,” English translation based on the 1917 JPS Tanakh, accessed 21 April 2026, https://mechon-mamre.org/p/pt/pt0316.htm. [2] Gidon Rothstein, “Parshas Kedoshim: The Challenging Requirement To ‘Be Holy’,” TorahMusings.com, 12 May 2016, quoting Leviticus 19:2 (JPS), accessed 21 April 2026. [3] Rabbi Steven Abraham, “Be Holy Anyway: Moral Courage in the Shadow of Loss,” rabbistevenabraham.com, 3 May 2025, accessed 21 April 2026. [4] Ramban (Nachmanides) on Leviticus 19:2, translated and cited in “Introduction to Jewish Ethics,” Sefaria sheet by Rabbi Mike Uram et al., 13 November 2018, accessed 21 April 2026.

  • How we use our voices matters

    How we use our voices matters

    The word “bystander” sounds passive. Someone standing by, watching, not quite involved. But at our Yom HaShoah service this week, when Judith Hayman shared the story of Charlotte Amdurer, it became clear that standing by is never neutral. It is a choice. And choices have weight.

    Charlotte’s story, like so many survivor testimonies, carries the shadow of those who watched and did nothing. Neighbours who looked away. Colleagues who stayed quiet. People who knew, and chose not to act, not to speak, not to intervene. The machinery of the Shoah depended not only on perpetrators but on the vast, complicit silence of ordinary people.

    We read Tazria-Metzorah this Shabbat, and the rabbis have long taught about lashon hara, the harm that words can do. But I find myself thinking about the other side of that teaching. If words carry moral weight, so does silence. The failure to speak, when speaking matters, is its own kind of wound.

    What Charlotte survived, what she chose to share, is an act of extraordinary courage. Testimony is not simply memory. It is speech that refuses to let silence have the final word. Judith carried that testimony into our community, and in doing so, became part of the chain of witness that keeps Charlotte’s story alive.

    We are now part of that chain. Every person who sat with us during our service, who listened, who felt the weight of Charlotte’s words, carries something forward.

    Tazria-Metzorah asks us what happens to a community when speech fails entirely. When the voices that should have said “stop,” “no,” “this is wrong,” were swallowed by fear or indifference. The bystanders of the Shoah are not ancient history. The impulse to look away, to stay quiet when discomfort rises, to protect our own ease over someone else’s dignity, that impulse lives in every generation. Including ours.

    Charlotte’s testimony, and Judith’s act of sharing it, asks something of us. Not guilt. Not despair. Something more demanding than either: presence. The willingness to witness, to speak, to refuse the comfort of silence when silence becomes complicity.

    Our tradition asks us to choose life, to choose blessing. Part of that choice is how we use our voices. Part of it is whether we use them at all.

    Shabbat Shalom

    Rabbi Adrian

    Source: Generation 2 Generation (n.d.) Charlotte Amdurer. Available at: https://www.generation2generation.org.uk/holocaust-survivor-charlotte-amdurer

    我们如何运用声音至关重要

    4月16日

    “旁观者”(bystander)这个词听起来很被动。它让人想到一个站在旁边观看、并不真正参与其中的人。但在本周的大屠杀纪念日(Yom HaShoah)礼拜中,当朱迪思·海曼(Judith Hayman)分享夏洛特·阿姆杜勒(Charlotte Amdurer)的故事时,我们清楚地看到,袖手旁观绝非中立。它是一种选择。而选择是有分量的。

    夏洛特的故事,就像许多幸存者的见证一样,带着那些袖手旁观、无动于衷者的阴影:那些视而不见的邻居,那些保持沉默的同事;那些明明知情,却选择不采取行动、不发声、不干预的人。大屠杀这台残暴机器的运转,不仅依靠加害者,还依靠普通大众那庞大且共谋式的沉默。

    本安息日我们读到《塔兹里亚-梅佐拉》(Tazria-Metzorah)篇章。长期以来,拉比们一直教导关于“恶言恶语”(lashon hara)——即言语能造成的伤害。但我发现自己在思考这一教导的另一面:如果言语具有道德分量,那么沉默也是如此。当发声至关重要时却保持沉默,这本身就是一种伤口。

