Sermons

I was watching a short video the other day that really got to me. It just struck me at the right time, and then I figured it was about Torah. The video was of a woman in her car, with tears in her eyes, choked up and trying to tell a story. She had clearly just come from exercising, and was still glimmering with sweat, and the tears running down her cheeks were adding to the glow coming off of her skin. She briefly shared her struggle with weight and body image, and how being a heavier woman was so difficult for her. She told us of her now two-year long struggle in the gym, and her very slow progress toward a body that she wished to have in order to feel better physically and mentally. She admitted being discouraged. She admitted being ashamed of her body, and she claimed to have lost confidence; especially in the wake of a recent event at her gym. Her struggle had reached a very low point; she told a story of a group of young men who had commented on her weight under their breath as they left the gym the last time she had been working out. They laughed at her and muttered disparaging remarks related to her weight. This awful experience caused her to lose so much of her already fragile confidence; and to make matters worse, she was worried it was all happening again. 

She told us viewers of her experience that day. She noticed a muscle bound, heavily tattooed man periodically looking in her direction throughout her workout. She always saw him when she was there, and she honestly thought he was pretty scary looking. He was clearly a veteran of the gym, and someone whose work ethic she admired, but saw as completely unattainable. She believes he might have heard what had happened to her previously. He kept glancing over at her. She was admittedly a bit worried, still shaken from those prior hurtful words. As she was leaving, still feeling the sting of her previous encounter with the rude young men, this large, very muscular man finally stopped looking, and walked right up to her. She felt her heart drop into her stomach. They had never spoken. He made direct eye contact with her, and softly said: “I have seen you in here almost every day for the past couple of years. You are so dedicated. I am proud of you.” 

“I am proud of you.” These words impacted this woman so deeply. She got into her car and shared the story with us. Seeing the tears of pain from hurtful words transform into tears of hope from compassionate words was so moving. It did not take much for this man to make an enormous impact on this woman’s day, and let’s be honest, probably her entire life. He saw her vulnerability, and he decided to use his position to do good. He was able to be a part of finding some confidence and self-esteem that she had lost, and returning it to her with a couple of sentences. 

This week’s Torah portion, Ki Teitzei, contains a lot of commandments. It is almost as if Moses is trying to get as much Torah out and into the world as he can before he passes on. 74 commandments are mentioned this week. It is a lot to take in. But, a commandment that I consistently return to is called “Hashavat Aveida,” or the returning of lost items. The idea of return is appropriate given our upcoming High Holy Days, when we seek Teshuvah, or return. This can be seen as another angle toward teshuvah. The Torah tells us that if we see the ox or sheep of our sibling wandering, we should return them to our sibling. We should do the same for their donkey, or for their garment. We are not to hide ourselves from the situation of loss, pretend that we don’t see what is misplaced, and render ourselves uninvolved. No, we are not to be bystanders. The Torah says “Lo tuchal l’hitaleim-You shall not hide yourself, or you shall not be able to ignore it.” The commandment goes a step further. If we see our sibling’s donkey or ox falling over, we are also not to stand idly by, or to pretend that we do not see what is happening. We are to stand with our brothers and sisters, and to help them lift back up what has fallen down. 

It can be easy to look at a commandment like this in our Torah and only see the literal aspect. It’s still a nice sentiment, even when taken at face value. If we find an item that is lost, or an animal that is wayward, we should do all we can to help return the lost item to its rightful owner. If the animal has fallen down, we should help to lift it up. This is a noble mitzvah; it would be, even if we left it at that. But, if we dig below the surface of the literal, I think of the muscle-bound tattooed weight-lifter. Who knows if he was Jewish, who knows if he had ever heard of the commandment of Hashavat Aveidah. But he did something that we can all do if we choose to. In a world that is so full of divisiveness, of complex political issues, and a bevy of conflicting information; in a world so filled with an obsession with taking sides and pitting groups and people against one another: we can be as the burly and rugged man at the gym. We can look at our position in any given situation and understand that we are always choosing between blessings and curses right in front of us. The curse can be an unkind word under our breath as the misguided young men from the video. That lashon Hara (evil speech) would have been met with tzaraat according to our Torah; the skin disease that lets the world see the inside reflected on the outside. The blessing- we can help someone who has lost their spark, their sense of self-worth, their motivation to keep going; A spiritual form of Hashavat Aveidah.

The story I mentioned earlier and the impact it had; this is proof that it does not take a herculean effort in order to lift someone up. The muscle bound man’s greatest lift was not done at the squat rack or the bench press, but at the seat of the spirit. The woman had lost something, and this individual helped her find it again. He stepped away from his own life for just a couple of seconds, and by caring about another, he engaged in such a great mitzvah. If we do not think we are powerful, how wrong we are. Her tears were the evidence of something lost being found again. 

What do we learn from this? If we see our siblings on this earth struggling to find something that is lost, and we might be able to help them find it, let’s take action and return it to them. Leave your lane for a moment to improve the world. This is how we live a life of mitzvot and Torah. How beautiful to know that no matter where we are, we will always have an opportunity to engage in mitzvot. It might not be a wayward ox or a donkey, but it can be someone’s lost sense of self. When we show genuine concern, we can put others back on the path toward God’s light. In that moment, that man was Torah, he was a living mitzvah. Let’s make that a regular occurrence. Let’s make that our minhag, our custom of kindness. A song from the Broadway musical “Dear Evan Hansen” played in my house just a day or so ago. Coincidence? You decide: “Even when the dark comes crashing through, when you need a friend to carry you…when you’re broken on the ground…you will be found.” Let’s keep finding one another.

Shabbat Shalom

There is an elephant in the Jewish room. Now, I could stand up here this evening and pick out a verse or two from this week’s Torah portion and talk about how it relates to something in our lives. Perhaps, I could make a couple of humorous parallels between something in my own life and something in the Torah portion. I have done that before. I could talk about the meaning of the period of the Omer, the pilgrimage festivals of our tradition; those are mentioned in this week’s parsha. I could do nothing to stir the pot in any way. I could play it very safely this evening. But, like I said before, there is an elephant in the Jewish room. When breath from the weight of an issue makes it difficult to fill our lungs, we can’t ignore it for the sake of convenience. We can’t publicly disregard something because it might be easier to do so. That’s just not the Jewish way to go. 

