Year: 2026

A Little Card, A Powerful Reminder

A small card becomes an invitation to notice our blessings, embrace gratitude, and share what we have with others.

I was unpacking a box the other day and found a small, laminated, tri-fold T’filat Todah, “Prayer of Thanks,” card. 

“Thank you, God, for all the things that I do have, and thank you, God, for the things that I don’t have. Thank you for my periodic difficulties, my occasional setbacks, and for the times when I don’t feel happy…”

I placed it on my desk at home as a reminder to stop kvetching (complaining) about insignificant matters. I have so much for which to be grateful.

I see gratitude reflected in so many ways through the lives of those around me: family, friends, community members, and people I encounter each day.

A few of the many expressions of gratitude I’ve witnessed recently:

  • My sister-in-law Marilyn’s recent celebration of becoming Bat Mitzvah at the age of 70;
  • My friends’ celebration of achieving a 1,000+ mile walking goal with their non-verbal 36-year old autistic son. They began walking together during COVID, when his work-study program shut down. His newfound love of walking continues to this day;
  • A wonderful recent visit here in Chattanooga with dear, longtime friends-who-are-like-family from Toronto whom I had not seen in almost four years;
  • Warm and meaningful gatherings at congregants’ homes for Shabbat dinner, “meet and greets,” and more. I continue to be touched by the gracious hospitality and welcome extended to me and by the many ways people have opened their homes and their hearts;
  • A mother’s beaming, loving smile as she introduces me to her daughter, who was born with many challenges and has worked hard to overcome them;
  • Our school-age students who greet one another, and often me, with huge bear hugs, so grateful for the gifts of friendship and community;
  • The beautiful smiles and joy-filled hearts of those who face health or other challenges and are simply thrilled to be present and to embrace each new day.
  • Our Jewish tradition teaches that there is a difference between thankfulness and gratitude.

Rabbi Norman Lamm, the late prominent Modern Orthodox rabbi, author, and longtime president and chancellor of Yeshiva University, once described the distinction this way:

“Thankfulness can be understood as courtesy or social gesture in which I give thanks only for goods received. It is a kind of verbal receipt: you give me something, I thank you. It is the polite, socially expected way to behave, a social construct.

“Gratitude, on the other hand, can be viewed as a higher level, not based on construct but on consecration, the consecration of one’s whole character. It is a state of mind in which a person is so devoted to the Almighty, so dedicated to transcendent values, so elevated beyond petty, selfish concerns, that he feels himself grasped by a pervasive gratefulness even when he has not received some special favor in advance…. [Gratitude] is a reaction of the total personality; [it is] deeply personal, profoundly human.” (Paraphrased from Rabbi Dr. Norman Lamm, “Gratitude Is Good for the Soul,” sermon delivered in the 1970s and republished in 2013.)

In this week’s Torah portion from Deuteronomy, Ki Tavo, we discover that gratitude is not merely something we feel. It is something we practice. In Deuteronomy 26, the Israelites are instructed that when they finally enter the Promised Land and reap its harvest, they are to bring the first fruits of the land as an offering to God. As they do so, they recount their story: where they came from, the suffering of slavery, their redemption from Egypt, and their arrival in a land of abundance.

In other words, before they can fully appreciate what they have, they are asked to remember how this all came to be theirs: how they came to achieve this milestone of an abundant harvest in their own land after hundreds of years in exile.

The Torah, however, does not allow gratitude to end there. Just a few verses later in the same chapter, the Israelites are commanded to set aside a portion of their produce for those who might otherwise go without: the Levite, the stranger, the orphan, and the widow.

This is what I find so powerful about the Torah’s understanding of gratitude. Gratitude cannot simply remain a feeling within us. It must move us beyond ourselves.

When we recognize the blessings in our own lives, we become more conscious of those who may not share those same blessings. When we understand that what we have is not ours alone, gratitude becomes generosity. Gratitude becomes responsibility. Gratitude becomes an act of k’dushah, holiness.

As we approach the upcoming Yamim Nora’im, the Days of Awe, perhaps this can become part of our own cheshbon hanefesh, our spiritual accounting.

What are the blessings we have stopped noticing because they have become so familiar?

Who are the people whose presence in our lives we may have begun to take for granted?

How might the challenges and setbacks in our lives help us recognize blessings we might otherwise overlook?

How might our gratitude for what we have received inspire us to give something of ourselves to someone else or do something to make a difference in our world?

Perhaps that little T’filat Todah card is a reminder to look at our lives more carefully and more fully: to notice what we too often take for granted, to cherish the people who sustain us, and to recognize the many blessings that fill our days.

As we enter this sacred season, may the gratitude within our hearts find expression in the way we live, the way we give, and the way we care for one another. May our lives reflect our gratitude by becoming a source of blessing to others.

Shabbat Shalom!

Rabbi Sharon L. Sobel

The Courage to Choose Love Over Hate

Choosing love over hate is an act of courage that can free us from the past, transform the present, and help us build a better future.

As I prepared for Shabbat this week, I was drawn to the wisdom of the late Lord Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, z”l. He highlighted two verses from this week’s Torah portion, Ki Teitzei: “Do not despise an Edomite, because he is your brother. Do not despise an Egyptian, because you were a stranger in his land” (Deuteronomy 23:8). Despite all the suffering the people of Israel endured, the Torah calls us not to remain trapped in hate.

