2026 - Rabbi Sharon 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 4^th 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!

Don’t Worry. We’ve Got You.

“Don’t worry. We’ve got you.” Five simple words spoken by a mover helping pack my home became an unexpected lesson about how we carry one another through life’s transitions.

This week, I am surrounded by boxes.

I am in the midst of a significant transition as I prepare to begin a new rabbinic position. That transition became very tangible as the movers arrived this past Tuesday and began packing my home. So far, everything has gone remarkably smoothly.

As the enormous moving truck pulled into my cul-de-sac, my wonderful next-door neighbor, who has moved many times herself, looked at me and asked, “Have you lost your mind yet?”

To my surprise, I laughed and answered, “Not yet.”

The truth is that I am feeling surprisingly calm.

My last move was anything but calm. From beginning to end, it was a difficult experience. This move has been entirely different. The movers have been punctual, thoughtful, and remarkably considerate. At the end of the day, they even left my bedside lamp unpacked so that I would have a reading light for one last night in my home.

Several times during the day, both the lead driver and one of the crew members said the same thing to me:

“Don’t worry. We’ve got you.”

Those five words have stayed with me.

Moving is often listed among life’s most stressful experiences. It requires us to leave what is familiar before we have fully arrived at what comes next. For a time, we find ourselves living between chapters. Our routines disappear. Our surroundings change. Much of what normally gives us a sense of stability is temporarily packed away in boxes.

In that sense, moving is not unique at all. Most of us spend at least part of our lives living between chapters.

We transition into retirement and wonder who we will be without the work that has shaped our days. We watch children leave home and discover that our family life is entering a new season. We grieve losses that forever change us. We begin new jobs, enter new relationships, face health challenges, or find ourselves adapting to a world that seems to shift beneath our feet with unsettling speed.

We rarely know exactly what lies ahead.

The Torah understands these in-between moments well.

Our ancestors spent forty years journeying through the wilderness. The wilderness was never meant to be their final destination. It was the space between where they had been and where they hoped to go. It was uncertain, uncomfortable, and often frightening. Yet it was also where they discovered resilience, faith, and the strength that comes from belonging to something larger than themselves. The wilderness was the place where they became Am Yisrael, the People of Israel.

Perhaps that is why the Israelites traveled as a community. The wilderness is difficult enough. No one should have to navigate it alone.

As I have reflected on these past few days, I have realized that one of life’s greatest blessings is not certainty. It is companionship.

We spend so much energy wishing for guarantees. We want to know that everything will work out, that our plans will unfold exactly as intended, and that the road ahead will be free of obstacles. Yet life rarely offers that kind of certainty.

What life does offer, however, are people: friends, family, neighbors, colleagues.

People who show up.

People who carry part of the load.

People who remind us that even when we feel overwhelmed, we are not alone.

Over the years, one of the greatest privileges of serving as a rabbi has been accompanying individuals, families, and congregations through life’s many transitions. I have walked with people through moments of joy and sorrow, celebration and loss, certainty and uncertainty. Again and again, I have witnessed communities navigate change not because they had all the answers, but because they faced uncertainty together. They leaned on one another. They trusted one another. And when the path ahead seemed unclear, they helped carry one another forward.

Now, as I prepare for my own transition, I find myself drawing upon those same lessons.

As June gives way to July and summer unfolds before us, many of us are standing on the threshold of something new. Some transitions are chosen. Others arrive uninvited. Some are exciting. Others are difficult. Most are a mixture of both.

Whatever wilderness you may be traversing at this moment, I hope you know that you do not have to navigate it by yourself.

Jewish tradition teaches that we are responsible for one another: “Kol Yisrael arevim zeh bah zeh” (B. Talmud 39a). We accompany one another through joy and sorrow, celebration and struggle, certainty and doubt. We help carry one another’s burdens when they become too heavy to bear alone.

Sometimes that support arrives in profound and life-changing ways.

Sometimes it arrives through a simple sentence spoken at exactly the right moment:

“Don’t worry. We’ve got you.”

May we each have the blessing of hearing those words when we need them most.

And may we also have the wisdom and compassion to say them to someone else.

“Don’t worry. I’ve got you.”

