Here the rise and fall of sound
is cicadas roosting in the trees.
A southern magnolia surprises me:
creamy white petals bruised by time,
almost a breath of mom's perfume.
No one makes it anymore.
I only remember its imprint,
faintest scent as distant
as the call of late-night trains
that could be going anywhere,
even as far as where you are.

In this week’s Torah portion Hukat, the prophet Miriam dies and the people have no water. They rise up against Moshe in anger. God tells Moshe to speak to a rock so that it will give them water. Moshe snaps at the people and hits the rock instead. (Hold that thought.). Water is often a metaphor for Torah herself: the wellspring of wisdom and inspiration that nourishes us. Through that lens, the loss of Miriam and her well means a kind of loss of Torah.

Miriam’s death means losing access to the spiritual flow of blessing that enlivens us. Grief can make us feel as though our access to that flow has been turned off. I imagine that grief is part of why Moshe made such poor choices here. The wise traditions of shiva offer us time away from work to feel our way through our grief, but Moshe doesn’t seem to take time off: he’s immediately faced with the people’s demands, and he responds to them… not well. 

Because Moshe acted out – speaking angrily to the people and hitting the rock with a stick, instead of speaking gently to it – God declares that Moshe will not enter the Land of Promise. Many commentators wonder, is it really fair to deny Moshe the chance to make it to the place he’s spent forty years trying to reach?! But this year, this passage feels to me like a teaching about how the journey toward the land of promise is perennial. 

The critical word here is toward. Like Moshe, we’re journeying toward promises that were made to our ancestors and their ancestors before them. Like Moshe, we may not “get there” in our lifetime. But that doesn’t mean we don’t keep trying. Every step we take toward our ideals is one step closer to where we want to be and where we want our children to be. This year, this parsha makes me think about our nation as a land of promise – the promise of liberty and justice for all. 

Our ideals matter, and so do the means by which we pursue them. Torah reminds us that anger and violence don’t get us closer to the promise of a better world. Instead we need to lift each other up with kindness and curiosity and humility. That’s how we tap into the life-giving waters that can nourish us on the journey toward embodying our ideals. We might never reach those ideals, but what matters is that we keep aiming toward them.

Just now I chanted some familiar lines in haftarah trope, the melody system we use for the Prophets: “We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all [human beings] are created equal; that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights; that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.”  All human beings are created equal. All means all: no class of human beings is superior to any other, no matter our skin color or gender or birthplace.

Human rights are unalienable: impossible to take away or give up. And among these fundamental rights are our lives, our freedom, and our capacity to pursue meaning. Everyone deserves these: this is one of the core ideals on which our nation was built. We have not yet lived up to that ideal. When our nation began, rights were extended only to white men. To varying degrees, women and people of color were considered to be the white men’s property.

We’ve come a long way, but our work is not done. People with a uterus can no longer choose reproductive health care in many states. The right to birthright citizenship is also at risk. (Historian Heather Cox Richardson explains that history.) The right to due process is at risk, especially for immigrants or for people of color mistakenly assumed to be immigrants. Programs like Medicaid and food security programs, on which many depend, are now very much at risk. 

Granted, health care and food are not among the rights enumerated in the Declaration of Independence. But Professor Brent Strawn explains what the framers meant by “the pursuit of happiness.” It’s not about being “happy.” They meant something more like: living under a government that establishes policies designed to further the flourishing of all people. Perhaps through things like clean water, affordable medical care, enough to eat, and education.

Of course, I’m reading the Declaration of Independence through the lens of Jewish tradition. Our tradition teaches that every town should include certain civic institutions, among them a public school and a trustworthy court. And our tradition teaches that it’s our responsibility to care for the poor within our gates, and to grapple with the question of how to balance caring for “our own” and caring for others. These teachings are part of our tradition’s ethical core. 

All human beings deserve life, liberty, and circumstances in which we can flourish. As Jews, I think part of our obligation in the world is to help create those circumstances for others. That’s part of what I take from Pirkei Avot’s insistence that the world stands or depends on the three pillars of Torah (learning); avodah – which can mean both spiritual life (e.g. “services”) and service of others; and gemilut hasadim – acts of lovingkindness. (Pirkei Avot 1:2)

In what turned out to be his final sermon, Dr. King preached, “I’ve been to the mountaintop … I’ve seen the Promised Land.” He knew that, like Moshe, he might not make it there. And probably neither will we. Fully living-out the promises of our nation is a goal we may never be able to reach. But we still try. Learning, service, and lovingkindness can support us in our work toward life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness – toward our ideal of liberty and justice for all. 

Shared with gratitude to my teenager for reminding me of the Pirkei Avot teaching.

This is the d'var Torah I offered at Shabbat morning services at Congregation Beth Israel of the Berkshires (cross-posted to the From the Rabbi blog.)