Rabbi Sacks reminded us: “To be free, you have to let go of hate. To answer hate with hate is to be dragged down to the level of your opponent… Hate the sin but not the sinner. Do not forget the past but do not be held captive by it. Learn to love and forgive.” (Rabbi Sacks, Covenant & Conversation, Ki Teitzei, 2014).

Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. expressed the same truth when he said, “Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.”

These words feel particularly relevant and urgent as antisemitism continues to rise in so many corners of the world. Last Friday evening, shortly after Erev Shabbat services began at Central Synagogue in Manhattan, a man entered the synagogue in an act of antisemitic hate: he violently disrupted the service, damaged the Shabbat candlesticks, assaulted a congregant, and attacked a member of the synagogue’s security team.

What happened next was deeply moving. The clergy, security team, and leadership responded immediately with calm, courage, and a restorative sense of sacred purpose. The rabbis created space to acknowledge what had happened, helped the congregation breathe, reignited the Shabbat candles and found the words to respond to the moment. Then the community returned to the spirit of Shabbat. The cantor and musicians continued the music. Rather than allowing an act of hate to define their community or their worship, they reclaimed the sacredness of the moment. They transformed disruption into resilience, fear into courage, and despair into hope. Hatred and violence would not, could not, prevent them from remaining a community who gathers together to welcome Shabbat in joy, prayer, and song. 

As word of what had taken place quickly spread around the globe, so too did expressions of support, outreach, and blessing. This is our Jewish way. 

Again and again, our tradition calls us not to shrink back in fear, but to stand tall with courage. Judaism urges us to be proud of our Jewish identity, to live openly as Jews, to strengthen community, to reach out in friendship to others beyond ourselves, and to keep choosing life, hope, and love.

This is how we demonstrate courage in difficult times. Courage leads to resilience. Resilience is not simply endurance: it is the ability to transform hardship into strength and to draw from our past in order to keep building our future.

Every Shabbat we celebrate is an act of resilience. Every act of chesed (kindness), every word of Torah, every meal delivered to a neighbor is an act of defiance against hate and a powerful affirmation of life. Every time we speak out for justice, ring a bell for freedom, or raise a hand to volunteer, we turn faith into action and courage into light.

Each of us carries within us the capacity for courage. Sometimes it is bold and visible: standing up for what is right, challenging injustice, protecting the vulnerable. At other times it is quieter: offering compassion, showing up again and again, refusing to give in to despair. Each act, large or small, affirms our commitment to ourselves, to our community, and to the world.

We are Am Yisrael, the People of Israel. For thousands of years we have wrestled with adversity, endured, and thrived. We are proud of who we are, and we will continue to live with strength, resilience, faith, and courage. We will confront hatred, but we will not allow hatred to define us.

As Rabbi Sacks taught, “Acknowledge the evil men do, but stay focused on the good that is in our power to do.” This is our sacred task in this season of reflection and renewal: to rise above hate with love, to transform curses into blessings, and to help redeem the world we share.

May we always have the courage to choose hope over despair, light over darkness, and love over hate.

Shabbat Shalom!

Rabbi Sharon L. Sobel

Whew! My Web Site is Fixed – Apologies for Spamming All of You

Dear Friends –

I know that beginning yesterday morning all of you received many blog posts from me in foreign languages. I was hacked. I profusely apologize for spamming your inbox (I received those posts as well).

It took until this afternoon to work with my web developer to rectify the situation. It should be fine now. Thank you for your patience.

Warmly,

Rabbi Sharon Sobel

Elul As a Training Camp

Elul gives us time to prepare before the High Holy Days are even on the close horizon. Like training for a race, the goal is not simply to reach the finish line, but to be changed by the journey.

Two of my brothers are marathon runners. Running, however, has never come naturally or easily for me. It is hard on my knees, aggravates an old back injury, and, truthfully, I much prefer cycling. But running has one great advantage: it is portable. You can do it almost anywhere.

In 2015, my brother Ezra convinced me to train for my first half-marathon, the Publix Gasparilla Distance Classic in Tampa, Florida. He promised to do it with me, and my cousin Heidi joined us as well. When I crossed the finish line, Ezra immediately texted our siblings: “Sharon did it! She feels lousy and broken but she crossed that finish line!”

I returned to Gasparilla every year until the pandemic, sometimes running, sometimes walking, sometimes training diligently, and once, regrettably, barely training at all. Ironically, that was the year I achieved my best finishing time. It was also the year I developed a stress fracture in my femur and spent nearly a month on crutches. Ouch. Lesson learned.

These days, I walk the races. It is kinder to my back and knees, and I still have the challenge of preparing for something that requires endurance. This year, I plan to walk the Gasparilla 5K, 15K, and half-marathon. Which means I had better start training now!

And that is precisely why I am sharing this with you today.

Today is the first day of the Hebrew month of Elul, the month that leads us toward Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, the Days of Awe (in Hebrew, the Yamim Nora’im). Elul reminds us of something I learned the hard way at Gasparilla: we cannot expect to arrive prepared for something simply because the date appears on the calendar.

The High Holy Days ask something of us. They ask us to examine the year that has passed, to consider whom we have hurt and where we have fallen short, to recognize what we need to repair, and to decide who we hope to become in the year ahead.