We have recently heard the divisive news that Israel’s security cabinet has voted to extend and expand Israeli control over the Gaza strip-the action has already begun. This has been met with a lot of condemnation from countries, parties, organizations, and individuals. The Union for Reform Judaism, which our congregation is a member of, even released its own statement that ends with a call for Israel to end the war in Gaza immediately, bring the hostages home, and to create a coalition with Arab nations to rebuild Gaza. This is one perspective, and certainly a worthwhile one. There also exist those who see this issue completely differently. Some see the entire situation as it exists in Israel and Gaza as a case of what we might call the “Din Rodef,” which translates to the “Law of the Pursuer.” There is a Jewish argument that the actions of Israel reflect a prolonged instance of self-defense. Our great sage Maimonides says: “Every Jew is obligated to save a pursued person from his pursuer, even if this means killing the pursuer.” We all know what happened on October 7th, 2023, and I think we also know of the existential threat to national survival that Israel constantly lives with. We all want the hostages home. We all want stability. The “how” is the elephant.

Enter this week’s Torah portion, Parsha Re’eh. R’eh means “see.” Re’eh anochi notein lifneichem hayom b’racha uk’lala- See I present before you today a blessing and a curse.” The parsha tells us that upon crossing the Jordan River and entering the promised land, the Israelites are to utterly destroy all the nations that existed there prior. The people of Israel are to obliterate their idolatrous gods. They must smash their altars and their pillars. They must burn their sacred texts. If this language sounds severe and extreme, you are correct. It is, I believe, very important to remember that the Torah was built upon the creation of a people. The Jews were not to be swayed into idolatry and other religious practice by any neighbors. Perhaps the Jewish people were too fresh and fragile to resist…think of the Golden Calf incident. The Torah tells us that we must rid ourselves of any outside threats in order to remain Jewish. Fast forward to today: Is Jewish nationhood still this tenuous? Does Israel overcorrect when provoked? The question that is being posed globally, whether we agree with it vehemently, or disagree with it fundamentally, is right now, in this very moment in history, “who is the rodef- who is the pursuer?” God has placed before us a blessing and a curse. Which is which?

As Jews, we are commanded to be an ohr l’goyim, a light unto the nations. We strive to be a nation of justice, of laws, of morality. We are told to be Holy for the Lord our God is Holy; to be a nation of priests. Our aspirations are lofty and worthwhile. I ask: how can we feel holy if we are currently viewed by much of the world as the pursuers. Did we change from the victims to the victimizers, as so many claim? When did this happen? Did it happen? Is the government of Israel acting immorally? Aren’t we always vilified by the world? Is this entire conversation just the inevitable and unfair result of the smothering Israel obsession of a largely antisemitically bent world? If we can’t ask ourselves and one another as fellow Jews these questions, even if they make us uncomfortable, I can assure you that others will answer them for us. History tells us that not only will the world answer these questions for us, but they will also act in accordance with their own answers to Jewish questions. None of this is fair to us, especially as Jews in America. Being Jewish has never been rife with fair treatment. It’s about holy responsibility to the right and the good, even through struggle and difficulty; perhaps especially so. 

One of the issues we have is seemingly found in the first word and the name of this week’s Parsha: “Re’eh- SEE.” God has set before us a blessing and a curse, but it has become difficult to see the blessing and the curse clearly. Which is the way of the blessing, and which is the way of the curse? When every periodical, news channel, piece of information that exists in our globalized world tells us something disparate, how can we clearly “SEE” what is actually happening? Without seeing, how can we convert that lack of sight into usable knowledge? We hear of Israeli protests against the government in Israel. We hear of grassroots movements by Gazans to combat Hamas leadership. It’s hard to see through the opaque landscape of this issue. No matter our political views, our stances on left vs. right or red vs. blue, I feel safe in assuming that everyone here believes in the Jewish aspiration to do the right thing, to do the holy thing. I believe everyone here agrees that we have the right to exist safely as well, without fear of imminent attack constantly looming. How do we get there? Do we ever actually arrive at a place in time where Jews feel completely safe in Israel? We know the actions of the State of Israel impact Jews all over the world. If we ourselves criticize, or hear criticisms, let us always be mindful of famous activist and refusenik Natan Sharansky’s three D’s- Demonization, Delegitimization, and Double standards. These are dangerous. 

I understand that I have posed so many more questions than answers this evening. What I do know is that if Jewish history has taught us anything, it has told us that we will endure through the latest test of our peoplehood. I can also tell you that whatever does happen, we do not take pride in war, even if we technically win. Golda Meir, the 4th Prime Minister of the State of Israel said in the wake of the Yom Kippur war of 1973: “We do not rejoice in victories. We rejoice when a new kind of cotton is grown and when strawberries bloom in Israel.” So, perhaps we simply need to continue the conversations, and do so with open hearts and minds. Again, if we do not discuss these issues, bad actors will make Jewish decisions for us. May we be blessed to agree and to disagree, to talk and to listen. If we need to, may we engage in Makhloket l’shem Shamayim…disagreement and discourse for the sake of heaven. This is our way, and has been since time immemorial. We are always pursuers of some nature…let us be pursuers and supporters of responsible, ethical, and sustainable peace. How to get there? The question remains, but is certainly not going to be answered through silence and single-mindedness. Adonai, give us eyes to see and minds to know. Our souls are already taken care of. 

There exists a Japanese philosophy called “wabi-sabi.” Wabi Sabi is the belief that beauty and meaning can be found in imperfection; that there is a natural order to things…there is life, aging, wear and tear, and decay. These are not processes to be resistant to, but wabi sabi tells us to embrace the changes, and to graciously accept the simple nature of the imperfect. Expanding upon this philosophy is the Japanese practice of Kintsugi. Kintsugi likely dates back to the 15th century and became very common by the 17th century. Some say this practice can be attributed to the shogun Ashikaga Yoshimasa, who was upset when a special tea cup he had cherished was inadvertently shattered. He sent this tea cup to China to be repaired, but upon its return, Yoshimasa was unsatisfied with the crude method used to fill in the cracks. He challenged the Japanese people to make the repairs more beautiful. The result: Shattered pieces of pottery are expertly glued back together using a special lacquer called urushi, which is made from the sap of a Japanese tree. The cracks are then filled with a gold, silver, or platinum-dusted lacquer. This all creates a unique design, and does not hide the fact that repair was done, but actually highlights the imperfection, making it the beautiful trademark of the entire design. Kintsugi embraces the brokenness, and does not try to hide its existence. It is still widely practiced today.