They claim that we who protest the actions of our government "hate America." What a thin, attenuated understanding of love one must need to have in order to mistake protest for hatred. 

I protest because I love America -- or maybe better to say I love the dream of what America could yet be. I love the dream of liberty and justice for all. We've never wholly lived up to it, but we keep trying. 

I love the dream of an America that truly gives "to bigotry no sanction, to persecution no assistance." (Those words are from George Washington, in his 1790 letter to the Jewish community of Newport.)

I love the dream of an America that values diversity and pluralism, knowing that we are stronger when we learn from each other. An America that includes all of us, of every race and creed and origin. 

I love the dream of an America that uplifts what's fair and right. I dream of an America that cares for the vulnerable, leaves no one homeless or hungry, and uplifts the inherent human dignity of all people.

Does this describe the nation in which I live, to date? Nope. We're nowhere near those ideals. But the fact that I recognize that doesn't mean I hate my country. It means I want my country to be better.

Just as I want myself to do better, and be better, and live up to my own ideals better! Not because I hate who I am, God forbid; but because I am always striving to be the best version of who I can be.

I show love for my country precisely when I challenge my country to live up to its own ideals. When I say "we can do better than this; we can be better than this." We aren't there yet, but we will keep trying.

This week’s parsha, Korah, begins with a rebellion. The titular Korah gathers 250 of his friends and they “rise up against” Moshe and Aaron, accusing them of “raising themselves above God’s congregation.” In response, Moshe falls on his face: he lowers himself to the ground, a gesture of humility. The rebels rise up against; Moshe does the opposite, bending to the earth.

Things do not go well for the rebels. In the morning they take up their fire pans, and God, incensed, threatens to destroy the whole community. Moshe and Aaron fall on their faces again, pleading with God for mercy. In the end, the earth opens and swallows up Korah and his band. God instructs Moshe to hammer the fire pans used by the rebels into plating for the altar. 

Three things stand out for me. First: our story begins with Korah and his followers falsely accusing Moshe and Aaron of seeing themselves as better than everyone else. How differently this story could have gone if Korah had come to Moshe and Aaron – not “assembling against” them, but in a spirit of curiosity, asking for a conversation instead of making assumptions.

Second: Moshe’s response is to fall on his face, the way we do on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur when we engage in prostration practice during the Great Aleinu. Every year when I let myself sink to the floor it feels like a giant spiritual exhale, like relaxing into the embrace of the earth. What a powerful choice: before he responds, Moshe “lets go and lets God.” 

And third: after the catastrophe, God tells Moshe to repurpose the fire pans and turn them into part of the altar. I see deep wisdom in this act of spiritual recycling. It reminds me of one of my favorite short poems by Yehuda Amichai z”l: 

Earlier this week I was reading updates from friends running to their bomb shelters – and thinking with anxiety and dread of those who don’t have bomb shelters and cannot hide from bombardment: in the Negev, in Gaza, in Tehran. 

“The people of Israel, Gaza, and Iran are human beings. No one deserves to live under constant rocket, missile, and drone fire.” These are words from Standing Together / עומדים ביחד / نقف معًا that landed deeply in my heart. “This is not a football game. This is real life, and entire worlds are being shattered day after day.” How much more can our hearts take? And what can we do?

Standing Together is raising funds to bring bomb shelters to underserved Bedouin communities in the south of Israel. NATAL provides trauma support in Israel. The PCRF feeds and supports children in Gaza, and the Sameer Project provides food, shelter, and medical aid. And United4Iran has a fund for survivors of the Iran-Israel war, and their work is well-respected.

Giving tzedakah is meaningful, and in Jewish tradition all are commanded to give tzedakah, even we who receive tzedakah ourselves. But I know what I can afford to donate barely touches the ocean of need. Primarily what I feel able to do is internal. I pray for peace. I extend support to the human beings I know, and I try to extend compassion to the ones I don’t know. 

I want to emulate the humility I see in Moshe. I know I don’t have the answers. I’m not in charge of the world, and that’s probably a good thing! I think falling on our faces is a great spiritual practice, especially in times of overwhelm – which is most of the time, these days. It’s a reminder that we’re not in charge. A practice of yielding, acknowledging what we don’t control.

And I want to honor God’s instruction to hammer the instruments of idolatry into tools to serve the sacred. Granted, Korah and his followers were making sacrifices to YHVH, so was it idolatry? I think it was – because I think they were putting themselves on a pedestal. I think their accusation that Moshe was elevating himself said more about them than about him.

I keep coming back to the Amichai poem about turning the swords not only into plowshares but into musical instruments, which I have on a poster on the wall in my office. As difficult as it might be to hammer an instrument of war into an instrument of music, I think it might be more difficult to hammer and reshape the human heart into one that truly beats for justice and for peace. 