That kind of work cannot be accomplished simply by walking through the synagogue doors on Rosh Hashanah.

Elul gives us time to begin an intentional preparation process before the High Holy Days are even on the horizon.

Each weekday morning during Elul, we blow the shofar. The shofar calls us to attention: Wake up. Pay attention. We recite Psalm 27. Then, the Saturday evening prior to Rosh Hashanah, we turn toward Selichot, toward forgiveness, repentance, and repair. These practices are not rituals for ritual’s sake. They create space for questions we may otherwise be too busy, too distracted, or perhaps too reluctant to ask:

Where have I been fully present this year, and where have I merely gone through the motions?

Whom do I need to forgive?

From whom do I need to seek forgiveness?

What am I carrying that I no longer need?

What deserves more of my attention, my gratitude, my courage, or my love?

And perhaps most importantly: Am I listening closely enough to hear the answers?

Most days when I walk my training miles, I follow the same route. I do not wear headphones or listen to music or podcasts. What do I listen to?

Photo: Sharon L. Sobel

I listen to the world around me and within me. I hear the sounds of nature and the rhythm of my feet against the pavement. I listen to the thoughts that surface when I give them enough quiet to emerge. Ideas for teaching, writing, and speaking often come to me along the way. And I notice things I might otherwise walk right past, sometimes beauty growing out of something as ordinary as a crack in the sidewalk.

 

My daily route may not change, but when I pay attention, I have.

Perhaps that is part of the invitation of Elul.

We do not enter a completely different life when the Hebrew calendar turns toward a new year. We return to many of the same people, the same relationships, the same responsibilities, and even some of the same struggles. The question is whether we can encounter them differently because we have learned to see more clearly and listen more deeply.

Elul gives us the opportunity to practice.

And unlike my ill-advised half-marathon for which I did not train, there is no prize for getting through the Days of Awe quickly. The goal is not simply to cross the finish line.

The goal is to be changed by the journey.

Ways to Prepare During Elul

As we begin this journey together, Mizpah offers many opportunities for reflection, learning, contemplation, and renewal:

  • Join us for Erev Shabbat services in our beautiful historic sanctuary. Beginning this evening, and again on August 28, we will incorporate poetry, readings, meditations, and commentary from the Reform Movement’s Mishkan HaLev: Prayers for S’lichot and the Month of Elul to help ready our hearts and minds for the High Holy Days.
  • Spend some time with Mishkan HaNefesh, our High Holy Day machzor.Explore its readings, poetry, commentary, and study texts. Sometimes a familiar prayer, encountered slowly and outside the context of services, can speak to us in an entirely new way.
  • Study Torah with us on Shabbat morning, in person or via Zoom, every Saturday from 9:15 to 10:30 am. Our conversations are lively, thoughtful, engaging, and everyone is welcome.
  • Join us for our Selichot Program and Service, Saturday evening, September 5th at 6:30 pm: “Seeing Ourselves, Seeing Others: Two Short Films, One Meaningful Conversation.” We will watch two short, evocative animated films by Hanan Harchol and explore together questions of judgment, forgiveness, and teshuvah, followed by Havdalah and our beautiful Selichot service.
  • Read something that invites reflection. A few suggestions:
    • Golden: The Power of Silence in a World of Noise, by Justin Zorn and Leigh Marz
    • On Repentance and Repair: Making Amends in an Unapologetic World, by Danya Ruttenberg
    • Zen and the Art of Running: The Path to Making Peace with Your Pace, by Larry Shapiro, PhD
    • This Is Real and You Are Completely Unprepared: The Days of Awe as a Journey of Transformation, by Alan Lew

You do not have to do everything. Choose one thing. Read something. Listen to something. Study. Pray. Walk. Sit quietly. Have a conversation you have been avoiding. Call someone. Ask yourself a difficult question and give yourself enough silence to hear the answer.

There is no single way to prepare.

There is only the invitation to begin.

May this month of Elul give each of us the courage to pay attention, the patience to listen, and the openness to discover something new, even along a path we have walked many times before.

Shabbat Shalom!

Rabbi Sharon L. Sobel

Open Your Hand, Open Your Heart

We live amid extraordinary beauty and abundance, yet need surrounds us. How can we open our hearts, open our hands, and make a difference?

The first time I visited Chattanooga, I was struck by its tremendous natural beauty. It is absolutely gorgeous, with lush greenery, breathtaking mountain views, and the Tennessee River meandering through the city.

I love the way history mingles with modernity here. Chattanooga has transformed itself into a vibrant, revitalized city, known as “Gig City” for its pioneering high-speed fiber-optic network. We have a wonderful downtown, a world-class aquarium, the Creative Discovery Children’s Museum, the Hunter Museum of American Art, beautiful parks and trails, and extraordinary natural surroundings.

Our own Mizpah Congregation is part of this rich history. Founded in 1866, Mizpah has been part of Chattanooga for 160 years. Our history is intertwined with some remarkable figures in American Jewish life, including Adolph Ochs, publisher of The New York Times; Rabbi Isaac Mayer Wise, one of the architects of Reform Judaism in America; and our beloved Rabbi Abraham Feinstein, who served this congregation for more than three decades.

When I first arrived, I was also surprised to discover that our congregational cemetery shares a property line with the Confederate Cemetery. And every day on my way to Mizpah, I pass the Trail of Tears. History touches us everywhere we look. Some of that history inspires pride; some of it reminds us of painful chapters in our nation’s past that we must never forget.

