2026 - Rabbi Sharon Sobel

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!

An Island in Time

A mountain retreat opens into reflection, connection, and a gentle return to Shabbat as sacred pause.

This past week, I traveled to the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina to spend a few days at a meditation and retreat center. It was a new experience for me. I arrived curious, open, and perhaps a bit skeptical. My natural inclination leans toward more vigorous, physical forms of renewal, yet I felt drawn to explore a different path.

As I drove higher into the mountains, the landscape shifted. The road narrowed and curved, the air thinned, and the vistas opened wide. Layer upon layer of blue-green ridges stretched into the distance, wrapped in mist, quiet and expansive. There was a sense of being held, suspended between earth and sky, in a place that invited both awe and stillness.

Shortly after arriving, I met three women who would become my companions for the duration of the retreat. We came from different places and carried different stories, yet something drew us together. We shared all of our meals, our reflections, and, over time, a sense of trust and friendship that deepened with each conversation. (Note: the image for this post was taken by one of my new friends, Julie McCaskill. Thank you, Julie!)

Our retreat, The Deep Unwind: Rest, Renewal, and Radical Worthiness, wove together teaching, gentle physical practice, and mindfulness. We were invited to slow down, to listen inward, to release what no longer serves us, and to imagine who we might become when we focus with intention and compassion.

It rained steadily throughout the entire second day. And then, that evening at dinner, the rain ceased, and a magnificent double rainbow appeared, as if to remind us that even in life’s storms, God’s promise of hope and renewal is always present.

At one meal, one of my new friends shared the five mindfulness practices with which she begins each day. I found them both simple and profound:

Take deep breaths, allowing the exhale to be longer than the inhale.
Become aware of the present moment and the presence of God, setting aside worries about the day ahead.
Practice gratitude, even for the smallest blessings. Use this time to pray for loved ones, and even for those yet to enter your life whom you may not know.
Ask: Who do I want to be today? Are my thoughts rooted in the past, or are they guiding me toward a future aligned with God’s will?
Envision the day ahead in a positive and purposeful light.

I shared that before I go to sleep each night, I recite the Sh’ma along with my own personal prayers. In that moment, it became clear that although our languages and traditions may differ, our longing for meaning, connection, and presence is deeply shared.

In our conversations, we reflected on the role of religion and spirituality in our lives, and on the practices that help us become more attentive, more compassionate, more whole. I found myself thinking that if more of us lived with this kind of intention, our world might be gentler, more just, more loving, more kind, and more at peace. The relationships formed in those few days felt genuine and enduring.

Though the retreat center draws from Ayurvedic traditions, so much of what we practiced felt deeply familiar. These rhythms of mindfulness, gratitude, reflection, and rest are woven into the very fabric of Jewish life. As the sun sets this evening, we enter Shabbat, the Jewish Sabbath, our sacred weekly invitation to pause, to breathe, and to return to ourselves, our community, and to God. So in that spirit, I offer this Shabbat meditation:

All week long, we sail on the restless seas of our lives.
The winds of obligation push us in many directions.
The tides of responsibility pull us toward work, toward tasks, toward the demands that fill our days.

And then, every seventh day, the horizon shifts.
An island appears.

It is lush with stillness, fragrant with peace, and shaded with the sheltering presence of the Holy.

Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel teaches, “Shabbat is an island in time… a sanctuary we build with our soul” (The Sabbath: Its Meaning for Modern Man, p. 29).

It is not made of stone or wood.
Its walls are woven from moments of rest and prayer.
Its gates open with the lighting of candles.
Its beauty is shaped by joy and gratitude.

On this island, there is no need to hurry.
The sun sets slowly.
The air feels softer.

Here, our spirits may breathe.
Here, we remember that we are more than what we produce.
We are souls, created b’tzelem Elohim, in the image of the Divine.

We step ashore now.
We leave behind the noise of the week and enter the quiet waters of Shabbat.
We open our hands, our hearts, our voices.
We let the sweetness of this time wash over us.

Shabbat has arrived.
The island is here.
Come, let us dwell in its peace.

As we enter this sacred “island in time,” I invite you to arrive fully, heart, mind, and soul.

Breathe in the peace of Shabbat.
Breathe out the rush and noise of the week.

