I was cleaning up my home office a while ago. (Yes, Rabbi Miriam, I admit it was a long time ago.) Part of the process was boxing up old books for donation. Somewhere along the way, it occurred to me to check with the public library to see what they would actually accept — and there’s a list of materials that they don’t want. There were the obvious ones: Magazines. Phone books. Outdated travel guides. Older textbooks. And one that threw me for a moment: encyclopedias. But of course, that made sense. Very few people are willing to devote yards of shelf space to a hundred pounds of secondhand, outdated paper. Even Britannica is a website now.
The major dictionaries have migrated online as well. I will admit to being old enough to experience some nostalgia for the big hardback American Heritage dictionary in my house growing up. The online dictionary sites have some features to commend them, though. Merriam-Webster’s Time Travel page can show you the year that words and phrases were first used in print. (The year I was born yielded such gems as “rest area”, “overdiagnosis”, and “kickboxing”).
Near the top of the list, though, was a word first used in 2020:
“Doomscrolling: to spend excessive time online scrolling through news or other content that makes one feel sad, anxious, or angry.”
I don’t think it’s an accident that the word – and the phenomenon – took off during the pandemic. And like many of us, it’s a habit I struggle to rid myself of. I find myself scrolling through screen after screen of Facebook or other social feeds — despite periodic attempts to wean myself of the habit — building up stress over sensationalist pictures, alarming headlines and video clips, and snarky one-liners from late-night comedy hosts. I emerge with my head swimming — feeling more overwhelmed and diffuse, but not more knowledgeable. If I had spent the same amount of time reading one in-depth article, or listening to one good interview, I would know much more, and most likely, act much more wisely.
Marshall McLuhan wrote that the medium is the message. And the medium of bite-sized clips of stress and snark, curated by an algorithm to stoke our id, doesn’t just displace other kinds of understanding – it alters the way we see the world, and the way we interact with one another.
Nobel prize winner Daniel Kahneman discusses two systems that we all use to process the world around us, in his book, Thinking, Fast and Slow.
The first, fast system handles the snap judgments that we make “automatically and quickly, with little or no effort and no sense of voluntary control.” Hearing someone’s voice and knowing that they’re upset. Knowing what you get when you add 2+2. Naming the capital of France. Reacting angrily to an outrageous headline.
The second, slow system requires attention and effort, choice and concentration. Listening for a particular voice in a crowded room. Monitoring our own tone of voice in a difficult conversation. Following a complicated argument and deciding if we agree.
Fast thinking gets us through a lot of our daily activities. And it feeds immediate impressions to our slow thinking system. We engage slow thinking when we need to really pay attention, to control our instinctive reaction, to take a step back and breathe. But it requires effort.
The mishnah, in the very first verse of Pirkei Avot – the Wisdom of our Ancestors – warns us – hevei metunim badin. Be deliberate in judgement. We often rely primarily on our gut feelings and our instincts – on fast thinking. And sometimes they steer us correctly. But often they don’t. And we often don’t muster the patience and time to think through our snap reactions and respond thoughtfully. Our tradition urges us to judge the world around us – and one another – with care and consideration.
Kahneman’s research shows that our capacity to do so — our slow thinking — is drained when we’re tired, or stressed, or scared, or angry.
And these days, who isn’t at least one of those things — tired, or stressed, or scared, or angry — a lot of the time? I know I am. And I know I’m not alone.
At this time of deep political conflict — of democratic institutions under assault, surging antisemitism, two years of heartbreaking war in Israel and Gaza — it’s disorienting. It’s exhausting. And it’s scary. Since that October 7, almost every Jew I know has felt isolated and misunderstood in one way or another. Trauma makes it harder to think. To understand. And most of all, to talk with one another.
In the past two years, it’s been particularly painful and difficult to have conversations about Israel — not only out in the world, but within the Jewish community, and even with close friends and family.
And I’m aware that I’m taking a risk by speaking about Israel this morning. I know that whatever I say will be hard for someone in this room to hear. Even acknowledging that these conversations are difficult is itself painful. Because we remember a time when they weren’t, and some part of us wishes desperately that were still the case.
We’re torn apart, both within ourselves and among one another, by the horrors of October 7 two years ago. By the immediate demonstrations against Israel on October 8, on college campuses and elsewhere, that often crossed the line to violent harassment and frank antisemitism. By the fate of the hostages, the unfolding war between Israel and Hamas, the missile attacks sending Israelis to shelters over and over. By the incredible devastation in Gaza, and by the stark human toll paid by so many innocent people whom Hamas uses as human shields and PR fodder, weaponizing the misery they helped create.
And as the war has stretched on, as the strategic landscape has dramatically changed, with Iran and Hezbollah back on their heels, and as the remaining hostages are held in unspeakable conditions, deep disagreement continues to grow within Israel about the wisdom of continuing the war vs. reaching an imperfect settlement that brings the hostages home.
(None of this is abstract. Many of us have family in Israel. I do, and so does Rabbi Miriam. Some of our relatives have served in Gaza. Some have been on the streets protesting the current Israeli government. Some have done both!)