Yes, we have so much to be proud of. We live in a breathtakingly beautiful city, surrounded by reminders of a history that is complex and still very much present.

Yet, almost every day when I drive to work, I see another side of Chattanooga.

Just down the block from Mizpah, I notice people who are homeless, sometimes pushing all of their worldly possessions before them in a shopping cart. Some evenings, people use the doorways of buildings around us as shelter.

The contrast is stark and heartbreaking.

This disparity between abundance and need is hardly new. In fact, it lies at the heart of this week’s Torah portion, Re’eh:

If however, there is a needy person among you…do not harden your heart and shut your hand against your needy kin. Rather, you must open your hand and lend what is sufficient to meet the need. Beware, lest …you are mean and give nothing to your needy kin – who will cry out to the Eternal against you, and you will incur guilt. Give readily and have no regrets…For there will never cease to be needy ones in your land. (Deuteronomy 15: 7-11)

Immediately prior to this, the Torah explains that God is giving us a good land with enough food to feed all, so there will “never be needy among you.” (Deuteronomy 15:4)

How can these two seemingly contradictory ideas exist simultaneously in the Torah? How can Torah envision a society in which no one need be poor and, only a few verses later, acknowledge that there will always be those in need?

Perhaps that tension is precisely the point.

The Torah holds both before us an ideal and the reality. The ideal is a society in which God’s blessings are shared so fully and so justly that no one lacks what they need. The reality is the world in which we actually live, where abundance does not necessarily mean that everyone has enough.

We know this reality all too well. Our world has extraordinary abundance, and yet people remain hungry. We have tremendous wealth, and yet people sleep without shelter. We have closets overflowing with clothing, and yet others lack even the most basic necessities.

The Torah does not allow us to look at this disparity and simply shrug our shoulders. Notice the language it uses: Do not harden your heart. Do not shut your hand. Open your hand.

The movement is from the heart to the hand. Compassion must lead to action. Our faith in God must be an impetus to action, not an excuse for inertia.

The 18th-century Chasidic master Rabbi Moshe Leib of Sassov expressed this idea in even more audacious terms:

There are times when we must actually believe that there is no God! For example, when someone who is needy comes to ask you for bread, you must not send him away with such comforting words as, ‘God will provide,’ nor may you use God as an excuse by saying, ‘If God wanted you to have my money, then you would have it.’ At that moment, you must act as if there is no God, and you are the only one who can help.

 In other words, we cannot outsource our responsibility to God. We are God’s partners in repairing the broken places of our world. Sometimes the answer to another person’s prayer is not a miracle from heaven. Sometimes the answer is us.

What does that mean for us?

It can mean supporting organizations that provide food, shelter, clothing, medical care, and other necessities to those who need them. It can mean keeping food, water, or other useful items in our cars to offer when we encounter someone in need. It can mean volunteering our time. It can mean learning more about homelessness and food insecurity in our own community, and supporting efforts that address not only immediate needs, but also the circumstances that create and perpetuate poverty.

Above all, it means remembering the dignity of the person standing before us: treating everyone as an individual made in God’s image, b’tzelem Elohim, worthy of receiving honor, blessing, food, clothing, and shelter.

During the upcoming High Holy Days, Mizpah will once again collect funds to support our local food pantry. I hope each of us will participate as generously as we are able. Please watch your email and upcoming congregational notices for more information about how you can help.

I understand that these measures will not eliminate homelessness, hunger, or poverty. No single act of generosity can solve problems this complex. However, Judaism teaches us that even though we cannot finish the work, neither are we free to walk away from it.

The rabbinic sages imagined that when we enter the world to come, we will be asked, “What was your work?” If we can answer: “I used to feed the hungry, I clothed the naked, I tried to do my part,” we will be told:

“This is God’s gate: you who fed the hungry, clothed the naked and did your part, you may enter.” (Midrash on Psalm 118:17)

 We understand that there will always be those among us who are poor or homeless. Yet the Torah’s realism should never be mistaken for fatalism. At the same time, we never give up trying to eradicate these issues.

Rabbi and theologian Leo Baeck wrote:

Every suffering of our neighbor must become our own concern, a test and proof of our ethical freedom… When we face poverty, we meet not the language of fate but the demand of a definite duty imposed on us. In the most special sense of the commandment is the poor man our fellow man… Through him humanity appeals to us, bare and naked, humanity, one might say, asking for human fellowship. (Leo Baeck, The Essence of Judaism)

This is the challenge Re’eh places before us. The Torah does not ask whether we can eliminate every inequity in our society. It asks what we will do when need appears before us.

Will we avert our eyes?

Will we harden our hearts?

Will we shut our hands?

We live amid extraordinary beauty and abundance. The challenge is to make certain that the beauty of our surroundings is reflected in the beauty of how we treat one another.

How will you open your hand, open your heart, and make a difference this week?

Shabbat Shalom!

Rabbi Sharon L. Sobel

I Get By With a Little Help From My Friends

I almost said “no.” I’m grateful I didn’t. Sometimes the moments we’re most tempted to skip become the ones that bring the greatest blessings to our lives.

Earlier this week, I found myself humming the Beatles’ familiar refrain: “I get by with a little help from my friends.”