Shabbat Shalom!

An Unexpected Gift

An unexpected gift arrived in the mail this week, reminding me that in challenging times our greatest strength is the bond we share with one another.

This week I received one of the most unusual, beautiful, and meaningful gifts.

A piece of artwork arrived in the mail, commissioned by a former congregant who is currently incarcerated. He wanted to thank me for all that I do and for responding to his letters.

During his time in prison, he has found tremendous comfort and strength in reconnecting with Judaism. He has become a voracious reader, studying Torah commentary, praying from his siddur, and reading books by authors such as Noa Tishby and Flavio Barbiero. In one of his letters he wrote, “Reconnecting with my Judaism reminds me of the amazing bond the Jewish people have with each other.”

The theme he chose for the artwork was “Jewish Pride.”

As I reflected on his gift, I realized that Jewish pride is not about superiority or triumphalism. Jewish pride is the quiet confidence that comes from knowing who we are, where we come from, and what we stand for. It is the determination to remain Jewish despite those moments throughout history when others sought to marginalize, silence, or even destroy us. It is the courage to continue building Jewish life, generation after generation.

The story of the Jewish people is one of extraordinary resilience. Across centuries and continents, we have faced expulsions, persecution, violence, and hatred. Yet we have never allowed those experiences to define us. Instead, we have continued to build communities, create scholarship, pursue justice, celebrate life, and pass our traditions to the next generation.

We are living through another challenging chapter today.

As a dual U.S.-Canadian citizen, my heart has been especially heavy as I watch the dramatic rise of antisemitism in Canada since October 7, 2023. Jewish communities across the country have experienced attacks on synagogues, vandalism of Jewish institutions, public harassment, and hateful demonstrations that would have been unimaginable only a few years ago.

We are not immune here in the United States. Jewish institutions have faced threats and acts of vandalism. Jewish students on university campuses have reported feeling increasingly isolated and targeted. The Anti-Defamation League continues to document a sharp increase in antisemitic incidents, ranging from harassment and intimidation to threats of violence against Jewish individuals and organizations.

These realities are deeply troubling. Yet if there is one lesson our tradition teaches, it is that fear alone cannot be our response.

This week’s Torah portion from the book of Numbers, Sh’lach L’cha, tells the story of the twelve scouts sent to scope out the Land of Israel two years after the exodus from Egypt. Ten returned overwhelmed by fear and convinced that the obstacles before them were too great. They tried to convince the Israelites not to enter the land. Only Joshua and Caleb saw the same challenges but believed they could be overcome since God was leading the way.

Their difference between the 10 scouts and Joshua and Caleb was one of perspective. They all saw the same reality. Yet Joshua and Caleb viewed it through the lens of faith, courage, and collective responsibility. As a consequence of their fear, the Israelites wandered in the wilderness for an additional thirty-eight years. Of that generation, only Joshua and Caleb would live to enter the Promised Land.

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks wrote: “The real giants were not the Canaanites but the Israelites’ fears. Their mistake was to think that the challenge was out there. It was in here, inside their minds.”(Covenant & Conversation, onSh’lach L’cha)

The challenges facing the Jewish community today are real. Antisemitism is real. Division is real. Polarization is real.

But so too are Jewish strength, Jewish resilience, and Jewish community.

How do we respond?

We can show up.

We can attend Shabbat services. We can participate in synagogue life. We can support our local Jewish Community Centers and Federations. We can study and learn. We can engage in meaningful conversations about Jewish history, culture, and identity. We can build relationships with allies who stand with us against hatred and intolerance. We can educate others about who we are and what Judaism teaches.

Most importantly, we can strengthen the bonds that connect us to one another.

Elie Wiesel once said: “There may be times when we are powerless to prevent injustice, but there must never be a time when we fail to protest.”

Jewish pride is not simply a feeling. It is a commitment.

It is choosing connection over isolation, learning over ignorance, hope over despair, and community over fear.

The artwork will soon be displayed in my office, where it will serve as a reminder of something essential about Jewish life.

No matter where we find ourselves, our tradition offers a path toward meaning, purpose, and belonging. More importantly, it reminds us that none of us walks that path alone.

