Erev Shabbat Sermon by Senior Rabbi Ben Spratt
Parshat Behar-Bechukotai
May 23, 2025 | 25 Iyar 5785
We begin this Shabbat in mourning.
Yaron Lischinsky and Sarah Lynn Milgrim—two young diplomats at the Israeli Embassy, two beloved souls on the threshold of engagement—were murdered Wednesday night outside the Capital Jewish Museum, just blocks from the White House.
They were building a life together. Their love was a quiet radiance in a world too often shadowed by fear. And in an instant, it was extinguished.
Their murderer, immediately upon being taken into custody, shouted slogans now all too familiar:
“Free Palestine.”
“Intifada. Revolution. There is only one solution.”
Wednesday night made clear what is this one, only, and final solution: the death of Jews.
Let us be clear: this was atrocity. This was desecration.
And what may chill even more than the act itself is the silence that followed.
The silence from voices who speak boldly of justice—but not when Jewish blood is spilled.
The silence from those who rally for liberation—but grow quiet when murder is committed in its name.
The silence from those who cry out against right-wing nationalism—yet fall silent when the same perversion takes root in radicalized left-wing movements.
And the headlines? Most read: “Two Killed Outside Israeli Embassy in Washington.”
But this did not happen at the embassy. It happened at the Capital Jewish Museum. That distinction matters. Because this wasn’t a statement of policy, nor a murder in the name of nationhood. It was an act of Jew-hate.
And when media and leadership fail to name that truth, they reinforce the very erasure that allows hatred to spread unchecked.
We must say what is uncomfortable to say: even the most righteous ideals can be corrupted.
Justice. Freedom. Equality.
These words are not immune from misuse. When stripped of empathy, when wielded to dehumanize, they are no longer ideals. They are ideologies. And then they become weapons.
It is not enough to mourn. We must ask: what can be done to prevent this from happening again?
And the murderer’s slogans point us in one urgent direction:
Watch your words.
We teach this to children. But perhaps we need to remind the world. When we chant slogans that have been used to justify violence—when we repeat phrases that others have wielded as battle cries against innocent lives—we are no longer neutral.
Speech is not violence, but violence is always preceded by speech.
“Free Palestine” is not inherently a call to murder. But too often, it has become cover for it.
When shouted over blood.
When scrawled on synagogues.
When screamed at Jews walking to class.
When paired with silence in the wake of murder.
These words cease to be slogans of freedom.
They become threats. They become promises.
I do not claim that all who shout these words are filled with hate. People I love and respect have spoken them and displayed them that I believe were animated by sacred ideals.
But I do claim that once we know how these words have been used to allow atrocity, anyone who remains silent becomes complicit. And to continue using them without renouncing such violence is a moral failure.
Yes, I believe in the sacredness of free speech.
Yes, I will defend the right to speak even words that wound me.
But freedom of speech is not freedom from responsibility.
Once we know that a phrase has been used to justify murder, continuing to use it without discernment is dangerous. Intentions matter—but in the aftermath of bloodshed, impact matters more.
The question now is not what you meant.
The question is: what will you do next?
Since October 8, I—and many of us—have challenged ourselves to hold empathy not only for our own, but also for the innocent in Gaza. For years at Rodeph Sholom, we have spoken out against acts of injustice by Jews, because we understand: the integrity of an ideal is only preserved when we hold it to account.
So I ask:
Where are the statements now—from organizations devoted to peace and Palestinian nationalism?
Where are the voices of those who march to protect Gazan lives when some murder in their name?
Will there be soul-searching? Will those who once chanted these slogans reconsider what they now represent? Or will the corruption of idealism continue, unchallenged, as long as its target remains the same?
History teaches us that ideals—no matter how noble—are vulnerable to perversion when they are untethered from moral accountability. Political philosopher Isaiah Berlin once warned of the danger of “monism”—the belief in a single, absolute good pursued at the cost of all others. When one ideal is elevated above all else—when justice eclipses mercy, when liberation eclipses life—it becomes not a virtue but villainy.
We have seen what happens when ideals are coopted into inhumanity.
The French Revolution was born with the cry of liberté, égalité, fraternité—liberty, equality, brotherhood. But that cry devolved into the Reign of Terror, where virtue became violence and ideals became guillotines.
The Khmer Rouge promised justice. They delivered killing fields.
Bar Kokhba promised redemption. His zealotry led to ruin.
We do not honor ideals by following them blindly.
We honor them by holding them accountable—to their consequences, and to the dignity of every human being.
And we say this tonight without equivocation:
We will not be silent in the face of hatred—no matter where it comes from.
Not from white supremacists. Not from campus radicals.
Not from those who carry swastikas. Not from those who carry flags.
Not from those who wear keffiyehs. Not from those who wear kippahs.
When the pursuit of justice becomes the justification for murder, it is no longer moral.
And we must name the corruption—and excise it from our hearts, our banners, our words, and our behavior.
This week’s parashah, Behar-Bechukotai, reminds us what happens when a society loses its moral compass. It warns of the consequences of breaking covenant—not just divine punishment, but the unraveling of a world when care is replaced by contempt. Our Torah is clear: when we abandon responsibility, when fear shapes our speech and hate hides behind holy words, society begins to collapse.
But we are not helpless.
We can speak.
We can stand.
We can say the names of Yaron and Sarah not only in mourning—but in moral clarity.
We will not allow our highest ideals to be turned into tools of inhumanity.
We will not allow the language of liberation—the core aspiration of Judaism—to become the language of death.
And we will not be silent—not now, not ever—when hatred wears the mask of virtue.
This week’s portion ends with a promise:
“And I will place My dwelling in your midst… I will walk among you, and I will be your God, and you will be My people.” (Lev. 26:11-12)
That promise is fragile. It depends on us.
So may we mourn Yaron and Sarah with broken hearts and unbroken resolve.
May we reclaim the dignity of our words and the depth of our ideals.
And may we speak truth—even when others fall silent—until the world we walk is once more worthy of God’s presence among us.