The song came to mind because dear friends from Toronto flew to Nashville for a business trip. Since they love country music, they brought their children along to turn this into a mini vacation. They asked if I could meet them halfway for dinner because we had not seen one another in quite some time.

At first, I hesitated.

After a very early morning and a full day of work, I was not eager to spend two hours driving. I also hoped to make more progress unpacking boxes at home.

Then I realized I was focusing more on my to-do list than on what truly mattered.

Opportunities to be together are rare, and these friends are extraordinary. They are kind, thoughtful, and go out of their way to stay connected, no matter how many miles separate us. They inspire me to live more purposefully, make healthier choices, think more deeply, and strive to be a better friend to those around me.

The boxes could wait.

Friendships cannot.

Relationships must be nurtured, tended, and cherished because none of us knows what tomorrow will bring.

So I made the drive to dinner at The Smoke House Patio on top of Monteagle Mountain, about an hour from Chattanooga.

As I drove home, I reflected on this beautiful secular teaching about the blessing of friendship:

“The people we surround ourselves with either raise or lower our standards. They either help us become the best version of ourselves or encourage us to become lesser versions of ourselves. We become like our friends. No man becomes great on his own. No woman becomes great on her own. The people around them help to make them great. We all need people in our lives who raise our standards, remind us of our essential purpose, and challenge us to become the best version of ourselves.” (Matthew Kelly, The Rhythm of Life).

His words reminded me of this week’s Torah portion, Eikev, which teaches that life is sustained by far more than our physical needs. In Deuteronomy 8:3 we read: “One does not live by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of the Eternal.” (Deuteronomy 8:3).

Of course, we need food, water, and shelter. The Torah reminds us, however, that human beings also hunger for purpose, meaning, relationships, and the presence of God.

Modern philosopher Martin Buber suggests, in his seminal work “I and Thou”, that in every interaction we have a choice: to view others as fellow humans with whom we share the basic essence of life, or as things: pawns to be moved, scenery for our dramas, obstacles in our way, or competitors to be vanquished. When we view others as fellow humans, God dwells within those relationships.

Buber is elaborating on a medieval teaching by Abraham Ibn Ezra (Medieval Spanish rabbi, commentator, and scientist) who explains our Torah text by saying that humans are sustained by what emanates from the heavenly spheres, and these emanations are spiritual in nature.

How might we understand this today? Perhaps we, too, emanate from those heavenly spheres, carrying within us a spark of the Divine. Perhaps we sustain one another through our relationships with each other and with God. Is there a spiritual energy that emanates from heaven, one which we must seek if we are to be sustained, to thrive, and not merely survive?

What are your thoughts?

For me, I get by with a little help from my friends, my family, my congregational community, the greater community, and, above all, God.

As we begin counting down the weeks until the Yamim Nora’im, the High Holy Days, may each of us reflect on what truly sustains us. Who are the people who help us become our best selves? How do we nurture those relationships? Where do we encounter God’s presence in the people who walk beside us?

May we invest in the relationships that nourish our souls, strengthen our spirits, and help us not merely survive, but truly thrive.

Shabbat Shalom!

Rabbi Sharon L. Sobel

From Lamentation to Consolation to Action

The Jewish calendar does not ask us to rush past grief. It teaches us how to move from lamentation to consolation, and from consolation to action.

I write this column on Thursday morning, July 23rd. It happens to be Tisha B’Av, the Ninth of Av, the day on the Hebrew calendar when Jews commemorate the destruction of the two Temples in Jerusalem in ancient times: the First Temple in 586 BCE by the Babylonians under King Nebuchadnezzar, and the Second Temple in 70 CE by the Romans.

It is a day of fasting, mourning, and deep contemplation. We gather to chant the biblical book of Eicha (Lamentations) in its haunting melody, giving voice to grief, devastation, and the profound sense of a world turned upside down. While Eicha mourns the destruction of Jerusalem, its poetry speaks across the centuries to anyone who has experienced loss, despair, or the painful work of rebuilding after catastrophe.

For centuries, Jews observed Tisha B’Av by mourning the destruction of the Temples and praying for the coming of the Messiah and the rebuilding of Jerusalem.

Reform Judaism approaches the day differently. We do not pray for the rebuilding of the Temple or for the restoration of the ancient sacrificial system. Rather, we believe in the possibility of a Messianic Age, a future shaped not by one individual but by people working in partnership with God to bring justice, compassion, and peace into the world.

Because of that theology, many Reform congregations largely set Tisha B’Av aside for much of the twentieth century, seeing it as a relic of a distant past. Yet in recent decades, many Reform Jews have rediscovered the enduring wisdom of this day. Tisha B’Av reminds us that Jewish memory is never merely about the past. It calls us to face the losses of our own day with honesty, humility, and moral courage.

In our own lifetime we have witnessed unimaginable devastation: the Holocaust (Shoah), the brutality of the Hamas terrorist attacks of October 7, 2023, the ongoing war in Israel and the Middle East, and the painful rise of antisemitism that has left so many Jews feeling anxious and vulnerable. Tisha B’Av gives us sacred space not to look away from that pain, but to sit with it honestly.

I do not usually devote this space to simply sharing someone else’s work. But every so often I come across something that expresses an idea more thoughtfully than I could on my own. This week is one of those moments.