And still I believe that it is possible to transform the heart, to transform ourselves. It takes a lot of work. Character work, spiritual work, cultivating middot (inner qualities) that help us live our values in the world. But here’s what I know as this week draws to its close: we can’t control the world in which we live. We can only control our own choices and who we become.

Later this summer, during the seven weeks before the Days of Awe, I’ll be co-teaching a class with my friend R. David Markus on seven core teachings / spiritual practices / qualities to cultivate. I think it’s the best response I have to a world that may feel broken and chaotic and unfair: yielding to what we can’t control, and embracing our agency to be the best we can be. 

This is the d'varling I offered at Kabbalat Shabbat services at Congregation Beth Israel of the Berkshires (cross-posted to the From the Rabbi blog.)

My favorite thing to do on Friday mornings, that long-ago summer in Jerusalem when I was in rabbinical school, was to walk the 25 minutes to Machane Yehuda market. It was especially busy on Friday mornings, because everyone in west Jerusalem was preparing for Shabbes.

We had a little wheeled basket to carry food home. I shopped at the supermarket also; there was one right around the block. But the shuk was so much better. The sounds and the scents. A hubbub of languages around me. Gorgeous produce. The air redolent with spices and coffee and zaatar.

The first time I went I worried that I stood out in my capris and tank top and kippah, but no one seemed to mind. I barely knew how to cook, in those days, so my housemates and I dined on a lot of fish and vegetables: fresh things that were hard to mess up.

Before coming home I always stopped at one particular bakery for burekas, triangular pastries filled with potatoes or mushrooms or cheese and topped with sesame seeds. They are a Sephardic Jewish cousin to Turkish börek or burek, which has roots in Türkiye and Central Asia.

Burekas made the best Shabbat morning breakfast. Especially if I also had fresh apricots or figs, maybe some watermelon and feta. I taught my Hebrew school students how to make a simple variation on them, this spring, in our class on Jewish Cuisines and Cultures. 

Yesterday -- worried in heart, mind, and soul about everyone across the entire region: the people I know, whose updates I await in anxiety; and the people I don't know, who are equally precious in God's eyes -- I made a batch of burekas to eat for breakfast this week. 

Before I eat I will thank the Holy One of Blessing for my food, and pray for every human being who is in jeopardy across Israel and Palestine and Iran. Maybe it seems naïve to pray for peace at a time like this, but it is what I yearn for. A just and lasting peace, and safety, and hope, for everyone.

The verse says "Jesus wept," but
it's in the wrong tense.
Jesus is still weeping.

He takes turns with Rachel
still lamenting her children
and Shekhinah, perennial exile.

This week they're crying
for children in bomb shelters
and even more for children outside them.

For the anorexia patient
who can't force themself to eat,
the mother whose hope has curdled,

the infant with HIV
no longer receiving medicine,
every heart in need of care.

The Holy One of Blessing
reminds them: they didn't promise
our path would be smooth.

They promised to walk with us.
It's up to us to notice
we're not alone.

Last night as I was studying Hebrew with my son, a friend texted me to let me know that Israel had attacked Iran. Many of us expect retaliation over Shabbat. None of us know what is coming, and I don’t have wisdom to offer. All I have is this prayer: may the day come soon when the Iranian people, the Palestinian people, and the Israeli people can all live in safety and peace.

* 

This week’s Torah portion, B’ha’alot’kha, takes its name from its first significant word: 

“God spoke to Moses saying, ‘speak to Aaron and tell him, בְּהַעֲלֹֽתְךָ֙ אֶת־הַנֵּרֹ֔ת אֶל־מוּל֙ פְּנֵ֣י הַמְּנוֹרָ֔ה יָאִ֖ירוּ שִׁבְעַ֥ת הַנֵּרֽוֹת׃ / when you raise the lamps at the front of the menorah, the seven lamps will give light.’” (Numbers 8:2) 

When we think of lighting lamps, there’s an obvious verb we’d expect to see: להדלק / l'hadlik, as in l’hadlik ner, “to kindle the lights” of Shabbat. Instead we get להעלות / l’ha’alot, which means to raise or to ascend. It’s the same root as the word aliyah, which is what we call it when someone comes up to the bimah and “ascends” to Torah, symbolically returning to Sinai. 

The other significant words in our verse are words we might recognize: nerot, candles or lights. (In those days they were oil lamps.) Menorah, the seven-branched candelabrum our ancestors crafted for the mishkan / the portable sanctuary, like a seven-branched tree of hammered gold.. Ya’iru, they shine or give light. Two main ideas in this one verse: going up, and shining. 