The bond that connects the Jewish people across generations, across continents, and across circumstances is stronger than the challenges that confront us.

As long as we continue to nurture that bond through learning, community, and shared responsibility, we can be like Joshua and Caleb, facing the future with confidence, courage, and pride.

Shabbat Shalom!

Pride, Allyship, and the Sacred In-Between

What does allyship actually look like? Sometimes it looks like a father showing up for his child, exactly as they are.

A wonderful video popped up on my social media feed this week. In honor of Pride Month, an Iranian American father shared a message about how to be a loving ally to one’s children, family members, and friends. What struck me most was not simply what he said, but the relationship he has with his adult child.

Many people know him simply as “Baba,” the father featured in the videos of Cyrus Veyssi. Cyrus is a performer, comedian, filmmaker, and social media creator whose popular comedic series, “Bonding with My Straight Dad,” offers a glimpse into a relationship rooted in love, humor, respect, and mutual acceptance. Cyrus is nonbinary and a proud member of the LGBTQ+ community. Together, father and child demonstrate something that should be obvious, yet too often is not: when people feel fully seen, accepted, and loved for who they are, families flourish.

Their videos remind us that allyship is not complicated. It begins by showing up, listening, learning, and loving people exactly as they are.

June is Pride Month around the world, from Israel to Africa, Asia to North America. It is a time to celebrate the achievements, resilience, and contributions of the LGBTQ+ community. It is also a time to recommit ourselves to the work that remains. Millions of LGBTQ+ people around the world continue to face discrimination, harassment, violence, and exclusion simply because of who they are.

Through social media, education, advocacy, schools, religious institutions, and grassroots movements, countless individuals are working proactively to create communities where every person is treated with dignity, respect, and equality. This work feels especially important in 2026, as hard-fought legal protections and civil rights for LGBTQ+ individuals continue to face challenges in areas ranging from healthcare access and privacy protections to marriage equality, educational inclusion, and protections for transgender youth. Just yesterday, the news reported more disturbing proposed legal privacy medical information violations for transgender youth.

In 2020, just as the pandemic was beginning to reshape the world, the rabbinic arm of the Reform Movement, the Central Conference of American Rabbis (CCAR), published a groundbreaking new volume: Mishkan Ga’avah: Where Pride Dwells, A Celebration of LGBTQ Jewish Life and Ritual. The book was released in conjunction with the fiftieth anniversary of the first Pride marches in Los Angeles, San Francisco, Chicago, and New York, which commemorated the first anniversary of the Stonewall Uprising.

Why did the CCAR and the Reform Movement feel it was so important to publish this book at that moment?

The answer is both simple and deeply Jewish.

For decades, the Reform Movement has worked to advance LGBTQ+ inclusion, dignity, and equality. We have spoken out on behalf of those whose voices were marginalized, advocated for civil rights, and sought to build communities where all people can bring their full selves into Jewish life. Yet even as we celebrate remarkable progress, we recognize that the work is not complete.

Mishkan Ga’avah both celebrates the achievements of the LGBTQ+ community and situates them within a Reform Jewish framework. Filled with liturgy, poetry, prayers, and personal reflections, it offers language for celebration, healing, affirmation, and spiritual connection. As the CCAR describes it:

“It is both a spiritual resource and a celebratory affirmation of Jewish diversity. It gives voice to the private and public sectors of queer Jewish experience, while reflecting the longtime advocacy of the Reform Movement for full LGBTQ inclusion.”

Our Torah teaches us that we are called to pursue justice, to protect the vulnerable, to speak truth to power, and to recognize the inherent dignity of every human being. Sometimes speaking truth to power means challenging assumptions, questioning systems that exclude, and refusing to accept a world in which some people are treated as “other” or “less than.”

There is an important difference between diversity and inclusion on one hand, and liberation and justice on the other. Diversity and inclusion invite people into the circle. Liberation and justice affirm that every person already belongs there. They recognize and honor the fullness of each person’s humanity.