In this week’s Torah portion, as Moses continues to speak to the people of Israel, he reminds them of his revelation and the receiving of the Torah on Mount Sinai, more specifically, the tablets containing the ten commandments. Moses recounts his first forty days and nights on the mountain, and the anger he felt when descending; witnessing his beloved people of Israel worshipping the infamous idol, the Golden Calf. Moses, in the throes of his disgust, smashes the tablets into pieces, and he again ascends the mountain, spends another forty days and nights, and comes down with a fresh set. What to do with the first, smashed and broken tablets? They are shattered, they seem like they might be completely useless. New tablets with identical instructions have already been created. Our Torah text is a bit nebulous about the exact placement of the first broken set of tablets, but Rabbi Yosef, Talmudic sage, makes it very clear: “both the tablets and the fragments of the tablets were deposited in the Ark.” According to our Rabbis, the initial shattered tablets were carried alongside the intact tablets, in the Holy Ark, all throughout the Israelites’ journey in the wilderness. The people were to hold both in high esteem, and they were both granted a great level of holiness.

Is it sensible to carry with us the broken tablets in our own lives? The word “broken” often comes with such negative connotations. It is no secret that we live in a fast-paced society of instant gratification; one that often sends us the message that we have only one chance, and that we better make the most of it. We are told we better not “throw away our shot,” for those fans of the musical, Hamilton. If we drop the ball, or the tablets, it is a catastrophe. We have failed. Our Torah and our Rabbis tell us something different. The practice of Kintsugi tells us something different. It would be a bit saccharin to stand up here and tell you that everything we break will become beautiful, but isn’t it possible that we cannot become beautiful without sometimes breaking? This is not just true for the tablets and the things in our lives, but also for our relationships with one another, and with God. The Kotsker Rebbe once said, “There is nothing as whole as a broken heart.” Without brokenness, it is difficult to appreciate the wholeness that we can aspire to, and perhaps even achieve. 

I also see the broken tablets standing in fellowship with the undamaged tablets as a symbol of hope and possibility. We live in a world where things break..relationships fall apart, whether they be human-to-human, political party to political party, religion to religion, nation to nation. For the beauty that can be found in brokenness, it is also important to remember the damage the shards can do. We tell our children never to touch broken glass, for it could injure them. We avoid stepping on sharp shattered pieces for fear of damage. For everything that is broken, there sits directly adjacent to the fracturedness, an image of unification. There is great power in placing the severed by the side of the unscathed. We are in direct observation of the potential that exists in collapse. 

As we begin to approach the High Holy Days, we begin the process of Cheshbon HaNefesh, or accounting for our souls. It is time that we start thinking about both sets of tablets in our own lives. How can we make a beautiful repair with those whom we need to reconcile with? How can we rebuild our relationship with ourselves…with God? Remember, this is not about hiding anything that has been broken, but about embracing the process of teshuvah, or return. We can use the art of Kintsugi as inspiration. The golden lacquer of our teshuvah does not cloak the act of reconciliation, but heightens it to a level of holiness worth keeping. Let us be blessed to utilize the urushi, the beautiful golden lacquer of our lives, to fill in the cracks. Let us remind ourselves that in the laugh lines and crow’s feet dwell incredible wisdom and power. We have earned the perfect imperfections. We can carry with us the broken pieces…we just tend to them, and make sure we keep them in a holy place…always mirroring what makes us whole. Anyway, without any cracks or crevices, how would the light ever get in? Shabbat Shalom.

I was reading a journal article this past week from the International Journal of Environmental Research and Public Health. To simply summarize: the scientific study described found that the more interested in material things people are, the more incompatible they become internally with sustainable and healthy functioning. This eventually impacts the greater world, hence the environmental bend of the research. Additionally, directly following the recession of 2008, an article called “How Greed Outstripped Need,” was published by the American Psychological Association. The article highlights how our society seems to be set up in a way that encourages materialistic values and rewards greed. I am not here to offer a critique of capitalism. This is a Torah observation. 

In this week’s Parsha, Va’etchanan, we continue to hear the final voice and pleas of a dying Moses. Moses makes it very clear in this portion that once the promised land has been acquired, once the people have become settled in, complacency will also settle in. This is not complacency of a physical nature. It is not that people will stop moving and progressing, but perhaps they will move and progress in a direction that is not spiritually healthy. Moses lets us know that we will become scattered around in a galut, an exile. Why? Because we will lose sight of our God. We will serve gods that are made by the hands of people. Wood and stone are brought up as the materialism of the ancient world, which will begin to be worshipped. How about today’s materials of money, fame, extravagant houses, cars, likes and views on social media? Many people have become addicted to the material and the accolades of the public square, be it the physical or digital milieu. Wealth and status are worshipped. We don’t know God’s true and ineffable name, but we know the names of the wealthiest people. They are recorded on innumerable lists. We know their names because they have a lot of things. Is the dominant god of today, the god of things; of stuff? 

This is not a new issue to contend with. There is a midrash about our great ancestor Abraham, which takes place before he set off for a new land. He was working in his father Terach’s idol shop. Part of the story goes like this: Once a woman came to Terach’s shop with fine flour. She said to [Abraham]: “Here, offer this before these gods.” [Abraham] picked up a staff and broke [the idols] and placed the staff in the hands of the largest of them. When his father returned, he asked him: “Why did you do this to them?” [Abraham] replied: “Would I hide it from you? A woman came carrying a plate of fine flour and she told me to offer it before them. Each one of them said, ‘I will eat first’ until the largest of them picked up the staff and shattered the others.” [Terah] responded: “Why are you trying to fool me? I know what they are!” [Abraham] retorted: “Do your ears not hear what your mouth is saying?!”