Torah often speaks in the language of aliyah and yeridah (ascending and descending). When our spiritual ancestors went down to Egypt, Torah called that a descent. Joseph descended into the pit, descended into slavery, descended into Pharaoh’s dungeon… and following him, our ancestors descended into Mitzrayim, “the Narrow Place” of constriction and spiritual servitude.

And when we left Mitzrayim, “The Narrow Place,” Torah calls it an ascent. Literally, aliyah. Going up from constriction to the land of promise. Our spirits rising. As the Psalmist writes, “From the meitzar / the narrow place I called to You; You answered me with expansiveness.” That’s the spiritual move we’re making as a people. From a low place, a stuck place, rising and giving light.

As human beings our souls naturally shine. This is part of what it means to me when Torah says we are made in the image of God: our souls are like sparks from the divine fire. Our life’s work as human beings and as Jews is to repair what is broken in our world, and to let our light shine. In the words of Godspell, “If that light is under a bushel, it’s lost something kinda crucial.”

Our light wants to shine. And… the struggles of day-to-day life can obscure our light. Injustice obscures our light. Prejudice and mistreatment obscure our light. Trauma and loss obscure our light. And as the sages of the Talmud remind us in their teachings about illness, “a prisoner cannot release themself from prison” – we can’t “bootstrap” our way out of life’s narrow places.

But we can lift each other up. That’s why we’re in this life together. בְּהַעֲלֹֽתְךָ֙ אֶת־הַנֵּרֹ֔ת / B’ha’alot’kha et ha-nerot: “when you lift up the lights” – the lights are our souls, and it’s our job to lift each other up so we can shine. Because our souls need to shine, and this broken world needs all the light we’ve got. 

Ibn Ezra explains in his commentary on this verse that this section of Torah comes to teach us that the light of the original menorah in the mishkan shone also at night. In this way it’s the precursor to our ner tamid, the eternal light that shines in every sanctuary. The physical light that’s meant never to go out symbolizes the light of holiness, the light of hope, the light of God.

That’s the divine fire of which each of us is a soulspark. I don’t believe that fire ever goes out. 

Tonight we sang the words of Mi Khamokhah to the melody of the Zulu hymn Siyahamba, “We are walking in the light of God.” In ancient times a golden menorah shone a reminder of that light for our ancestors. Today I think Torah is inviting us to help each other shine that light: to lift each other up, cultivating joy in helping each others’ inner light to shine. 

*

In our morning liturgy we pray, ‘Or hadash al Tziyon ta’ir, “Let a new light shine upon Zion.” I pray for the new light of peace and safety, justice, human dignity, and mutual uplift to shine on the people of Israel, Palestine, and Iran, and on all of us whose hearts feel-together with theirs. And may we all help each other to shine our own light, here in the place where we are.

This is the d'varling I offered at Kabbalat Shabbat services at Congregation Beth Israel of the Berkshires (cross-posted to the From the Rabbi blog.)

For six years I walked past these words every morning on my way into school. "Teach us delight in simple things." The words were literally foundational, cemented in to the ground beneath my feet.

I didn't know then that the bronze letters were older than the building. They had been affixed in its prior location in the 1920s, and were brought to the Starcrest campus when the school moved in 1968.

The quilt of ceramic tiles that hangs above them is more eye-catching. The letters wear the patina of age, and the steps are worn from countless generations of polished loafers and saddle shoes.

I can only remember the first verse of our alma mater song in Latin, and even less of the school hymn, "Fight the Good Fight." But "teach us delight in simple things" still comes quick to my heart.

Seeking delight in simple things has become one of my core spiritual practices. It takes effort not to slip over the line from gratitude practice into bypassing, so that's part of my everyday work too. 

But trying to notice what good there is to notice is built-in to who I've become. It doesn't erase the world's brokenness, but on a good day it shapes and changes how I experience whatever comes. 

I spent part of yesterday thinking about this school motto and these front steps, and then I dreamed I was back. "Holy [----], we're kids again," I said to one of my classmates who was walking by.

It felt like one of those dreams where my parents are still alive. And then I wake and it's just a fading memory, like the distant scent of mountain laurel or southern magnolia in bloom. 

The following words
are no longer permitted:
Accessible. Affirming.
Bias. Cultural differences.
Environmental quality.
Inclusive. Mental health.
Prejudice. Trauma.

The new head of FEMA
didn't know America has
a hurricane sesason, but
I'm sure firing
a fifth of the staff
who launch weather balloons
won't matter.

We are also forbidden
from saying anyone is
underserved or vulnerable.
No person in our nation
is vulnerable anymore.
Immigrants and refugees
don't count.

Is hope still
at the bottom of the box
or was it erased
along with clean energy
and safe drinking water
and the history
of the Enola Gay?