This is what the Torah means when it teaches that every human being is created b’tzelem Elohim, in the image of God:

“So God created humankind in God’s image, in the image of God were they created; male and female God created them.” (Genesis 1:27)

To affirm that every person is created in the image of God is to affirm that every person’s life possesses inherent worth, dignity, and holiness. This conviction is reflected in the Jewish value of k’vod habriyot, the dignity and honor of all human beings. Our tradition teaches that preserving human dignity is of such importance that it can, in certain circumstances, supersede other rabbinic obligations. Every person deserves to be treated with respect, compassion, and honor simply because they are a human being created by God.

Yet we know that we do not yet live in a world that fully embraces the humanity of those who are LGBTQ+. Here in the United States and around the globe, many continue to face efforts that limit protections, restrict access to healthcare, undermine legal equality, and threaten the safety and well-being of LGBTQ+ individuals and families.

That is why Pride Month matters.

Pride Month creates a dedicated opportunity for all of us to learn, celebrate, advocate, and stand in solidarity. Of course, these commitments should not be confined to a single month on the calendar. Justice, compassion, and allyship are year-round responsibilities. Pride Month reminds us to be intentional, visible, and vocal in our support.

I have family members and friends who are part of the LGBTQ+ community. One of my relatives posted on Facebook, “Why did nobody wish me Happy Pride? Don’t you all know I’m gay? Don’t you love me?”

Of course we love her. We tell her that all the time.

But her post was a reminder. Pride Month is not simply about celebration. It is also about affirmation. It is a time to say clearly to our friends, family members, neighbors, and fellow congregants: We love you. We support you. We celebrate you. We will stand beside you and advocate alongside you.

May we continue building communities where every person knows they are welcomed, valued, and loved.

Reform Movement Resources for Pride Month (including resources for Pride Shabbat, Liturgy, Personal Stories, Action Steps, and more).

Twilight People (by Rabbi Reuben Zellman)

As the sun sinks and the colors of the day turn, we offer a blessing for the twilight, for twilight is neither day nor night, but in-between. We are all twilight people. We can never be fully labeled or defined. We are many identities and loves, many genders and none. We are in between roles, at the intersection of histories, or between place and place. We are crisscrossed paths of memory and destination, streaks of light and swirled together. We are neither day nor night. We are both, neither, and all.

May the sacred in-between of this evening suspend our certainties, soften our judgments, and widen our vision. May this in-between light illuminate our way to the God who transcends all categories and definitions. May the in-between people who have come to pray be lifted up into this twilight. We cannot always define; we can always say a blessing.

Baruch Atah Adonai, haMaariv Aravim.

Blessed are You, God of all, who brings on the twilight.

Happy Pride!

Shabbat Shalom!

A Blessing at 30,000 Feet

You never know when a blessing will arrive from an unexpected source. Sometimes it comes from the stranger sitting beside you on an airplane.

You never know when you will receive a blessing from an unexpected source.

Yesterday, I had two brief connecting flights returning home from a four-day trip. My first flight was only 34 minutes in the air. I boarded early and shortly afterward, a pleasant young man took the window seat beside me.

For the past few months, I have been flying frequently and often use my time in the air to read or simply decompress after meetings. Unless my seatmates indicate they want to converse, I usually remain quiet.

This time was different.

My seatmate and I quickly struck up a conversation. I learned that he is a professional soccer referee who travels two or three times each week during soccer season. He is getting married in August. He was raised in the Society of Friends (Quaker), while his fiancée was raised Baptist.

Despite their different religious backgrounds, he shared that they are united by values that are deeply important to both of them: the belief that every person possesses an inner light (what we Jews might call being created B’tzelem Elohim, in the image of God), the importance of listening deeply to others, cultivating a life of spirituality, working for peace and justice, and finding a way to remain centered amid life’s chaos.

I knew a little about the Society of Friends but had never attended one of their meetings, and he was happy to share more.

When he learned that I am a rabbi, our conversation turned to themes of mutual concern: human nature, peace, justice, and finding the light within every human being. He told me that one of his favorite songs is This Little Light of Mine.

Then he asked if he could seek some advice.

Because of the demands of his profession, he travels many weekends and is often unable to attend his weekly Friends meeting. “How can I create community, stay centered, and remain connected to the life of the spirit while I am constantly traveling?”

What an astute and important question for a young person.