Does the deepest part of us know that some of the materials held in such high esteem today are not the stuff that ultimately matters? Does the Divine Spark within us have knowledge when we lose sight? Of course there is a time and a place for involving ourselves in the world-at-large. The Reform movement of Judaism prides itself on being able to reconcile keeping our Judaism alive and vibrant while also being able to live as members of the secular world. This is a balancing act on what can be a very narrow bridge! How much of our Judaism are we willing to cast aside in order to feed flour to the idols? The Torah tells us that when we get too comfortable that we will lose our way and become exiled. Perhaps our modern answer might be, “We don’t live in exile. We live here. This is where we want to be!” This is, I believe, a completely reasonable way of thinking. But, if we look below the literal, let us ask ourselves. Is the exile really physical? Can we become spiritually disconnected from our Jewish traditions, our Jewish practice, our Jewish spirit when we become too involved in the rat race of the modern material world? 

The research mentioned earlier points out the negative correlation between materialistic values and sustainable well-being. I don’t think that this is a finding that we can ignore. If we live in the proverbial blinding neon of a spiritual times square, it can be very difficult to feel the quietude of a moment with our God. Our God is not the God of the eye-turning Greek statues or the ornate ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. We can appreciate the beauty of these aesthetic wonders, but do we really think these things are where God resides? In a collection of money, things, and stuff, we can reach low points in our lives. Our Torah tells us that if we are exiled from God, from the land of God, we will eventually cry out in need of God. When we despair, when we are in trouble, when someone is suffering, we will return to the God of our people- A God that lives between the black and white our brains often crave.

Let’s be honest, the God of Israel has never been popular. The God of Israel has always been puzzling to most, even to our Jewish people themselves. We hear the famous words of the Shema this week. Shema Yisrael Adonai Eloheinu, Adonai Echad. Hear, O Israel, Adonai our God. Adonai is One.” Doesn’t this mean that God exists in everything, even in the material? Doesn’t God exist in the clicks on social media, the views on Tik Tok, the expensive cars, the big houses? Yes, God exists in everything. But God is not those things. 

If we ever plan to repair the world, can’t we see God in the hand used to pull someone else up, the dollar spent on tzedakah in anonymous silence. The small decision to pray at a Shiva Minyan instead of making an extra dollar somewhere. We do not have to become martyrs or ascetics to live in a relationship with God. We do need to understand that the Torah knows how difficult it is to live a life filled with God when the world props up Terach’s idols at every turn. 

Let us be blessed to find some solace in the spiritual desert. Let us not view the journey through Ha-Midbar as a trek through a wasteland, but as an opportunity to circle back from any micro-spiritual exile from God. When the lights of the glamorous material world go out, only the ner tamid remains. The eternal light that shines through a God we can only hear in the ruach, the wind, the bat kol, the small voice. When the statues fall, the buildings crumble, the likes and views on social media become antiquated…whent the material moves on, Our God remains. We can always return. We can always come home. 

Person 1, longing to be a part of the group says, “I really like that band, too. I’m a fan!” Person 2 responds, “You don’t even understand what heavy metal music is. If you haven’t seen the band live, you’re not really a fan.” Gate shut. “I heard that show is so funny! I should really watch it” or “I always love hearing clips from that podcast!” “well, if you haven’t watched *insert show here*, or listened to *insert podcast name here* by now, you will never understand it.” Gate shut. I have been reading a lot about the idea of “gatekeeping” lately. Gatekeeping as a modern cultural concept refers to intentionally withholding from others information, knowledge, opportunity and access. It appears as if the practice of gatekeeping can be seen as either a positive or negative, depending on the context. On the more positive side, if one is a gatekeeper of a culture whose practices, language, or customs are becoming sparse or endangered, this cultural gatekeeping can be quite useful and necessary to the survival of the culture itself; and also aid in avoiding appropriation. On the negative side, enter the chaotic world of social media. I have heard gatekeeper or gatekeeping used to refer to a manner in which others are excluded. For example, if someone posts a video about fashion on social media and someone comments, “I love that dress, where did you buy it!?”, being met with no answer or an outright denial of information can be hurtful, damaging, and confusing. Certain fans of niche games, shows and media can engage in gatekeeping to exclude others as well. Telling someone that they are too unsophisticated to enjoy a book, and not lending them the copy, could be seen as gatekeeping. You get the idea.

Oftentimes when people entangle their identity with something cultural, whether we view it as profound and legitimate, or as silly and arbitrary, the reaction can be the same: This is mine, and you are not qualified to have it. There is a challenge in deciding when to open the gate, when to shut it slightly, and when to slam the gate shut and chain it locked.

In this week’s Torah portion, Moses is led by God to the mountain of Abarim. He is told to view the Promised Land, is reminded of his transgressions, and then told once again that he will not ever enter this land. This is a moment when Moses could have chosen to sit idly by, bitterly complaining about the unfairness of God’s decree. He could have gone the way of the saboteur and said, “If I am not leading them there, no one should.” Moses, who had put up with so much kvetching and strife via the people of Israel, could have thrown his hands up. Moses does the opposite. His subsequent attitude and behavior is just another example of what makes him so great. Moses does not only welcome someone else into the prophetic fold, but he requests from God that God pick someone to maintain the momentum of the people after he has gone. Moses asks for the gate to be opened responsibly and thoughtfully.

Moses requests a successor. He is worried not of his own legacy or of even his own pride, but of the future of the people of Israel. He wants to make sure that there exists someone in place who will take the people out, and bring them in. He fears that without a proper succession plan, the people will wander like sheep with no shepherd. Soon thereafter, Joshua ben Nun is chosen, and Moses, again, instead of throwing his hands up and checking out, he places his hands on Joshua’s head in front of the people of Israel. There should be no doubt regarding the next steps on the journey. Moses is said to have “placed some of his majesty,” upon Joshua. He wants to transfer his leadership qualities to Joshua. We often hear Moses compared to the sun and Joshua to the moon. The moon, while bright, reflects the sun’s light. Moses does not have to give up who he is to pass down his wisdom, knowledge, and love. He is inclined to shine his light on those who come next. This comes at a disappointing time for Moses, when it would have been easy for him to turn the light off.