These words are disappearing in the new Trump Administration, New York Times [gift link]

"David Richardson, the head of the agency, said he did not know the United States has a hurricane season." Heather Cox Richardson, June 2, 2025. 

Federal Government's Growing Banned Words List Is Chilling Act of Censorship, PEN.org. 

Enola Gay Aircraft -- And Other Historic Items -- Inaccurately Targeted Under Pentagon's Anti-DEI Purge, Forbes.com. 

This week’s Torah portion, Bamidbar, begins with an instruction to take a census (Numbers 1:2)  for the purpose of knowing how many soldiers could be called-upon to bear arms. There’s a long list of numbers: from this tribe came this many people; from that tribe, that many. In years past, these verses felt dry and kind of irrelevant. This year they’re landing differently against the backdrop of current news. We’ll come back to them.

In 2008 I spent some time learning in Jerusalem. Some neighborhoods in west Jerusalem are full of rabbinic students in the summer, and mine was one of them. I sublet an apartment on רחוב לינקלן / Lincoln street from a fellow rabbinic student named Marisa James. Marisa and I both became rabbis, and we’re still friends. She lives in the States now. This week, she posted on Facebook about Dr. Alaa Al-Najjar, a mother of 10 and pediatric specialist in Gaza. 

Specifically, R. Marisa posted the names of Dr. Al-Najjar’s nine children killed this week when an Israeli missile struck her house. Her one surviving child, Adam, has undergone surgery with more to come. Her husband, Dr. Hamdi Al-Najjar, is in intensive care with a severe head injury. About this, R. Marisa wrote, “Every single day, an impossible, unnecessary new grief,” noting with sorrow that the killing of Palestinian children makes it easy for Hamas to recruit. 

Every single day, an impossible, unnecessary new grief: that’s how I feel every time I read the news out of Israel and Palestine. 

Peter Beinart, a professor of journalism and a fellow at the Foundation for Middle East Peace, said recently that Gaza has become the Jewish people’s greatest spiritual crisis since the Shoah. In the course of that podcast he acknowledges how many of us are activated by use of the word “genocide.” I know I am. When I hear that word, my heart recoils. I still remember the reaction I had the first time someone accused me of supporting genocide because I would not denounce Israel’s existence. I felt defensive and angry and sick and full of grief and fear.  

The fear had a lot to do with my family’s Holocaust history, which I spent a long time processing anew after October 7. The grief hasn’t gone away. How can any of us not grieve what the last few years have brought? I still don’t like that g-word. I don’t like how it is used as a cudgel to delegitimize Israel and Israelis. I don’t like the way that word is used by people who already hated Jews and were just looking for a reason to hate us more. 

And. In recent months the Netanyahu administration has repeatedly proclaimed its intention to wipe out or forcibly remove the population of Gaza, and to claim that land as part of “Greater Israel.” As Rabbi Jay Michaelson notes, this is a new phase in the conflict in which “the stated goal is to exile or eliminate the Palestinian population of Gaza.” What should we call determination to exile or eliminate a population? What would we call it if it were aimed at us? 

And – does it matter what we call it?  

I think what really matters is how we respond.

So much of what’s unfolding feels unbearable to my soul. As of this writing, tens of thousands of Palestinians have been killed, including, this week, nine of the ten Al-Najjar children. The BBC reports that Gaza’s entire population is at risk of famine. Rabbi Rick Jacobs, head of the Union for Reform Judaism, is on the record pleading with Israel not to use famine as a weapon of war. Meanwhile Bezalel Smotrich, Israel’s Minister of Finance, brags that they are leaving Gaza “as piles of rubble, with total destruction.”

Also unbearable to my soul are recent maps of rocket fire all over Israel, so many incoming projectiles that it’s just a sea of red. And Israeli hostages still in captivity after more than 600 days (and their families, living on tenterhooks). And the murder of two young Israeli embassy employees in DC last week – and all the people online saying they “got what they deserved,” either for being too pro-peace or for working for Israel at all. 

I’m not trying to draw equivalences or compare suffering. I just want to say: if your soul aches, you’re not alone. 

I know that as a Diaspora Jew I need to approach Israel and Palestine with humility. I know I don’t know what it’s like to live there. I try to listen to as many voices on the ground as I can. This week I’ve been reading the words of Ehud Olmert, the former prime minister, who says soberly and with grief that Israel is now committing war crimes. And I’m reading Israeli-American Dr. Elana Stzokman, one of many Jewish Israelis now using that g-word, who writes, 

Oct 7 does not justify what we are doing in Gaza. Even the hostage situation doesn't justify it -- all that bombardment and starvation has done nothing to bring back the hostages. Nothing. 

So please stop saying things like, well, the world just hates Jews. It's not that. The world just hates what the Jewish State is doing to 2.2 million Gazans. And the world is right.