I invite you to listen to a remarkable conversation featuring my friend, classmate, and colleague, Rabbi Michael Marmur, Professor of Jewish Theology at Hebrew Union College in Jerusalem and one of the Reform Movement’s leading thinkers, together with Rabbi Josh Weinberg (Vice

Rabbi Josh Weinberg, Orly Likhovski, Rabbi Michael Marmur

President of the Union for Reform Judaism for Israel and Reform Zionism and Executive Director of ARZA) and Orly Erez-Likhovski (Executive Director of the Israel Religious Action Center).

As Orly explains, Rabbi Marmur continues to fast on Tisha B’Av because he takes Jewish tradition seriously and refuses “to surrender mourning and lamentation to religious literalists or extremists.” Fasting, he says, is not merely an intellectual exercise. It engages the whole body, reminding us of hunger, vulnerability, and the suffering that can otherwise remain abstract.

Their conversation asks difficult questions that feel especially urgent this year. If our tradition teaches that the Second Temple was destroyed because of sinat chinam, baseless hatred, what does that teaching demand of us today? How do we oppose religious extremism, racism, violence, and policies that violate our deepest values without allowing hatred itself to consume us?

Perhaps the most striking moment comes at the end of the conversation. Asked to offer a message of hope, Rabbi Marmur declines to provide easy reassurance. Instead, he says that hope is not always available. Responsibility and agency are.

I have found myself returning to those words again and again.

If this reflection resonates with you, I invite you to continue engaging in the conversation by listening to this thoughtful discussion:

Tisha B’Av does not have the final word in the Jewish calendar. Beginning this Shabbat, we enter the Sheva D’Nechemta, the Seven Haftarot of Consolation. For the next seven weeks, the words of the prophets lead us away from despair and toward hope, preparing us to gather for Selichot and, ultimately, to enter the High Holy Days with hearts open to repentance, renewal, and possibility.

Our tradition teaches that consolation is not the denial of pain. It is what becomes possible after we have had the courage to face it honestly. May this season give each of us the strength to mourn what has been lost, the wisdom to choose compassion over hatred, and the resolve to do our part to bring more justice, compassion, and peace into our world.

Shabbat Shalom!

Rabbi Sharon L. Sobel

Tzimtzum: The Sacred Pause

Tzimtzum is one of my favorite Hebrew words. It is a beautiful Jewish mystical teaching about making space for others, and perhaps one of the most needed spiritual practices for our world today.

One of my favorite Hebrew words is “tzimtzum” (pronounced TZEEM-tzoom). This beautiful Kabbalistic (mystical) concept teaches that holiness begins with the willingness to contract ourselves in order to make space for another. The sixteenth-century Kabbalists, especially Rabbi Isaac Luria, taught that before creation itself, God contracted the Divine Presence in order to make room for creation. If that is how God creates, perhaps that is also how we are called to live.

Tzimtzum means taking a deep breath, intentionally pausing, holding back our immediate thoughts and reactions, and listening deeply. The Jewish mystics teach that whenever we make space for another human being, we also make space for the Divine Presence. In choosing to pause, listen, and create room for another person’s voice, we become partners in God’s ongoing work of bringing wholeness into the world.

That teaching feels especially relevant in a world that too often mistakes noise for wisdom and immediacy for understanding.

We live in a world of constant motion and endless chatter. Technology keeps us connected twenty-four hours a day. We expect immediate replies to texts, emails, and phone calls. Conversations often become competitions, with people speaking over one another instead of listening to one another. News, opinions, and commentary never seem to stop. Amid all of this, it becomes increasingly difficult to hear our own thoughts, let alone the hearts of those around us.

I know I am not immune to this. Too often, I speak when I should be listening. I react when I should first reflect. We all have moments when slowing down and creating space would lead to greater understanding, deeper compassion, and wiser decisions.

This week, we begin reading the fifth and final book of the Torah, D’varim (Deuteronomy). The Hebrew word d’varim means “words.” Yet before we encounter those words, the Torah offers us something else. Between the end of B’midbar (Numbers) and the beginning of D’varim, the Torah scroll contains an unusually large empty space. It is an intentional pause. A sacred breath.

End of Numbers and beginning of Deuteronomy

Before Moses speaks his final words to the Israelites, the Torah invites us to stop, reflect on the journey that has brought us to this moment, express gratitude for the gift of Torah, and prepare ourselves for what we are about to hear. Moses understands that he cannot ask the Israelites to move forward, until he first asks them to look back. Reflection, the Torah teaches, is not a luxury. It is the beginning of wisdom.

The remarkable sofer (Torah scribe) Rabbi Gedaliah Druin once taught me that when we look at a Torah scroll, we should pay as much attention to the white spaces as we do to the black letters. Without those empty spaces, the letters would run together and become impossible to read. Meaning itself depends upon the spaces between the words.

Those spaces are a beautiful expression of tzimtzum. They create clarity. They invite reflection. They remind us that wisdom is found not only in what is spoken, but also in what is left unsaid.

As the rabbis taught in Pirkei Avot (Ethics of the Sages):

“All my days I grew up among the sages, and I have found nothing better for the body than silence. Study is not the most important thing, but action. Whoever speaks excessively brings about sin.” (Pirkei Avot 1:17)

Silence is not an end in itself. Rather, it is the sacred space from which wise words, compassionate hearts, and faithful actions emerge.