There are no easy answers. In his community, they often begin with a query, a deep, open-ended question designed to inspire personal and communal reflection. Queries invite people to examine how they are living their values of peace, simplicity, integrity, and community.

I suggested that during his travels he might set aside time for quiet meditation on that week’s query. While it would not replace community, it could help him remain connected to the spiritual focus of his community. Perhaps he could also schedule occasional conversations over Zoom with community members.

I suggested a simple daily practice: begin with gratitude, pray for the well-being of loved ones, set an intention for the day, reflect on the week’s query, and conclude with several moments of deep, intentional breathing.

And when he is home, make the effort to gather with his community in person, even when tired.

Although our flight lasted barely half an hour, it felt as though we had spoken for hours.

As we prepared to leave the plane, I told him that I felt blessed to have him sitting beside me.

Perhaps that is how blessings often arrive. Not through dramatic miracles or grand revelations, but through unexpected encounters that remind us of what matters most. Sometimes we are the giver of a blessing. Sometimes we are the recipient. Often, we are both.

This week’s Torah portion from the Book of Numbers, Parashat Naso, contains one of Judaism’s most beloved blessings, Birkat Kohanim, the Priestly Blessing:

“May the Eternal bless you and protect you. May the Eternal deal kindly and graciously with you. May the Eternal bestow favor upon you and grant you peace.” (Numbers 6:24-26)

In biblical times, the priests offered this blessing to the people of Israel. Today, its words continue to accompany some of life’s most sacred moments. Parents bless their children with it on Shabbat. Rabbis offer it to their congregations during moments of celebration, healing, and remembrance. It is spoken at brit milah (circumcision) ceremonies, baby namings, B’nai Mitzvah, weddings, and other significant milestones.

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, z”l, taught that the Priestly Blessing reminds us that God’s blessings often enter the world through human beings. We become the channels through which God’s presence touches the lives of others.

As I reflected on my brief conversation with a stranger at 30,000 feet, I wondered whether this is precisely how blessing works. Neither of us boarded that flight expecting a sacred encounter. Yet in sharing our stories, our questions, and our hopes, we each became a source of blessing for the other.

Wishing you a Shabbat of blessing and peace, joy and contentment.

Shabbat Shalom!

Beyond the Covered Bridge: Finding Sinai in a Fractured World

In a fractured world marked by hatred and division, Shavuot calls us to moral courage, human dignity, and the sacred work of repair.

This morning, I decided to take a detour from my usual walking route and explore an unfamiliar path. My mind felt heavy from the weight of the world this past week, and I longed for the quiet serenity of nature.

Hesitantly, I walked beneath a covered bridge, unsure of what waited on the other side. What I discovered was breathtaking: a winding trail lined with lush green forest, birdsong echoing through the trees, sunlight filtering through the canopy above. For four miles, the beauty and stillness became an antidote for my weary soul.

This has been a difficult week.

Just a few days ago, two teenage gunmen attacked the Islamic Center of San Diego, the largest mosque in San Diego County, killing three people before dying by apparent suicide. No house of worship should ever become a place of terror. Every human being deserves the right to gather in prayer, safety, and peace. As Jews, we know the pain of seeing sacred spaces violated by hatred and violence. We stand in solidarity with the Muslim community and with all communities targeted because of who they are and how they pray.

Threats to sacred dignity, however, do not only come from those who are outside of our communities. Sometimes they emerge from within, through exclusion, intolerance, and the denial of belonging. Even among our own people, we continue to witness painful struggles over who belongs, whose voice matters, and who has the right to claim Torah as their own.

As Orly Erez-Likhovski, Executive Director of the Israel Religious Action Center of the Israel Reform Movement, recently wrote:

“The fact that the only public place in the Western world where women are forbidden from reading Torah is at the Kotel [the Western Wall}, in the capital of the Jewish state [Jerusalem, Israel], is simply outrageous. Once again, Women of the Wall succeeded in smuggling in a Torah scroll and reading from it in the women’s section, since they are not allowed to read from the 100 Torah scrolls reserved for use in the men’s section for any group of men to use, or to bring in an outside Torah scroll. As I write these words, I still cannot believe that this is what is required to exercise freedom of religion at the Kotel — to smuggle in what belongs to us by right, given to us at Sinai as our sacred inheritance.”