Her words drew me up short in their clarity and their grief. 

Of course, some of the world does just hate Jews. We’ve been a convenient scapegoat for the world’s ire for centuries. They blamed us for the Black Plague. They blamed us for the downturn of Germany’s economy after WWI. They blame us today for anything and everything from California wildfires to the hollowing-out of the American working class to the presence of immigrants and refugees in America. Antisemitism is real and it is pernicious. 

And. A lot of people are angry about what they see the Israeli government and military doing in Gaza, and that can be true without antisemitism. (Of course it can also be true with antisemitism.) What’s unfolding in Gaza breaks my heart in part because I love the dream of what Israel could yet be. So do the other Jews whose voices I’ve brought to the table here. Our critique is rooted in love. That, too, is a mitzvah I learned from Torah. (Lev. 19:17)

There are 7 million Jews and 7 million Palestinians living in that land. Neither people is going anywhere, and anyone who says otherwise is “unserious.” Yes, I know that extremists among each people seek to wipe the other out. But in the words of Awni Al-Mashni of 2 States / 1 Homeland, “What happened on 10/7, and what has happened since – neither negates the fact that there are two peoples on this land, and that both peoples cannot continue on this path.”

I turn and re-turn to Jewish values. Torah calls us to “seek peace and pursue it” – not just to look for it, but to run after it. The Shulchan Aruch says  (Yoreh Deah 250:1) “when there is a hungry person, you must feed them,” and Torah says (Deut. 19:20) that starvation must never be used as a tool of war. (Teachings such as these are the impetus behind Jews for Food Aid for Gaza.) Beyond that, I know that peace between enemies always seems impossible, until it isn’t. 

All of this has been swirling in me as I’ve studied this week’s Torah portion and commentaries. I think about that ancient census. Each of those tens of thousands of people – 46,000 from the tribe of Reuven, 59,000 from the tribe of Shim’on, and so on – was a human being. Each one had parents, maybe children, maybe siblings, maybe friends. This week’s parsha comes to remind us that every one of those souls “counted” – each was an integral part of the whole. 

The death of any human being is the destruction of an entire world. Every human life is irreplaceable. Every death is unbearable – and it should be.  The answer is not to numb ourselves; it’s to work toward safety, justice, and peace for everyone.

Jewish values call us to seek peace. Feed the hungry. Work toward justice. Uplift human dignity. And I think they also call us to stand against the use of famine as a weapon of war, and against exiling or eliminating a population from a land, whatever words we use for it. 

What can we do from here? We can help feed the hungry – I recommend New Israel Fund’s partnership with World Central Kitchen in Gaza, and my rabbinic colleagues on the ground affirm that all donated funds are going directly to food aid. We can support organizations like the Alliance for Middle East Peace, Hand in Hand, Women Wage Peace, and Standing Together. 

And – just as we support Palestinians and Israelis who are working toward a relationship of mutual care, we can do the same here in our community. We can care for each other, and continue our community learning together, even when we may be grieving different sources of pain in Israel and Palestine. If they can reach across their differences, I believe that we can, too. 

I pray with all my might for an end to the conflict and the release of every hostage. I pray for negotiations and diplomacy, for peace and coexistence, for a world in which we count living souls with wonder and rejoicing instead of numbering anyone’s irreplaceable dead. 

This is the d'var Torah that I offered at Kabbalat Shabbat services at Congregation Beth Israel of the Berkshires (cross-posted to the From the Rabbi blog.)

Light

בְּאור פָּנֶיךָ / "In the light of Your face…"

I know the light of God's face

in how my face shines

when I see yours.

When the song of my heart

finds harmony, that's

the closest thing to wholeness

I know.

-- R. Rachel Barenblat, originally published at Bayit as part of Grant Peace

When I turned to the Shalom blessing in the amidah along with my collaborators in Bayit's Liturgical Arts Working Group, this is the first place it took me. I got caught by the Hebrew phrase  בְּאור פָּנֶיךָ, "in the light of Your face," and those words took me deep into my own heart. 

Our latest collaborative offering is out: poetry, liturgy, and art riffing off of the Shalom blessing in the Shabbat amidah. (This is the 8th offering in a series, and one more is forthcoming.) Shalom, peace, shleimut -- the word means so many different things to each of us.

The closing blessing of the Amidah asks for shalom: peace, wholeness, completion. What does this prayer mean to us today? What does it ask of God – and of us? What does it mean to ask for peace in a time of tumult and injustice? How can we ask for something we may not even wholly understand? This offering arises out of those questions and more. 

This offering turns that prayer in a kaleidoscope and reveals different ways our hearts might shine. Find it here: Grant Peace. 

Winter felt too long.
The world monochrome,
sapped of color.