As a k’hilah kedoshah, a holy community, we are called to cultivate those sacred spaces in our own lives and in our life together. When we make room for another person’s voice, when we resist the urge to rush to judgment, and when we create moments for thoughtful reflection, we strengthen our relationships, deepen our sense of community, and make room for the Divine Presence to dwell among us.

As we begin the Book of D’varim this week, may we pay attention not only to the Torah’s words, but also learn from its silences. May we practice the sacred art of tzimtzum, making space for one another, deepening our understanding, and inviting the Divine Presence to dwell among us.

Shabbat Shalom!

Rabbi Sharon L. Sobel

Where Will Your Journey Take You?

A Bat Mitzvah seventy years in the making became a powerful reminder that life is not measured by how quickly we arrive, but by the courage, faith, and growth we discover along the way. Where will your journey take you?

Last weekend, over the Fourth of July holiday, I had the extraordinary privilege of witnessing my sister-in-law Marilyn become Bat Mitzvah at the age of seventy.

Marilyn had been married to my brother for twenty-nine years before she made the decision to convert to Judaism just over a year ago. Although she had long felt drawn to Jewish life, she assumed that her questions about God somehow disqualified her. When I shared that I was teaching a course called Open Judaism: A Guide for Believers, Atheists, and Agnostics, she realized there was room within Judaism not only for certainty, but also for curiosity, searching, and honest questions.

She began studying with my colleague, Rabbi Jason Rosenberg, a Reform rabbi in Tampa, FL, faithfully attending Shabbat worship services, participating in Talmud study, and immersing herself in Jewish learning. She joined her synagogue’s Social Action Committee and now sits on the Board of Directors. Following her conversion, she began studying Hebrew in preparation for becoming Bat Mitzvah.

In many ways, Marilyn had already been living a deeply Jewish life for decades. She has lovingly created magnificent ritual textiles, including chuppot, tallitot, wall hangings, Zeved HaBat certificates for their daughters upon their official adoptions, and other beautiful works of Jewish art. Every week she bakes challah. Every holiday she prepares kugels and festive meals. Judaism had long lived in her hands and in her heart. Becoming Bat Mitzvah simply gave voice to what had already become part of her soul.

The weekend itself was filled with love. Family traveled from near and far. Friends flew across the country to celebrate with her. During Erev Shabbat services and again on Shabbat morning, our hearts were full.

Marilyn chose this particular Shabbat because she was deeply moved by the story of the daughters of Tzelophehad, whose courage and determination changed Jewish law and expanded the possibilities for future generations. In her remarks, she reflected on her own Jewish journey and spoke movingly about the women who inspired her, including my late mother.

Then came the moment when she stood before the open Torah, recited the blessings, and read from our sacred scroll. My eyes filled with tears. I found myself thinking of my parents, hoping they were smiling with pride from whatever mystery lies beyond this life. I imagined how deeply they would have loved seeing the woman who had become their daughter so many years ago now fully embrace the faith and traditions they cherished.

Watching Marilyn become Bat Mitzvah at seventy reminded me that Judaism is not simply inherited. It is also discovered, embraced, and continually chosen. And perhaps that is true of life itself. Our stories are never finished. As long as we are alive, another chapter remains to be written.

Rabbi Alvin Fine captured this truth so beautifully: “Life is a journey from innocence to awareness, from strength to weakness, from health to sickness, from vigor to frailty, from possession to loss, from certainty to doubt, from self to community, from then to now, from now to tomorrow, from life to death.” (Rabbi Alvin I. Fine, Birthmarks: Understanding the Stages of Life).

None of us remains the same person throughout our lives. We are continually shaped by the experiences we encounter, the relationships we build, the losses we endure, and the blessings we celebrate. The goal is not simply to move through life, but to grow through it, allowing each chapter to deepen our wisdom, compassion, and sense of purpose.

This week’s Torah portion from the Book of Numbers, Mattot-Masei, reminds us that journeys are at the heart of our Jewish story. As the Book of Numbers comes to its conclusion, the Torah recounts all forty-two stages of the Israelites’ travels from Egypt to the edge of the Promised Land:

“These are the stages of the Israelites, by which they went forth out of the land of Egypt… And Moses recorded their starting points, stage by stage, at the commandment of the Eternal.” (Numbers 33:1-2)

At first glance, it reads like little more than an ancient itinerary. Yet our tradition understands these forty-two encampments as much more than a travel log. Each represented another opportunity for growth, another lesson learned, another challenge overcome. The wilderness was not simply the place the Israelites passed through. It was the place that transformed them. It was the place that turned them into Am Yisrael, the People of Israel, bound in an eternal covenant with God.

Rabbi Ovadia Sforno understood this list as a testament to the Israelites’ perseverance and spiritual growth. Maimonides likewise taught that the wilderness was the crucible through which a vulnerable band of former slaves was transformed into a covenantal people prepared to enter the Promised Land.

Like our ancestors, Mizpah Congregation is also on a journey.

Our congregation has been shaped not by one defining moment, but by countless sacred moments lived together. Some among us joined only recently. Others have walked these halls for decades. Together we have celebrated births and b’nai mitzvah, weddings and anniversaries. We have mourned losses, weathered challenges, and found strength in one another. Every chapter has helped shape the congregation we are today.