This week, let us ask ourselves: How do we gatekeep in our own lives? Do we scoff, even internally, at those who might not know as much as we do about a particular topic, or who we view as not worthy to attend the proverbial party? Do we acknowledge that knowledge and wisdom kept behind lock and key eventually becomes lost? How do we raise up those around us to ensure that the journey to the promised land continues without too much of a disturbance? Can we take a moment out of our own lives to pass it down, to share the wealth, to lay our hands on those who wish to continue down the path of excellence. Now, we can aspire to Moses’ level of humility, but that’s a tough ask. Our great sage, Rashi, makes it clear in his commentary that Moses would have wished his own son to be the next leader of the people of Israel, but Joshua was the best choice. The Jewish people always seem to revert to this biblical meritocracy. Joshua never departed from Moses’ tent, and as Shlomo ha-Melech said, “The one who watches over the fig tree should eat its fruit.” It is Joshua’s turn to lead, and Moses knows it.

Let us all be blessed to open the gates when necessary, and to the right people. In the spirit of Hachnasat Orchim, or being hospitable to the guests, perhaps we can err on the side of welcoming rather than turning people away at the gate. You have knowledge, wisdom, experience, or know about something interesting. Share it. Pass it down, and pass it around. If someone says they like heavy metal music, don’t shut them down. Be like Moses, and show them the latest song. Invite them to the concert. If it is true that all we do ultimately leave behind is love…let’s make a concerted effort to give it away. Gate open.

Shabbat Shalom

– Rabbi Josh Gray

I read a quote of unknown origin recently that said: “Never underestimate the perception of a donkey; it sees far beyond its own view.” According to a 2019 article in the Journal of Veterinary Behavior, Donkeys are one of the most cognitively misunderstood animals. Historically ridden by distinguished figures, they were often used below their level of intelligence, and negative language became the norm surrounding them. They are actually very intelligent, with the ability to problem solve at a high-level. This is Torah wisdom for sure. Let’s explore.

This week we read of the Moabite King Balak. Balak is described as afraid of the Israelites. We hear a common complaint, one that hearkens all the way back to the Pharaoh who forgot Joseph and decided to destroy the Hebrews. Some of this language holds true even today: The people of Israel have become too numerous. They show power, and there are greater than a handful. Apparently, to some sensibilities, this is enough justification for the destruction of the Jewish people. To make a long story short, Balak appoints a well-known prophet-for-hire by the name of Bilaam. Bilaam is somewhat of a mercurial figure, and his intentions are the stuff of generations of rabbinic debate. We do know that King Balak asks Bilaam to curse the people of Israel. Perhaps if Bilaam is able to curse them, they will not pose a threat to Balak’s Moabites.

God tells this prophet that he must not go and curse the people of Israel because they are a blessed people. Bilaam is eventually convinced to go and attempt his curses, despite what God instructs. Bilaam rises in the morning and saddles his donkey. Our great sage Rashi tells us that this description of saddling the donkey is a textual clue into the fact that Bilaam’s curses would never come to pass. Earlier in the Torah, Abraham is described as rising early in the morning and saddling his donkey. It is then that Abraham offers his son Isaac, and God makes it exceedingly clear that the people of Israel shall be blessed, numerous and successful for generations to come. Abraham saddles early in the morning as does Bilaam. The blessings have already been guaranteed. Bilaam’s attempted curse is indeed a fool’s errand.

Bilaam sets out anyway, and this is where we get one of the most bizarre moments in all of Torah. Enter the perceptive donkey! As Bilaam rides his donkey, perhaps only focused on the curses that he has been charged with directing toward Israel, God sends a “Malach Adonai ba-derech l’satan lo- An Angel of God to position its way as an adversary.” An angel appears and blocks the road. The “atone,” the female donkey that Bilaam is riding, sees the angel, and swerves into a field. The donkey eventually pins Bilaam’s foot up against a wall. Bilaam does not look at the road and see the angel as a roadblock. He only continually strikes the donkey. Eventually the donkey speaks, saying: “What have I done to you! Why are you hitting me?” Bilaam then argues with the donkey! The donkey acts as the reasonable one in the situation, reminding Bilaam that she has always been a faithful donkey. “Have I ever done this to you before? Have I ever intentionally veered off the path and refused to push forward?” No, thinks Bilaam.

It is only then, after being enlightened by his donkey, that his eyes are uncovered and he sees the Angel blocking the way. Even still, he opens his mouth to curse Israel, but blessings emerge. We even get from Bilaam our famous morning prayer of “Mah Tovu Ohalecha Yaakov, Mishkanotecha Yisrael- How fair are your tents, O Jacob, your dwellings, O Israel!”

What to glean from this? There are so many directions we could take. I see the grandiosity of human nature brought back down to earth. Balak is a Moabite King, Bilaam is a revered prophet. The human beings in this scenario go back and forth about the danger of the Israelites, the proper way to curse them. Titles of kings and prophets, and sophisticated human intentions and ambitions aside, God puts an angel in the middle of the road. Bilaam is so caught up in his own world that he views as complex and important that he does not see the angel blocking the way. Perhaps the angel was not a roadblock, but a guide saying: “Go on a different path!” How often do we not see something right in front of us on the road because we are either absorbed in the self, or the negative about something or someone else? The donkey can see that the road to cursing the Israelites is one that is literally impassable. The prophet cannot see what the donkey can. If a donkey can see that cursing the people of Israel is a bad idea, why can’t the rest of the world? Yes, It is ridiculous for a donkey to speak, even more ridiculous to argue with what a donkey says…it is even more absurd to try to curse the people of Israel. It is absurd to hate and wish ill upon others. Does the world need to stop arguing with the donkey and look up at the angel in the road from time-to-time?

So, let’s look at the message here. Even a donkey can see that it is a bad idea to hate the Jews. When will the world catch up? To paraphrase the idea of Rabbi Lawrence Kushner, we ask: can the seers of the world raise themselves to the level of a donkey? The ridiculous nature of this story seems to be a microcosm for the absurdity of the misguided self-righteousness that human beings can too often be embroiled in. Bilaam was unaware of who was with him and what was in front of him. A wise donkey and an angel directing spiritual traffic. Malicious intentions blind us to the blessings surrounding us. Hatred and curses of any kind do no good for the world. Cursing the people of Israel during King Balak’s time was a bad idea, just as it is a bad idea today. It is as simple as that. Detour toward blessings. Just ask the donkey. Livracha v’lo lik’lala, for blessing and not for curse.

Shabbat Shalom.