We were trapped
beneath the heavy ceiling
of cruel news.

What can I wish on?
My heart is a candle,
flickering in the rain.

Hope, be
as unquenchable
as chives --

as effervescent
as dandelions gleaming
in a bed of green.

The trees are leafing out again at last.
Flying little chartreuse flags, crumpled
like wet laundry before they spread
and take up space.

If this were a love poem
I would say, I want you to take up space
and stretch toward the sun, exuberant
as the birds who can’t stop singing.

If this were a love poem
I could say anything at all
and you would know I really mean
all I want is for you to bloom.

If you like this poem, you might also like Texts to the Holy (Ben Yehuda Press).

I had already written a d’varling for tonight, about Aaron’s response to the death of his son and how the silence of those who suffer invites us to respond with care. And then a congregant reached out to me this morning and asked if I could speak tonight about a breaking news story, the FBI’s arrest of Judge Hannah Dugan in Wisconsin, and what our response to this as Jews ought to be. What moral guidance can Torah offer for the world we’re in today?

First let me share a bit of context, and then I’ll talk Torah more broadly. The Department of Homeland Security changed their policies in February to shift the status of certain previously “protected areas” or “sensitive locations” – including courthouses, social service agencies, and houses of worship. These areas used to be legally protected from “immigration enforcement,” and now they are not. Or at least: public spaces within them are not. Private spaces are.

This sparked a lot of conversation among rabbis: if ICE shows up at the door, what is the ethically and legally correct response? The Union for Reform Judaism signed on with many other faith organizations in a lawsuit challenging that rescission of the “sensitive locations” policy. Meanwhile, the National Immigration Law Center’s fact sheet notes, “ICE still needs a judicial warrant to enter any private space, including a house of worship.” 

In the case of Judge Dugan, Rep. Ryan Clancy notes that “ICE did not present a warrant before entering the courtroom; it is not clear whether ICE ever possessed or presented a judicial warrant.” (A judicial warrant is not the same as an “administrative warrant” from ICE.) This sounds to me like a parallel to how things work if ICE comes to a synagogue: they need a judicial warrant in order to enter “private space,” and it sounds like they did not show one.

Courtney Milan, a former clerk for Justice Sandra Day O’Connor, explains that the judge is accused of “obstructing” ICE through adjourning the proceedings and allowing the defendant to leave the courtroom through the jury box, “both official acts performed as a judge,” and that “a judge is given enormous discretion as to the operation of their courtroom in order to preserve due process.” The judge doesn’t appear to have done anything that merits FBI involvement.

If her arrest was retaliatory, that seems like erosion of due process. I know many of us are worried about that, especially amidst current tension between the executive branch and the judicial branch. The arrest of this judge comes on the heels of a rise in anti-judge rhetoric and hints of refusal to abide by judicial decision. There have even been claims that the judicial branch is meant to be subservient to the executive. Can Torah help us navigate this?

At the start of Torah we were in Eden, innocent and childlike, all of our needs met by God. In the book of Exodus we went down into Egypt, where we were enslaved by Pharaoh, our agency (and our humanity) denied. Now we are in Leviticus. We’re wandering in the wilderness, learning how to be a mature people with human agency who take responsibility and take care of each other. And that includes the institution of judges to help guide the people.

שֹׁפְטִ֣ים וְשֹֽׁטְרִ֗ים תִּֽתֶּן־לְךָ֙ בְּכל־שְׁעָרֶ֔יךָ אֲשֶׁ֨ר יְהֹוָ֧’’ה אֱלֹהֶ֛יךָ נֹתֵ֥ן לְךָ֖ לִשְׁבָטֶ֑יךָ וְשָׁפְט֥וּ אֶת־הָעָ֖ם מִשְׁפַּט־צֶֽדֶק׃

You shall appoint magistrates and officials for your tribes, in all the settlements that your God is giving you, and they shall govern the people with due justice. (Deut. 18:19)

Torah tells us that we should appoint judges and officers to govern the people with justice. Torah also tells us (a verse or two later) to pursue justice with all that we are. We might see shoftim v’shotrim, “judges and officers,” as somewhat akin to today’s division of government into coequal branches who together govern with justice, but it doesn’t occur to Torah that the shotrim might decide not to listen to the shoftim, e.g. that the judges and the rulers might be at odds. 

Art by Steve Silbert.

I am envisioning a New Yorker-style cartoon, a line drawing of someone saying, “Don't you wish we lived in precedented times?” (So I asked my friend Steve to draw it.) After the pandemic, the insurrection, and the last hundred days or so of chaos, I think we’re all getting tired of living in “unprecedented times.” But once again, that’s what we’ve got. All we can do is study Torah in search of values and principles to guide how we respond to what’s unfolding around and within us.