Breathe in the light of community.
Breathe out the burdens you no longer need to carry.

Breathe in awareness of all that sustains you.
Breathe out with gratitude.

Breathe in this moment.
Breathe out love and blessing.

Let the stillness of Shabbat awaken our hearts to all we have.
Let us enter this holy time with full hearts, open spirits, and a deep connection to each other and to the Divine.

Shabbat Shalom.

Stones With a Human Heart

Even in times of uncertainty, the human heart can remain open to hope and the promise of a better tomorrow.

This past week, the lyrics of the classic Israeli song “HaKotel” (“The Western Wall,” written by Yossi Gamzu and Dubi Zeltzer and made popular by singer Ofra Haza) have echoed in my mind: “Yesh anashim im lev shel even, yesh avanim im lev adam, There are people with hearts of stone, and there are stones with a human heart.”

These words have lingered with me as we move through days that feel both fragile and profound. The ceasefires between Israel and Iran, and between Israel and Hezbollah in Lebanon, remain deeply fragile. Each report of a rocket or missile reminds us how quickly calm can give way to escalation, how urgently peace must be protected and sustained.

The reverberations are not distant. They reach us here in North America, shaping how we gather, how we pray, how we care for one another. Just days ago, Reform Congregation Beth Israel in Houston, Texas, and its school community faced threats that forced early closure. Fear entered a sacred space, a place meant for learning, for prayer, for belonging. Yet what followed was not silence or withdrawal. It was community. It was vigilance joined with resilience. It was a reminder that even when confronted with acts that attempt to harden hearts, we are called to respond differently. We are called to be among those who refuse hearts of stone, choosing instead to live with hearts open to life, connection, and responsibility for one another.

And this week as well, we marked Yom HaZikaron, Israel Memorial Day, for fallen soldiers and victims of terror in Israel and Yom Ha’atzma’ut, Israel Independence Day. These sacred days ask something powerful of us. We move from remembrance to celebration, from grief to gratitude, from honoring loss to affirming life. The transition is not simple. It is not meant to be. It reflects the fullness of our story as a people.

“Am Yisrael Chai – The Jewish People Lives!” is not only a declaration of survival. It is a commitment to purpose. It reminds us that even in moments of tension or uncertainty, our task is to hold fast to what binds us together: memory, responsibility, and hope.

In these days, I return to a moment of learning that has stayed with me. Years ago, I stood on Mount Herzl, Israel’s national cemetery, a place that carries the weight and the wonder of the Jewish story. Guided by Professor David Mendelsson, we were invited to see the site not only as a place of burial, but as a living testament to the values of a people still becoming.

We stood at the resting places of Theodor Herzl, Yitzhak Rabin, Shimon Peres, and Hannah Senesh, alongside countless young soldiers whose lives were cut short in defense of the State of Israel. Each name, each stone, tells a story of courage, sacrifice, and enduring vision.

As we walked, we saw how the diversity of the Jewish people is etched into that sacred ground. Communities from Morocco, the former Soviet Union, Ethiopia, and beyond have all shaped the unfolding narrative of Israel. Their voices, traditions, and dreams are woven into the fabric of the nation.

While we stood there, the rain began to fall. It came softly at first, then steadily, until we were soaked through. It felt as though the heavens themselves were joining in remembrance. We paused together and recited memorial prayers and Kaddish:

“Remember the fallen of the State of Israel, our brothers and sisters, the victims of terror. May the darkness of their loss not obscure the light of peace. …Yitbarach v’yistabach v’yitpa’er…”

In that moment, physical discomfort faded into the background. What remained was clarity. Memory is not passive. “Never again” is not only a statement of the past; it is a call that shapes how we live now.

To pray for peace is to commit ourselves to its possibility. To speak of hope is to act in ways that make hope real. To honor those who have fallen is to build a future worthy of their sacrifice.

The stones of Mount Herzl speak. They speak of lives lived with purpose. They speak of a people bound together not only by history, but by shared responsibility. They remind us that even in times of uncertainty, the human heart can remain open, resilient, and directed toward goodness.