She continues:

“And as if the harassment of all who do not conform to the Rabbinate’s dictates were not enough, this week the Knesset’s Constitution, Law and Justice Committee will discuss a bill imposing up to seven years in prison for egalitarian prayer at the Kotel. That’s right. This extremist government is not content merely to normalize violence against women reading Torah or liberal Jews in egalitarian prayer; it now seeks to criminalize our worship itself.”

She reminds us of the words written twenty-three years ago by the Israeli Supreme Court in the Women of the Wall case:

“The Kotel was given to the entire Jewish people, not merely to one part of the people. And the entire Jewish people — not merely one part — acquired rights in the Kotel.”

Sinai, the mountain on which we received the Torah, belongs to all of us. The moment revelation becomes the possession of only a select few, we betray the very covenant we celebrate on Shavuot, which begins this evening.

Perhaps this is why Shavuot feels especially urgent this year.

The festival of Shavuot is our time to celebrate the receiving of Torah at Mount Sinai. One of the holiday’s names is Z’man Matan Torateinu, the Festival of the Giving of Our Torah. On Shavuot, we metaphorically stand once again at the foot of Sinai, ready to receive Torah anew. We imagine ourselves alongside our ancestors, newly freed from the trauma of slavery, trembling with awe and anticipation as they gathered at the mountain.

In that sacred moment, they received not merely a set of laws, but a spiritual blueprint for living: the Aseret HaDibrot, the Ten Commandments.

These teachings are more than directives about what to do or avoid. They are acts of redemption. They affirm human dignity and divine justice, calling us to create a society rooted in responsibility, compassion, and holiness. For the newly formed Israelite people, this was revolutionary. In Egypt, justice depended on the whims of Pharaoh. Joseph prospered under one ruler, while generations later a new Pharaoh arose who governed through fear and cruelty. Revelation at Sinai offered an entirely different vision: a covenant grounded not in power, fear, or domination, but in sacred accountability.

How do we hold both Sinai and angst in our hearts at once?

Shavuot reminds us that even in moments of grief, anxiety, and uncertainty, we are not powerless. Torah calls us to act: to pursue justice, to amplify voices too often ignored, and to pray not only with our lips, but with our hands, hearts, and feet. The Ten Commandments are not relics of an ancient past. They are an enduring call to continue the work of liberation for all who remain bound by physical, emotional, or spiritual oppression.

Even amid the brokenness of our world, Shavuot remains a festival of joy and hope. Traditionally, we decorate our sanctuaries with flowers and greenery, symbols of life and renewal. While we may not physically decorate our sanctuary, we need only step outside to witness creation in full bloom: roses, hydrangeas, trees swaying in the late spring breeze, and gardens bursting with color and life, like I witness on my morning walks. Renewal surrounds us. Shavuot also invites us to partake in sweet dairy foods, symbols of Torah’s sweetness and nourishment for the soul.

The holiday traditionally includes an all-night study session called Tikkun Leil Shavuot, a night devoted to learning, reflection, and spiritual renewal. There are opportunities for learners of every age and stage to engage with Torah through hands-on experiences, multi-generational learning, in-person gatherings, and online offerings. Truly, there is something for everyone.

Let us bring our whole selves to Sinai this year: our questions, our fears, our hopes, and our longings. Let us recommit ourselves to Torah as a living guide that challenges us to repair our world with courage and compassion.

Perhaps I am idealistic, but I still believe in the possibility of redemption. Shavuot reminds us that even when the world feels fractured and uncertain, we are still capable of choosing another path: one rooted in justice, compassion, and peace.

May this Shavuot renew our spirits, strengthen our resolve, and help us find the courage to walk forward, even when the path ahead feels uncertain. May every sacred space remain a sanctuary, every person be treated with dignity, and every soul find its way to Sinai embraced in peace.

Chag Shavuot Sameach and Shabbat Shalom.

In the Wilderness Between Two Jerusalems

As we begin the Book of Numbers, (“in the wilderness”) and mark Yom Yerushalayim, two disturbing reports force us to confront the painful distance between truth, moral clarity, and the world we inhabit today.