– Rabbi Josh Gray

They were walking for the lives of the hostages. They were peacefully calling for the release of those still remaining in captivity by Hamas. They were mostly in their 50’s-80’s. One of them was a survivor of the holocaust. They were in Boulder Colorado. A depraved man sprayed them with fire. He burned them; not just for standing up for the release of Israelis held hostage, but let’s say this part aloud. He burned them for being “zionists,” the new deafening dog whistle for…Jewish. This happened less than 2 weeks ago on Erev Shavuot, when we celebrated the receiving of our Torah.

Let’s make no mistake, the book we are currently reading in the Torah, Bamidbar…its meaning is how so many feel…in the desert; confused and directionless, wandering in a morally and ethically arid environment. Is this the desert of the modern American Jewish experience? After the murder of two young souls in Washington DC, quickly followed by the terrorist attack in Boulder, our environment feels more dangerous than a parched desert climate. It can appear as if there exist active and prowling predators in this desert…All of this with no vegetation for us to seek shelter behind or underneath. The sun is beating down on American Judaism, and where are the branches, so full of life and growth, to protect us from the harmful rays of hatred?

This week’s parsha is no accident. I see it right from the beginning as a call for us to take back fire. Fire is not a weapon to be used against us, but a holy thing. Right at the beginning of Parsha B’haalot’cha, God tells Moses to let Aaron know that the Menorah in the tabernacle must be raised up and ignited. Not only must Aaron light the menorah, but the lamps of the menorah must cast light toward the face. The bright branches of the Menorah are designed to illuminate toward its central stem…the Menorah, which was commanded to be made out of one piece of solid gold, is to be illuminated by its own branches. There are times when we, as a Jewish people must take more nebulous or difficult-to-unpack commandments to heart. This feels like one of those times. If we cannot find proper light in the greater world, or if fire that is meant to give off holy light is used to harm us, we must set our souls’ lights upon one another, upon our greater Jewish community. If we are walking in the desert with no lush branches to protect us, we must be the branches. We must look out for one another, and be a shelter for our people when it feels as if we are in a sandstorm with no indication of reprieve. Again, the menorah is made of one piece of gold. We, the people of Israel, are one people. Yes, we branch off, and we live our individual lives. We have our own stresses, our own anxieties, our own unique journeys. But at the end of the day, we are that piece of hammered gold, we are ultimately extensions of Echad, of Oneness.

Later in this Torah portion, the people of Israel complain in the desert. They send Moses to the edge of what he is able to emotionally and spiritually tolerate. They long to go back to Egypt. At least in Egypt, the place of Mitzrayim, of narrowness and constraint, there was some illusion of comfort. There was fish, garlic, and leeks. This desert is unforgiving, the daily manna has become tiresome. We just want to be comfortable. Is that really so bad…to long for a time and place of consolation? We might feel now a bit like the people of Israel at this important juncture. How easy would it be to simply stop tending to the Jewish fires burning in our souls. To be afraid and just plain fed up with the news of targeted Jews, murdered Jews, burned Jews. This is the time for resolve, not a time for a return to narrowness. Being Jewish is a holy responsibility…an eternal covenant with God. The greater the number of days that we continue to elevate the light of the menorah for holy purpose, the more we drive the fire of hatred out of our lives. We CAN fight fire with fire. We can extinguish the flames of hate with the holy light that emanates from the fires of our ancient calling.

Our Torah tells us, “do not hate your brother in your heart, and to love your neighbor or fellow as yourself–V’ahavta l’reiacha Camocha” Many people are having current trouble with these sections of Torah. “Achicha” means your brother, or your kin. “Reiacha” can mean friend, fellow, maybe neighbor. Jews are often criticized for being loyal to other Jews, for being insular. I call tonight for our Non-Jewish allies to take a stand with us against antisemitism and Jewish hate. Prove to be our brothers, our sisters and our siblings. Show us that you are our fellows, our friends, our neighbors. We, as Jews, are commanded to love our brothers, our sisters, our siblings, our friends, our neighbors and fellows. We are commanded not to be grudge-holders. Reach out your hand, and we will ours.

Our Torah portion proves our ability to forgive and reach out. This week, Miriam is stricken with tzaraat, with leprosy, for engaging in negative talk and behavior toward her brother Moses’ wife. Moses does not only forgive his sister, but he quickly prays for her healing. Our famous plea for healing: “El nah f’rah na lah- O God. Please heal her!” comes toward the end of our portion this week. We can love and forgive and pray for the wellbeing of our brothers, sisters, siblings, friends and neighbors. What we cannot accept is silence from our friends and neighbors, or apathy from our siblings. We have been attacked and wounded, and we could use the support of the world.

We could use it, but we do not need it. We will endure. We wander the deserts of Washington DC, of Boulder, of the entire difficult desert of American Judaism. We are a family, a menorah of beaten work, and we will protect and send light in abundance to our center. Stand with us against Jewish hatred in America and around the world. We invite you not to use faulty fire against us, but to light the menorah with us. Speak up loudly in support. Condemn Jewish hatred quickly and assertively The more light the better.

I know that the sun has not set on American Judaism. Even if it feels dark, we remember that sundown is the beginning of our Jewish day. Kindle the flames with us. Help us light the way through the current desert toward an oasis of understanding, support, and the love we are commanded to share with one another. We continue walking for their lives, and for our lives…no matter the heat.

Shabbat Shalom

– Rabbi Josh Gray

I have to ask: Is it high time for a collective reset? This past couple of weeks, I would sit down to read and think, but kept getting notifications from every device with links to different news stories. As hard as I might have tried, I couldn’t look away from everything. There was something popping up about every topic. The waves created from the ADL’s recent antisemitism audit were still whitecaps;  2024 gave us the highest number of antisemitic incidents ever recorded since tracking began. That information has been hanging in the air ever since with an inescapable “what to do” aura surrounding it. Terrible wildfires erupted in Israel, disrupting Yom Ha’atzmaut, Israeli Independence Day celebrations. Then came into my view an article written by a rabbi I deeply admire about his experience with deep-seated antisemitism on Harvard University’s campus during his year as scholar-in-residence at its Divinity School. His insights were quite difficult to read. He likened the University’s response to spraying perfume on a sewer. Quite strong language. I returned to Torah reading, and a text message let me know that a Houthi missile passed the Israeli and American defense systems and landed right near Ben-Gurion International Airport in Tel Aviv. Stories about starving Gazans from every news source, and a piercingly loud lack of stories about unreleased hostages. Vicious discord between the left and the right in our own country. I found myself in a whirlpool of chaos, unrest, uncertainty. It was as if the current events undertow had grabbed a hold of me, and like the unforgiving sea can do, it was difficult to come up for any air. How to even begin processing any of these issues?