The vision of Israel, and of Jerusalem as its spiritual heart, was expressed long ago in the words of the Psalmist:

“Pray for the well-being of Jerusalem;
May those who love you be at peace.
May there be well-being within your walls,
Peace within your citadels.
For the sake of my kin and friends, I pray for your well-being;
For the sake of the house of Adonai our God, I seek your good.”
(Psalm 122:6–9)

Jerusalem is more than a place. It is a vision of wholeness, a call to pursue peace with courage and with faith.

May we have the strength to listen to the stones. May we allow their stories to guide us toward compassion, toward unity, toward a future shaped by dignity and hope. May our hearts remain open as we continue the sacred work of building a world worthy of those we remember and those who will come after us.

Shabbat Shalom!

Between Heaven and Earth

This week asks something profound of us.

It asks us to hold wonder and grief, hope and heartbreak, memory and responsibility, all at the same time.

Just days ago, NASA’s Artemis II began its journey, circling the moon and sending back images that stop us in our tracks. There is something almost spiritual in those photographs. They expand our sense of what is possible. They remind us how small we are, and at the same time, how capable we can be.

And yet, even as we look upward, we are pulled sharply back to Earth.

This past Sunday, an Iranian ballistic missile smashed into an apartment building in Haifa, killing four members of the same family: Vladimir Gershovitz and Lena Ostrovsky Gershovitz, their son Dimitri “Dima,” and his wife Lucille-Jane. Dima was part of our Reform community, having grown up at the Israeli Reform Movement’s Leo Baeck School in Haifa. Their loss is not abstract. It is personal, and like all such deaths, it is devastating.

At the same time, we are living through a fragile, short-term ceasefire between the United States and Iran. We want to believe in it. We need to believe in it. However, we are not naïve for we know how tenuous such moments can be.

So what does Judaism ask of us in a week like this?

It asks us not to choose between awe and anguish, but to live within both.

That is why, in these past weeks since the war with Iran began, we have added an extra candle before we light the Shabbat candles. Not because light erases darkness, but because it insists that darkness is not the final word. A candle for hope. A candle for peace. A candle for the sacred worth of every human life, created b’tzelem Elohim, in the image of God.

This evening, our Temple Beth Or (TBO) Tikkun Olam Committee will host a special “Earth Day Shabbat,” grounding us in our responsibility to care for the world we have been given. In this week’s parasha, Sh’mini, holiness emerges not in abstraction, but in the details of how we live. Holiness is not removed from the world. It is enacted within it. In how we care for all living creatures, how we protect, how we choose to live.

Then, on Sunday, we turn to memory in a way that is uniquely our own. Per TBO’s custom, we will gather in the sanctuary for our annual 12-hour reading of names of those who perished in the Holocaust: “Unto Every Person There is a Name.” Hour after hour, name after name, we restore dignity to those whose lives were taken and whose stories must never be forgotten. At 6:30 pm, TBO’s own Kathryn Struminger will share her family’s Holocaust story, and we will conclude at 7:00 pm with prayers and songs of commemoration.

What, then, binds all of this together?

It is the quiet, stubborn insistence of Jewish life that even in a fractured world, we are called to respond with meaning.

This is not easy work. It never has been. It is sacred work.

To look at the vastness of the heavens and feel humility.
To face human suffering and refuse indifference.
To care for the earth as something entrusted to us.
To remember those who came before us, not as numbers, but as individuals who had been known by their names, personalities, deeds, and so much more.
And to live our lives with purpose and meaning.

The Yiddish poet and Holocaust survivor Abraham Sutzkever gives voice to this in the poem that follows. He writes of a friendship that stretches across time and place, a bond that endures even in the face of loss. It is, in many ways, a reflection of who we are as a people: bound to one another, across generations, carrying memory, carrying hope, carrying responsibility.

We hope you will join us tonight for a very special Erev Shabbat and then again this coming Sunday as we gather not to escape the world, but to meet it with courage, with community, with song, with commemoration.

A Remarkable Friendship Exists (Poem by Abraham Sutzkever, translated from the Yiddish by Maia Evrona)

A remarkable friendship exists, when both friends

inhabit different centuries, different countries.

People meet like wandering roots beneath

treetops split in two: Are you that friend? –Yes, I am he.