As we prepare over the coming year to welcome a new settled rabbi, we have an extraordinary opportunity to pause before taking our next steps. Together we will reflect on our shared story, celebrate the values that have guided us, and imagine the future we hope to create.

During the High Holy Days, we will announce the date of a congregation-wide afternoon retreat. Together we will remember our history, honor the legacies that have shaped us, discern what we wish to carry forward, and lovingly release what no longer serves our sacred community. Like the Israelites recording each stop along their wilderness journey, we will create our own Mizpah travelogue, remembering where we have been so that we may move thoughtfully toward where we are called to go.

Watching Marilyn stand before the Torah reminded me that it is never too late to begin a new chapter. Whether we are individuals or an entire congregation, we are always becoming. There is always another step to take, another blessing to discover, another opportunity to grow.

May we have the courage to embrace the journeys that lie before us. May each new stage along the way bring us closer to becoming the community, and the people, God calls us to be.

So I leave you with this question: What chapter of your own journey is waiting to be written?

Shabbat Shalom!

Liberty and Justice for All

The ideals proclaimed in the Declaration of Independence in 1776 continue to challenge and inspire us today.

The Hebrew name for the United States is Artzot HaBrit, literally, “the States of the Covenant.”

It is a remarkable name. Fifty states and the District of Columbia are bound together by a covenantal agreement that joins us as one nation. Despite our political, religious, ethnic, cultural, geographic, and economic differences, we are united by ideals that are greater than any one of us.

Tomorrow our nation marks a truly extraordinary milestone: the 250th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence. A quarter of a millennium is an auspicious moment, not only to celebrate our country’s achievements, but also to reflect upon the covenant that continues to bind us together and to recommit ourselves to the ideals that have inspired generations of Americans.

We are reminded of that covenant every time we recite the Pledge of Allegiance:

“I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America, and to the republic for which it stands, one nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.”

Those closing words are not merely aspirational. They are a promise. They remind us that our democratic republic strives to be a nation of “liberty and justice for all.”

As Americans, we are bound by the Constitution of the United States and its Amendments. The ideals proclaimed in the Declaration of Independence in 1776 continue to challenge and inspire us today. They endure because they call every generation to renew its commitment to freedom, justice, equality, and human dignity.

These are not only American values. They are profoundly Jewish values.

I find myself reflecting on this since the 4th of July falls on Shabbat this year. Shabbat has often been described as an “island in time,” a weekly glimpse of the world as it could be: a world of wholeness, harmony, justice, and peace. Each week we are invited to imagine creation restored and humanity living together in dignity.

Our closing prayer, Aleinu, expresses that same vision of hope, anticipating the day when all people recognize our shared humanity and the world is united in peace. (A poetic interpretation:)

MAY WE GAIN WISDOM in our lives,

overflowing like a river with understanding.

Loved, each of us, for the peace we bring to others.

May our deeds exceed our speech,

and may we never lift up our hand

but to conquer fear and doubt and despair.

Rise up like the sun, O God, over all humanity.

Cause light to go forth over all the lands between the seas.

And light up the universe with the joy of wholeness,

of freedom, and of peace.

(Frishman, Elyse. Mishkan T’filah: A Reform Siddur: Complete: Shabbat, Weekdays, and Festivals. New York: CCAR Press, p. 591.)

For centuries, people have come to the United States seeking freedom, opportunity, safety, and peace. They came believing in the possibility of a society grounded in liberty and justice.

As Jews, we understand that dream deeply. Our tradition teaches that every human being is created b’tzelem Elohim, in the image of God. We stand alongside people of many faiths who affirm the sacred worth of every person, calling the Divine by many names: God, Allah, Spirit, and others. When we fail to recognize the Divine image in one another, we diminish not only another person’s humanity, but our own.

The Torah commands us, “You shall love your neighbor as yourself: I am Adonai.” (Leviticus 19:18.) This sacred obligation recognizes no political party, religious tradition, nationality, or border. Our own security is strengthened, not weakened, when we uphold the dignity of others. Fear cannot be allowed to dismantle the very principles upon which our democracy rests.

When we fail to see one another’s humanity, we deny both the highest ideals of America and the deepest values of Judaism.

As we celebrate this historic Independence Day, we also know that our nation remains unfinished. Antisemitism continues to rise. Racism, prejudice, hatred, misogyny, anti-LGBTQ+ discrimination, xenophobia, poverty, hunger, and economic injustice continue to wound our society.

The work of the covenant is not yet complete.

So how do we honor both our Jewish values and America’s promise of “liberty and justice for all” as we celebrate this remarkable 250th anniversary?

The answer is found within you and me.

Each of us carries within us a spark of the Divine. When we truly see one another, look into each other’s eyes, listen to each other’s stories, and extend a hand instead of turning away, our own Divine spark kindles the spark within another. In that sacred exchange, hope, justice, compassion, and peace begin to spread.

The Koran teaches, “We have made you into nations and tribes, so that you might come to know one another.” (Koran 49:13.)

And in our Reform Movement siddur (prayerbook), Mishkan T’filah, (pg. 157) we pray: “There is no way to get from here to there except by joining hands and marching together.”

May we join hands and march together, strengthening our nation through acts of kindness, compassion, justice, and hope. As our nation begins its next 250 years, may we renew the covenant that binds us to one another, with liberty and justice for all.

Shabbat Shalom, and Happy Independence Day!