Maybe time for a reset? I can imagine that if I was feeling overwhelmed and bound by so much bedlam, that others must be feeling this way, or at least similarly, as well? I was eventually blessed to be temporarily grounded by Chapter 23 of Leviticus, part of this week’s Torah portion. Chapter 23 gives us in-depth information about the Jewish festivals. Directly prior to the very specific instructions by God regarding how to observe the festivals of Passover, Shavuot, Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, and Sukkot, we are first reminded about today…we are reminded of where we currently are; our obligation, but really our privilege, to observe Shabbat. After spending so much of the book of Exodus hearing about the holy space of the Mishkan, it was refreshing to read about the holiness that can be created in Jewish time. Perhaps we are being reminded that Shabbat came first. Our festivals are each meaningful in their own right, but their existence requires our human cooperation and action. What is Rosh Hashanah without the sounding of the Shofar, Yom Kippur without the fast, or Sukkot without the lulav, etrog, and dwelling in booths? Shabbat was created by God during creation. It allows us to return to an original Holiness, to be a bit more like God every week. 

Navigating so many complex issues has caused me to reflect deeply on what we call here “joyful Judaism.” While it is important not to ignore the varied concerns facing the world, and we will not, sometimes the pandemonium of the moment can become much too palpable and pervasive. Can we, on Shabbat, find a way to retreat, even just a modicum, from the tumult, the overwhelming uproars, and just find our way back to some joy? How profound does the message have to be week-to-week? Chapter 23, before it jumps into the details of the festivals, understands that we need to be centered before we take on any other tasks. We need to be reminded of Shabbat, and its simple significance. It’s holy and direct purpose: to afford us the space to recharge, reset and rest our firing neurons before we re-enter the worlds of devastating wildfires, or the state of Harvard University, or the number of antisemitic incidents committed per hour, or the missile that happened to evade the iron dome. Or the palpable level of tension between those with disparate political views.

While trying to find the words to settle down, to lean into the spirit of Shabbat, I was reminded of an old Yiddish Proverb: “Klieg, klieg, klieg—du bist a Nar. You are smart, smart, smart—but you are not so smart!” With so much information constantly in our ears, our eyes, at our fingertips, perhaps we sometimes need a reminder that it is simply not possible to know everything, and it is also not feasible to be able to tackle a myriad of issues simultaneously. I invite us all to collectively breathe together, and try to release some of the allostatic load that chronic anxiety and stress can introduce to our physical, mental, and spiritual wellbeing. The answers to the world’s questions are not that simple, but we have a blueprint for handling the strain of the day-to-day, the week-to-week, the year-to-year. We have our Jewish cathedral that exists in holy time. We have the beautiful, joyful, and simple quietude of Shabbat. It is no accident that this was given to us so early on. The original healthy coping mechanism. 

This week, I am going to take the advice of our sages of the Talmud who wrote, in tractate Shabbat, nonetheless: “Your speech on Shabbat should not be like your speech on weekdays.” Traditionally, we are to avoid speaking of such worldly matters that would keep us from enjoying and fully realizing the rejuvenating spirit of Shabbat…from feeling the slight caress of God’s handiwork. So, yes, the weeks have been a little overwhelming. The world is small and every story and vantage point is accessible and can be smothering. Shabbat is the ruach, the breath of fresh air which glides down to us from on high, oxygenates us for a day no matter the state of the six days that led us here. It allows us to breathe in the miraculous moment of creation. 

Let us all be blessed to feel ourselves living in this holy moment…to revel in our holy day. And if it all becomes too much, distracts you as it did me, and we need to shut our minds off for a few moments, we can find in the word Shabbat itself, the acrostic phrase “sheinah b’shabbat ta’anug, sleep on Shabbat is a joy!” Taking a nap is encouraged. The conflicts of the world might appear more palatable after a refreshing Shabbat snooze. We are all going through a lot. We will catch up, but allow Shabbat to allow us to catch our breath.

Take care of yourself. 

Shabbat Shalom

– Rabbi Josh Gray

“To put it simply: earth and those that inhabit her are often exhausted.

The Torah knew the risk of exhaustion. God rested on the seventh day and made it holy. In parshah Behar, we are exposed to the idea of the Shemitah, the “Sabbath-year.” God said, “Six years thou shalt sow thy field, and six years thou shalt prune thy vineyard, and gather the produce thereof. But in the seventh year shall be a sabbath of solemn rest for the land” (Lev. 25:3-4). The freedom of the individual is a fundamental principle of the Torah, as is the freedom of the land from absolute ownership of human beings. We have free will, so we can choose to do good with it, as leaving a corner for our fellows, or we can do the most unthinkable evil, as we have too often seen. God made it very clear that every seventh year, the land should be used primarily for the feeding of the poor who needed it, and the wild animals who would come across it.. We must take pause to care for one another; to feed one another with food and with ahavah (love). Both are so important, so vital to survival. We must take responsibility. 

In Leviticus 25:23, God says, “…The land is Mine; for you are strangers and settlers with Me.” We as human beings, contrary to how many would think and behave in the modern world, do not own the land. We have rested upon the land that has been provided to us by the Divine, and we must respect it, cherish it, and we must also cherish and respect the beings who co-habitate with us on our rental. When terrible events occur, we know that the world is feeling the negative impact of our presence. We pour salt in her wounds, and she is upset. We must listen.

We must remember the Sabbath-year. How can we be a partner in giving respite? What can we do? 