Now, I am aware that facts on the ground are rapidly evolving, in the diplomatic and military and humanitarian spheres. But my goal this Rosh Hashanah morning is not to weigh in with my own analysis of current events, or opine about political solutions. Those conversations are for another day. Instead, in the spirit of teshuvah, of reflection and new beginnings — I want to reflect on how we might be metunim badin – deliberate in judgement – with one another. How we, in our families and in this community, talk to one another, rather than at one another. To explore what we might share with people in our lives, even — especially — across deep disagreement.
So many of you have talked with me about how your families and friendships have come under strain in the past two years over deep disagreements about Israel. (Often, these conflicts are intergenerational.) So often, I hear, “We can’t talk to each other without it turning into a shouting match.” When I probe a little deeper, I hear, “I can’t believe that he supports a cease-fire after October 7. He doesn’t care if Hamas wins.” Or, “I can’t believe she wants this war to continue after all of this bloodshed. How can she think what’s going on is just?” We hear a challenge to our deeply held values and beliefs, and go into fight-or-flight mode. We get into that shouting match, or write off an acquaintance, or drop the subject but feel a fresh rush of anger or grief the next time we see that relative or friend.
What would it take to be metunim badin – deliberate in judgement? How can we heed another verse from Pirkei Avot, a few lines later – Heve dan et kol adam bechaf zechut (“Judge every person in a favorable light – with the benefit of the doubt?”) How can we harness the power of slow thinking to overcome our immediate – and legitimate – reactions? Not necessarily to reach agreement. But at least to understand what we share with another, and what we don’t.
The first step — and it’s a hard one — is to ask questions, and really listen to the other person’s answers. Not to gather ammunition to refute their position, but to fully understand the other person’s perspective, the lens through which they see the world — their emotional truth — what really matters to them. And then, to reflect back to them what you heard. Not everything they said, but what mattered most. To see if you understand their perspective, on their terms. And then, the crucial last step: you ask — did I get that right? And let yourself be corrected.
The power of reaching out like this opens doors and hearts. Whatever our differences, we understand more about someone’s core commitments – not “here’s what I think should happen,” but what’s beneath that: “here’s what’s important to me, and why.”
And that can open the door to sharing our own hearts in turn.
As a rabbi right now, I’ve had many of these conversations both within and beyond the Temple Beth-El community. I want to make very clear that I’m not referring to any specific, individual conversation here, but speaking broadly, I have heard from people who have felt betrayal when I have criticized specific actions of the Israel government; and I’ve also heard from people who consider Israel’s conduct so egregious that they find my continued support for the land and people of Israel to be morally indefensible. Once or twice, I’ve had both kinds of conversations on the same day. And so have many rabbis I know.
What every single person I’ve spoken with has shared is a sense of deep heartbreak at the many losses of the past two years. A sincere wish for the war to end, and all innocent people to be safe. And I have shared with them my own heartbreak as someone who believes in Israel as our homeland, a Jewish and democratic state; as someone whose pain at some of this far-right government’s words and actions stems precisely from that Zionist commitment, and from fundamental Jewish values as I understand them; and as someone who doesn’t have the answers, but believes it’s my responsibility to keep asking the questions that matter.
We have seldom left these conversations agreeing on policy. Occasionally we’ve realized that we are very far apart on crucial issues. But we have almost always left knowing what we do share — and having built bridges to continue talking.
In these polarized times, that itself is a gift. Being able to reach out across differences — particularly within our synagogue, a covenantal community of mutual commitment — is the diametric opposite of doomscrolling. Instead of skimming compulsively through image after image on a glass screen, each algorithmically designed to divide us — in this new year, can we redirect that urgency to something constructive? To take the time to build the spiritual, emotional, and communal muscles to connect, face to face, for those hard conversations? In our families, our community, with one another?
In July, I saw an example of bridge building that took my breath away. At the height of the famine in Gaza, Israeli women from the group Omdim Beyachad/Standing Together (a group made up of Jewish and Arab Israeli citizens) — were gathering in Jerusalem, Haifa, and Tel Aviv in silent protest, holding pictures of Gazan children who had been killed in the war.
Seeing photos of these protests online, in response, a group of Gazans began to reciprocate. It was not safe for them to demonstrate publicly without reprisals from Hamas. But they began circulating pictures in turn: pictures of themselves holding photos of Israeli children.
The image that stood out to me showed a dozen photos spread out on a small bed with a pink bedspread. The photos were of Israeli children killed by Hamas on October 7. The bed belonged to a young Gazan girl killed later that same month in an Israeli air strike. The photo was taken by her father, to be shared with Israelis, as a message that her family would not give up on the hope for peace.
If that kind of bridge-building is possible, surely we can build bridges with one another.
Rosh Hashanah gives us an opportunity for new beginnings. At a time when social media profits by keeping us angry and scared; when forces of extremism and bigotry seek to divide us and set us against one another, may we each find a way to join together against those forces — setting aside the doomscroll, and turning instead toward a different kind of scroll – the book of life.
May we build a new year that is sweeter, better, more peaceful, and more hopeful. Shanah tovah.