This week we begin reading the fourth book of the Torah, B’midbar, the Book of Numbers. Its Hebrew name, B’midbar, means “in the wilderness.”

The wilderness in Torah is never simply a geographic place. It is a spiritual landscape. A place of uncertainty and vulnerability. A place where identity is forged and tested. In the wilderness, the Israelites begin the long transformation from a ragtag group of liberated slaves into Am Yisrael, the People of Israel, a covenantal people bound not only to God and to one another, and also to moral responsibility.

This week, as we begin B’midbar, we also mark Yom Yerushalayim (Jerusalem Day), commemorating the reunification of Jerusalem after the Six Day War in 1967. Jerusalem has always represented more than land or sovereignty in Jewish consciousness. Jerusalem symbolizes homecoming, memory, longing, and the fragile hope that human beings can build a society rooted in justice and holiness.

Jewish tradition speaks of two Jerusalems: Yerushalayim shel la’matah, the earthly Jerusalem shaped by politics, power, conflict, and human imperfection; and Yerushalayim shel la’malah, the heavenly Jerusalem, the vision of what we might yet become when we live according to our highest moral and spiritual aspirations.

That hope feels extremely fragile right now. We are living through a moment in which truth itself often feels contested, fractured, and weaponized. A moment in which the distance between the Jerusalem below and the Jerusalem above can feel painfully wide.

This week, two deeply disturbing reports were published one day apart.

Their juxtaposition laid bare the painful distance between Yerushalayim shel la’malah, the Jerusalem of justice, truth, and human dignity to which we aspire, and Yerushalayim shel la’matah, the fractured world of politics, trauma, outrage, and moral confusion in which we actually live.

First came Nicholas Kristof’s New York Times opinion piece highlighting allegations of sexual abuse against Palestinian prisoners by Israelis. Allegations of abuse anywhere must always be taken seriously. Jewish tradition is unequivocal about the dignity of every human being, created b’tzelem Elohim, in the image of God. No society, including Israel, is beyond moral scrutiny or accountability.

At the same time, many Jews experienced the article as deeply troubling in both timing and framing. Some of the claims presented were extraordinarily sensational and appeared without the kind of corroboration, evidentiary transparency, and methodological rigor that accusations of this magnitude demand. Kristof’s piece relied heavily upon reporting from the Euro-Med Human Rights Monitor, an organization whose work on Israel has itself been the subject of significant criticism and dispute.

One day later, the Civil Commission on October 7 Crimes by Hamas Against Women and Children released its 300-page report, Silenced No More – Sexual Terror Unveiled: The Untold Atrocities of October 7 and Against Hostages in Captivity. (Warning: This report contains graphic and deeply painful descriptions). The contrast in methodology and documentation could not have been more striking.

The Commission’s investigation was conducted over two years and drew upon what it describes as a “uniquely constructed and independently secured war crimes archive.” The report documents more than 10,000 photographs and video segments, over 1,800 hours of visual evidence, and more than 430 testimonies and interviews with survivors, witnesses, released hostages, experts, and family members. Materials were systematically logged, cross-referenced, geolocated, and reviewed using internationally recognized trauma-informed investigative standards.

What emerges from the report is not a collection of isolated allegations, but a documented pattern of systematic sexual violence perpetrated during the October 7 attacks and throughout captivity afterward. Its contents are extraordinarily painful to read. They are also essential to confront and bear witness to.

For many Jews, the juxtaposition of these two publications felt disorienting. Not because Jews oppose accountability or fear scrutiny, but because moral seriousness requires distinctions. Journalism, human rights reporting, and public moral discourse all depend upon careful evidence, intellectual honesty, and methodological integrity. When those distinctions collapse, the wilderness deepens.

This leaves many Jews inhabiting a painful wilderness.

How do we hold onto moral seriousness while living in a world saturated with outrage, accusation, distortion, and trauma? How do we remain capable of self-reflection without accepting narratives that erase context, flatten complexity, or portray Israel as uniquely monstrous? How do we defend our people without allowing defensiveness to harden into indifference toward the suffering of others?

The wilderness blurs boundaries. Fear hardens us. Pain narrows our capacity to discern clearly. Torah’s great challenge is not simply how to survive the wilderness, but how to remain human within it.