    夏洛特当年的幸存经历,以及她如今选择分享的内容,都是非凡勇气的体现。见证不仅是记忆,它更是一种言说,拒绝让沉默拥有最终的决定权。朱迪思将这份见证带入我们的社区,并由此成为了“见证之链”的一环,让夏洛特的故事延续下去。

    现在,我们也是这锁链的一部分。在礼拜中与我们坐在一起、倾听并感受到夏洛特话语分量的每一个人,都在传递着某种东西。

    《塔兹里亚-梅佐拉》问我们:当言论完全失效时,社区会发生什么?当那些本该说“停下”、“不”、“这是错误的”的声音被恐惧或冷漠吞没时,结果会如何?大屠杀中的旁观者并非遥远的陈迹。那种视而不见、在感到不安时保持沉默、为了保护自己的安逸而牺牲他人尊严的冲动,存在于每一代人中。也包括我们这一代。

    夏洛特的见证,以及朱迪思的分享,对我们有所要求。不是要求我们内疚,也不是绝望,而是比这两者更具挑战性的要求:同在(Presence)。当沉默变为共谋时,我们要愿意去见证、去发声,并拒绝那种安逸的沉默。

    我们的传统要求我们“选择生命”,选择祝福。这种选择的一部分在于我们如何运用声音,而另一部分则在于我们是否决定去运用它。

    安息日平安 (Shabbat Shalom)

    艾德里安拉比 (Rabbi Adrian)

    资料来源: Generation 2 Generation (n.d.) Charlotte Amdurer. 详见: https://www.generation2generation.org.uk/holocaust-survivor-charlotte-amdurer

  • What We Feed the Mind

    What We Feed the Mind

    A Reflection on Screens, Children, and the Art of Choosing What Enters.

    Maimonides did not think the dietary laws were arbitrary. In the Moreh Nevuchim [Guide for the Perplexed], he argued that what we eat shapes who we become, that the body and the character are not separate projects. Forbidden foods were, in his reading, either unhealthy or addictive to desires that cloud the mind, crowding out the clarity needed for genuine thought and genuine relationship. The goal of kashrut [keeping kosher], for Maimonides, was not restriction for its own sake. It was a training in attention.

    Reading that argument now, with a phone in every pocket and a screen in every classroom, something in it feels suddenly urgent again.

    The current debate about children and screen time is real, and the concerns are serious. Studies on sleep disruption, on shortened attention spans, on the psychological effects of algorithmic content designed to provoke outrage or insecurity, all of this belongs in the conversation. Yet the instinct to simply ban or limit, while understandable, misses something. A child who grows up behind a wall, without ever learning to read a news article critically, to ask who produced a video and why, to notice when content is designed to humiliate rather than to inform, that child is not prepared. The wall comes down eventually. It always does.

    What Parashat Shmini offers is a more interesting framework. The Torah does not say: avoid all complicated food. It draws distinctions. Some things are genuinely off the table. Others are permitted but still require mindfulness, blessings, meal times, the act of pausing before eating. The point is not innocence but awareness, the habit of stopping to ask what you are taking in and why.

    A “digital kashrut” for families and communities might work the same way. Some content, violent, degrading, deliberately misleading, is simply trefah [unfit], in the way no amount of hunger would make certain foods acceptable in a kosher home. Other content is perfectly permitted but can still crowd out sleep, conversation, genuine curiosity, or the capacity to sit quietly with a thought. Portion and context matter. Even something nourishing can become harmful if consumed without pause, without relationship, without any other food alongside it.

    The Jewish tradition has never confused walls with wisdom. Emet [truth] requires the ability to assess a claim. Shmirat halashon [guarding one’s speech] requires understanding what harmful speech actually looks like, including in a comment thread. Kavod habriyot [honour for every person] has to be practised somewhere before it becomes instinct.

    Perhaps the question parents, teachers, and communities need to sit with is not only “how much screen time?” but “what are we cultivating in the time we give and the time we limit?” Kashrut was never only a list of prohibitions. At its best, it was a daily practice of paying attention, of insisting that ordinary choices carry weight.

    That seems worth thinking about.

    Shabbat Shalom

    Rabbi Adrian