To be Jewish is to understand that we are to work with the precious earth and inhabitants we have been given and blessed to be surrounded by, not against her wishes. We must find a way to provide the earth with something akin to a Sabbath-year again, even in our own micro fashion. We must remember that no person is a slave. Our Torah tells us that people in servitude are to be released in the 7th year. If they choose to remain, they must be released during the “shemittah,” or the Jubilee year, after 7 cycles of 7 years. No one is a lost cause. Our land is not a tool for our mindless use. We can live Shutaf Elohim, in partnership with God. I pray that we all can find our own way of partnering with the Divine, and with one another to truly repair what is broken. We can do this with a joyful spirit, even amidst pain, knowing that we are ultimately and deeply cherished. We have power- the power to allow for rest, recuperation, and the restoration of people and our land to its full potential. Let’s start now. 

Shabbat Shalom!

– Rabbi Josh Gray

Why would a decent and loving God ever allow this to happen? I am sorry, but I can’t believe in a God who would allow for this. I am angry at God. I can’t forgive God. This is the one thing that I cannot reconcile with a benevolent God. Where is God? These, and so many more variations on the theme, are questions and statements that I have heard at some point, usually more than once, during my rabbinate. The uncomfortable and almost unnatural topic of question that is raised this week is “How do we reconcile God with the loss of a child?” I have to admit, I was hesitant to speak on this topic this week; and I realize that when I question whether or not to speak on something, it generally means it is right to bring that question to share with this community. 

In this week’s Torah portion, Shemini, we are faced with what I find to be one of the most difficult sections of Torah to stomach. It is a section that is so often read through quickly, glared at quizzically as rather difficult to unpack, or explained away with an extreme amount of commentary and midrash. So, what happens? Amidst the public celebration of the inauguration of the Kohanim, or the priests, that will operate in the Mishkan, tragedy strikes the people of Israel, and the family of Aaron. Two of Aaron’s sons, Nadav and Avihu, offer what is called “eish zarah,” or “strange fire” before God, and they suddenly die. Two of Aaron’s sons die in an instant. Some say they were guilty of entering the Holy of Holies; a forbidden practice. Others say they were intoxicated, and their deaths were a warning to future Kohanim. We hear that perhaps they had not worn the correct clothing, that they had not purified themselves correctly, that they were too enthusiastic about a time when Moses and Aaron would die, and they could take over as leaders. There is even a Hasidic explanation wherein Nadav and Avihu came so close to God in that moment that they broke free of the soul’s need for a physical body, and their ecstatic energy consumed and reunited them with God. You can read our texts and decide if any of the explanations are close to satisfactory. We have just come from the festival of Passover, wherein we are told to actually put ourselves into the story. If we are to put ourselves into this story, would any of the explanations suffice?

While some of the Midrash and commentary is quite beautiful, it does not necessarily satisfy our questions. The loss of a child is so traumatic that one 2008 study seems to suggest that parents dealing with this loss do not truly heal over time. Even 18 years after losing a child, bereaved parents reported “more depressive symptoms, poorer well-being, and more health problems and were more likely to have experienced a depressive episode and marital disruption.” The 2008 study was one of only a few, as this topic is described as rather difficult to study. After such loss and amidst such grief, perhaps a study seems like the last thing a family would want to go through. 

If we look back in our text to Genesis, we remember Jacob’s response to the belief that his son Joseph had died. Jacob refers to himself as a “Shakul,” which could be translated to “bereaved,” but it does not seem to do the word’s power much justice. We know that Jacob rends his garments in response to the news, seemingly to symbolize the tear in one’s heart that can never truly be repaired after such a traumatic loss. The practice of K’riah, or tearing, still exists today for mourners. Jacob’s family tries to comfort him, but he refuses to be comforted, saying he will mourn for the rest of his life. 

Jacob is vocal and physical with his grief, an understandable approach. What we learn is that grief and loss can be anything but predictable or understandable. One of the most striking aspects of the death of Nadav and Avihu in this week’s Torah portion is Aaron’s reaction. His reaction to the deaths of his sons is this…silence. Aaron says nothing. Many people are troubled by his response, wishing for the Jacob-like description of tearing and wailing. There is rabbinic tradition that states that Aaron simply accepted the will of God, and felt as if saying anything was pointless. Perhaps Aaron was the personification of the blessing we say upon hearing of a death…Baruch atah Adonai Dayan Ha-Emet-Blessed are you Adonai, the True Judge. 

This week, I think I have to reject this explanation. Aaron is silent…many other people are silent in the Torah, but the text does not explain their silences. Deborah Carr, Ph.D., chair of the sociology department at Boston University says. “Parents, and fathers specifically, feel responsible for the child’s well-being. So when they lose a child, they’re not just losing a person they loved. They’re also losing the years of promise they had looked forward to.” Aaron has just lost his sons. Aaron has lost his children; lost the promise and potential that exists. Perhaps stunned and completely grief-stricken silence is his authentic response to unimaginable grief. We know their deaths mean so much, as this incident is referred to at least four times in our Torah. We know that Torah does not repeat something if it is not of great significance. Kohelet tells us there is a time for being born and a time for dying. Nadav, Avihu, and a child’s death before their parents does not feel like their time for dying. 

So, what do we do with this heart wrenching and difficult topic? Rabbi Aaron Goldscheider, who himself lost a child, seems to point us in the direction of our own traditions. When we enter the house of the mourners during Shiva, it can feel uncomfortable to say nothing, to wait for the mourners to take the lead…but this is what we can do. We can just be there. We can be silent as Aaron, but teeming with the power of our presence. We can write notes, make phone calls, and send emails. We can remember the yahrzeit of the passing. Rabbi Goldscheider says that parents who lose a child do not ever want that child forgotten. According to Goldscheider, if you want to say something impactful, try: “I thought of your son or daughter today.” 

If you haven’t yet noticed, I have not answered our original questions. How do we reconcile a benevolent God with the loss of a child? I don’t have an answer. I only have the painful and dismaying question. I have our Jewish traditions of mourning and community to point to; none of them solve the trauma, the pain, the grief. They do provide us with something. Our Torah does tell us that no one is alone. Whether you are crying out and tearing a garment as Jacob, or silent as Aaron, your response is valid…the loss is unimaginable. So is our God. Let us be blessed to navigate every part of our world, and try, even through the most unpleasant and horrific topics, to find even a small sliver of hope for God. Through any eish zarah, any strange fire, we can not necessarily take away the pain of loss, but we can be there for it…we can face it head on. Maybe in that silent scream of pain…God’s voice. 

Shabbat Shalom

Rabbi Josh Gray