In this week’s parsha, Shmini, Torah gives us instructions about what to eat and not eat, and descriptions of the right way to offer the korbanot, offerings / sacrifices. Torah says we have a choice: we can be like Aaron and follow the commandments, or we can be like his sons Nadav and Avihu who died after bringing ‘strange fire.’ Being a free people means claiming our agency to act, and hopefully choosing to act in a way that’s aligned with Torah.

Torah’s mitzvot are addressed to all of us, not just to judges or officials. Use honest weights and measures, don’t cheat people, don’t lie, don’t steal, feed the hungry, love the stranger for you were strangers in the land of Egypt: these mitzvot are incumbent on every Jew. And, Torah also has some words about what kind of person should be appointed as a leader, a person in authority – which for Torah was simultaneously a secular role and a spiritual one. 

Torah teaches that a leader should not self-aggrandize. They shouldn’t be too wealthy, or have too many wives and horses, or bring the people backward to the way things were in constricted times. (Deut. 17:15-18) This comes at the very end of Torah. Later the sages of the Talmud and the Jewish legal tradition expound on it further, but the basic principles stand. Judges should be fair and honorable, and leaders should be humble and forward-looking. 

So what should our response as Jews be to today’s headlines – any of today’s headlines? 

There’s a story in Talmud about scholars who disagreed about a matter of Jewish law. One of them even disagrees with the Voice of God offering “the answer” from on high! That scholar quotes Torah back at God, saying lo bashamayim hee – “[wisdom] is not in the heavens, [you’ve given it to us].” And God laughs and agrees in apparent delight. The pinnacle of human development is when we claim our agency to interpret what’s just, and we act accordingly. 

Torah is not in the heavens, and neither is justice. They are ours, to steward and keep. 

This is the d'var Torah I offered at Kabbalat Shabbat services at Congregation Beth Israel of the Berkshires (cross-posted to the From the Rabbi blog.)

This week’s Torah portion, Shmini, contains the following somewhat shocking vignette. First we read about Aaron bringing forward a korban, a sacrifice or offering, and blessing the people. Afterwards, Aaron and Moses go inside the Tent of Meeting. When they emerge, they bless the people together, and the presence of God appears to all the people. So far, so good.

Then two of Aaron’s sons, Nadav and Avihu, apparently decide to follow suit. Were they so excited at the prospect of divine service that they couldn’t wait until it was their turn? Were they, as some commentators have suggested, intoxicated and therefore making poor decisions? We don’t know. What we do know is, they make an unauthorized offering, and they die on the spot.

Then we get these two searing words:  וַיִּדֹּ֖ם אַהֲרֹֽן׃ / vayidom Aharon. “And Aaron was silent.”

Rashi says that Aaron was rewarded for his silence by hearing the Voice of God speaking to him alone, revealing to him further details of the sacrificial system. Ramban says that he cried out without words, and was then silent. The Sforno says he took consolation in realizing that his sons’ deaths in this manner made them the highest possible “offering” he could give to God. 

Sometimes in the face of tragedy or trauma, in the face of a profound and earth-shaking injustice, the one at the center of the grief may have no words. When one’s whole soul cries out that this is wrong, this isn’t the way the world was supposed to be, there may be no words adequate to that heart’s cry. Not for the person or people most afflicted. 

This year Aaron’s silence feels like an invitation. 

The silence of suffering invites us to offer care. This is our most basic job as human beings. Whether a phone call, a text conversation, a casserole, a hospital visit: what matters is that we extend ourselves to those silenced by injustice, sorrow, or grief. This doesn’t fix whatever they’re suffering, but it can remind them that they’re not alone. Presence and care matter.

And then we do what we can. Maybe as we support those who are silenced by sorrow, together we can figure out how to support them in action. I think of Candace Lightner, whose daughter was killed by a drunk driver in 1980 and who went on to found MADD. I think of the Parents’ Circle Families Forum, founded by grieving Israelis and Palestinians together… 

In the case of an injustice, someone who’s been unfairly treated or discriminated-against or wrongly accused, we can name the injustice clearly and speak against it. And maybe it’s easier for us to do that when we’re one step removed from the injustice itself. Maybe when we ourselves aren’t impacted, we have more bandwidth and energy to stand up for what’s right.

Aaron stands alone in his silence, but we don’t have to. We can always speak up for each other. We can always care for each other. When times are good we can celebrate with each other, and when times are tough we can uplift and accompany each other. This is what community is for: this is why we are here. That’s the lesson for now that  I find in our Torah portion this week. 

I wrote this for Shabbat services... and then something else caught on fire (metaphorically) and I wrote something entirely different to share at shul. So here's where the parsha took me yesterday. Stay tuned to see where it takes me today.