Holding these tensions simultaneously is spiritually exhausting. It is also part of the moral calling of Jewish life.

B’midbar reminds us that the wilderness is not the end of the story. The wilderness is the place where a people learns who it wishes to become.

Perhaps that is the enduring challenge of Jerusalem itself. To live in the uneasy space between Yerushalayim shel la’matah and Yerushalayim shel la’malah. Between the earthly Jerusalem shaped by politics, fear, grief, power, and human frailty, and the heavenly Jerusalem that calls us toward truth, justice, compassion, and holiness.

One Jerusalem reflects the world as it is. The other insists the we still have the ability to create the world as it ought to be.

Jewish history has always unfolded in the tension between those two Jerusalems. So too does Jewish moral life.

May we never lose the courage to confront painful truths honestly. May we never allow outrage or despair to strip us of our humanity. And may we continue striving, even in the wilderness, to narrow the distance between the Jerusalem below and the Jerusalem above.

May this Shabbat bring wisdom, renewal, courage, and peace.

Shabbat Shalom!

Let Us Strengthen One Another

As we complete the Book of Leviticus this Shabbat, “Chazak, chazak, v’nitchazek” reminds us that strength and resilience are found through community, compassion, and our willingness to uplift one another.

“Chazak, chazak, v’nitchazek – Be strong, hold fast, and let us strengthen one another.”

This meaningful Hebrew phrase feels as though it were written precisely for the challenging times we are living through today. Whether we are confronting the ongoing war with Iran, the seemingly unending rise in antisemitism around the world, the deep divisions within society, or the anxiety and uncertainty that so many carry each day, these ancient words speak directly to our moment. They also speak to the personal struggles that touch every human life: the loss of a loved one, illness, loneliness, disappointment, or the quiet burdens we often carry unseen.

In moments such as these, we discover that our inner strength and capacity for resilience are uplifted when we are embraced by an understanding and compassionate community that accompanies us on the journey toward healing and wholeness. The operative word in the phrase is “nitchazek – let us strengthen one another.” Judaism reminds us that we are not meant to walk the path of life alone. We are not expected to face hardship, uncertainty, or even moments of joy in isolation. We are deeply dependent upon one another and upon community itself.

This phrase has its origins in the study of Torah. Sometime during the Talmudic period, though its exact origin is uncertain, it became customary to chant “chazak, chazak, v’nitchazek” whenever the community completed one of the five books of Torah during the annual cycle of reading. Perhaps this custom emerges from the understanding that Torah is ideally studied in chevruta, in sacred partnership and fellowship. The Talmud expresses this beautifully: “As fire does not burn well when isolated, so will the words of Torah not be preserved when studied by oneself.” (Babylonian Talmud, Ta’anit 7a).

Certainly, we can study alone. Yet when we learn alongside others, we encounter dimensions of Torah, insight, and wisdom that might otherwise elude us. Torah becomes deeper and more meaningful when experienced within community. We gain immeasurably more when we listen to one another’s questions, perspectives, struggles, and discoveries.

Why am I sharing this now? This week we complete the reading of the third book of the Torah, Vayikra, the Book of Leviticus. Its concluding verse is chanted with a distinctive melody, and immediately afterward the congregation rises together to proclaim: “Chazak, chazak, v’nitchazek – Be strong, be resolute, and let us strengthen one another.”

Leviticus, with its emphasis on holiness, ritual, ethical responsibility, and sacred living, challenges us to build lives rooted in connection: connection with God, with community, and with our highest selves. It calls upon us to live with intention, purpose, compassion, and meaning.

As we welcome Shabbat this evening and complete the reading of the book of Vayikra tomorrow morning, the words “chazak, chazak, v’nitchazek” remind us that one of the essential purposes of Jewish community is to support and strengthen one another through all of life’s vicissitudes. When we truly engage with others, we come to recognize not only the strength and gifts within those around us, but also the strengths within ourselves. We begin to understand that our experiences, perspectives, and contributions complement one another and help sustain the community as a whole.

“Chazak, chazak, v’nitchazek – Be strong, hold fast, and let us strengthen one another.”

Dan Nichols Song – Chazak

Shabbat Shalom!