April 24, 2025
(Shmini 5782)
I want to begin with a story that is both shocking, unbelievable—and completely unsurprising. Let’s sit with that paradox for a moment.
On Tuesday, after some back-and-forth wondering about my sermon topic for the week, I walked into the Dublin Trader Joe’s to pick up a few items. As many of you know, when you enter Trader Joe’s and turn immediately to the right, you’ll find the refrigerated foods section, with the first refrigerator filled with all sorts of cheeses. As I turned the corner, I overheard a woman speaking with a store employee about kosher cheese. I wasn’t quite sure of the nature of their conversation, but it sounded like she had some questions.
I chimed in, “I happen to be a rabbi—let me know if I can help.”
The woman responded, “Well, I’m explaining to him that some hechshers aren’t really kosher and that Trader Joe’s shouldn’t place an additional blue kosher label on their store signage.”
I replied, “Oh, of course, that’s true. There are different kosher certifying organizations with various standards, and not all Jews follow every single one.”
She continued, “I spend time in the frum community, and we don’t follow this kosher symbol, only this one. That one is for Conservative Jews—I only follow the Chabad list.”
(For context: Frum is a Yiddish word meaning religious or pious.)
I asked where she went to synagogue, and she told me Ahavas Sholom. I then told her I was the rabbi at Beth Tikvah, to which she replied, “Oh, well that explains everything.”
Dumbstruck, I said, “That’s not a very nice thing to say.”
She went on the defensive, saying she didn’t mean it that way and that she understood I had a more lenient or liberal approach to kashrut. But what I was hearing was, “You’re a Reform rabbi. You have no authority here.”
She then tried to re-explain her concern about the signage and asked, “If you’re a rabbi, where’s your kippah?”
I responded, “I completely understand the rules of kashrut—I’ve been a rabbi for 15 years.”
She said, “Well, I’ll have to ask my cousin Yaakov about that.”
The conversation shifted to the Jewish community in general. She said, “When people ask me—those who are moving to Columbus—where the Jewish community lives, I don’t tell them Dublin. I tell them Bexley, because they want to be with other frum Jews, and there is no Jewish community up here.”
I replied, “There is a wonderful Jewish community up here, and I think we’ll just have to agree to disagree.”
As I walked away, three thoughts crossed my mind:
- What do I do now—I need to put the non-hechshered chicken from the next refrigerator into my cart?
- Why did I open my mouth?
- Abraham Joshua Heschel was right: “Jews need to spend more time worrying about what comes out of their mouths rather than what goes into them.”
I finished my shopping, and the store employee ran after me as I walked to my car to tell me he thought I had handled the conversation well. He and I had a lovely discussion about the laws of kashrut, and I apologized for exposing him to the uglier side of Jewish community discourse.
Now for the coincidences—there are two.
The first: as I drove home, I thought, “Aha, I have my sermon!” How amazing that this week’s Torah portion is about the laws of kashrut. Chapter 11 of Leviticus, which we read in Parshat Shmini, is entirely dedicated to what may and may not be eaten. The chapter lists land animals, sea animals, birds, bugs, and more. There’s no reason given for any of the restrictions—just God’s declaration: “I am God.” Later laws of kashrut appear in rabbinic texts.
Commenting on this parsha, Diane M. Sharon writes in The Women’s Torah Commentary that Mary Douglas, in her essay “Self Evidence,” argues that biblical food prohibitions reflect wider historical and sociological realities. Douglas claims that the Israelites cherished boundaries, wanting to keep them strong and high. Any attempt to cross those boundaries was seen as a hostile intrusion.
And here lies the entire complexity of my Trader Joe’s encounter: it wasn’t about what is or isn’t kosher—it was about boundaries. What began as a discussion about what food one could bring into the house became a conversation about who is in and who is out of the Jewish community. It culminated in her questioning the legitimacy of my rabbinate because I wasn’t wearing a kippah.
(And in case you’re still curious—her issue with cheese was that some contain animal rennet, which is derived from the stomachs of young animals. Some rabbis allow cheeses made with microbial rennet instead, which is vegetarian. That was the source of her complaint. But I digress.)
The issue here is boundaries. In his book Boundaries of Judaism, Rabbi Donniel Hartman addresses the challenge of defining “Who are the Jews?” He notes that in times of crisis, we exhibit collective responsibility. But when it comes to religion, we fracture. Judaism, he writes, does not unite—it divides. This was on full display at Trader Joe’s.
Hartman reflects on a personal experience where he, as an Orthodox-trained rabbi, was invited to lead a retreat—on the condition that all prayer services include a mechitzah. Not kashrut, not Shabbat observance—just a gender divider. That condition alone was enough to create division and prevent community.
These boundary debates aren’t new. They go back to the Talmud and beyond. This week’s Torah portion literally lays out what is in and what is out—what makes one pure or impure. So how do we build a more accepting, united Jewish community?
Now, the second coincidence.
As many of you know, I’ve been studying a page of Talmud each day. The day before my Trader Joe’s experience, we studied tractate Yevamot, page 14a, where we learn that although the schools of Hillel and Shammai differed in their laws of marriage, they still intermarried. Even amidst deep disagreements, they stayed connected.
On the following page, Rabbi Elazar bar Tzaddok brings olives to his teacher, Rabbi Yohanan the Horani. Rabbi Yohanan says, “I don’t eat olives,” even though his real concern was about impurity. He didn’t want to offend. His choice? Peaceful coexistence.
Scholar Sharon Weiss-Greenberg writes that today’s daf teaches us how to handle difficult social moments rooted in different religious practices. You may disagree with someone—you may believe their food isn’t kosher, their Shabbat isn’t proper, their Jewish identity isn’t valid—but for the sake of community, harmony must triumph.
Here lies the lesson: We must withhold judgment of our fellow Jews. Humility and deep listening bring peace. When we make room for another soul—their beliefs, their practices—we strengthen our community. May we all strive to live mipnei darchei shalom—for the sake of peace.
Kein yehi ratzon—may it be so.