There is a friendship like a biblical scroll, which you find

in caves and which joy and tenderness can unwind.

Unfurl it—Then it will narrate our saga too. Otherwise,

it will flake away and fall to pieces in your fingers.

There are friends whose bond is stronger than love, than hate,

twinned together by fate, they must accompany each other:

The friendship when trained hounds sniff out a hiding place

and though one friend can escape, he remains with the other.

Creator, you have gifted me friends of all sorts,

and among them a special one, who stays most devoted:

At dawn, he will rise early to water my garden

so I may distribute his grapes among spirits.

Happy Birthday, Mom!

Five days ago, on March 15th, marked the sixteenth yahrzeit of my mother. And today, March 20th, would have been her eighty-sixth birthday. She died just five days before turning seventy.

Today is also the first day of spring, the spring equinox.

There is something in that convergence that I cannot ignore.

Jewish time asks us to hold memory and renewal in the same breath. We do not wait until grief is finished to begin again. We do not wait until the heart is fully repaired to notice what is blooming. Instead, we stand in that in-between place, where loss and possibility meet.

Kohelet (Ecclesiastes) teaches, “לַכֹּל זְמָן וְעֵת לְכָל חֵפֶץ תַּחַת הַשָּׁמָיִם” — “For everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven” (Ecclesiastes 3:1).

And yet, life rarely parcels itself so neatly. The seasons overlap. The calendar folds in on itself. A yahrzeit can sit beside a birthday. Winter can turn toward spring even as we are still carrying what has been.

The equinox itself is a moment of balance. Equal light and equal darkness. Not the absence of night, but its partnership with day.

That is what this day feels like to me.

Sixteen years of missing my mother. At the same time, the quiet, insistent return of light. The memory of who she was. The question of who I am still becoming because she lived.

The psalmist cries out, “מִן־הַמֵּצַר קָרָאתִי יָּהּ עָנָנִי בַמֶּרְחָב יָהּ” — “From the narrow place I called out to God; God answered me with expansiveness” (Psalm 118:5).

Grief can be a narrow place. It can constrict, press in, make the world feel smaller than it once was. And yet, somehow, over time, something widens. Not because the loss disappears, but because love insists on taking up space. Because memory becomes not only what we carry, but what carries us.

Spring does not erase winter. It emerges from within it.

Perhaps that is what we mean when we speak about renewal, about rebirth. Not a return to what was, but the courage to become something new while still carrying what has been.

This morning in my pre-Shabbat Rabbi’s Corner message, I wrote about courage as an act of holiness. This evening, I am realizing that this may be one of the holiest forms of courage we are asked to practice: the courage to begin again without letting go of what we have loved.

To allow grief and growth to coexist.
To let memory root us, even as we reach toward what is still unfolding.

Rabbi Nachman of Bratslav taught, “כָּל הָעוֹלָם כֻּלּוֹ גֶּשֶׁר צַר מְאֹד, וְהָעִקָּר לֹא לְפַחֵד כְּלָל” — “The whole world is a very narrow bridge, and the essential thing is not to be afraid at all.”

Perhaps not being afraid does not mean that we are untouched by loss. Perhaps it means that even on the narrow bridge, we keep walking. That we trust there is something on the other side of winter. That we allow ourselves to step into the unknown with tenderness, with memory, with love.

Tonight, I am aware that my mother does not get any older. She will forever remain five days shy of 70. However, I become older each and every second of the day.

Tonight, I am also carrying her with me in a different way.

I will wear her dress that was made for her when she was in her early 20’s – a dress that is almost as old as I.
I will be wrapped in her tallit, made for her by my sister-in-law, Marilyn.
I will be adorned with her jewelry, bequeathed to her by my grandfather, Bill.

I also look like my mother. I see her face every time I look in the mirror.

But more than that, I carry in my heart the love she lavished upon me. I try to live the values she taught me, not only in what I believe, but in the choices I make, in the ways I show up, and in the love I extend to others. And I carry her through the quiet, enduring gift of memory.

Not as costume. Not as memory alone. But as something that still lives. Something that still moves. Something that still accompanies me into this moment.

Maybe this is what rebirth can look like.

Not becoming someone entirely new, untethered from what has been. But allowing what we have loved to continue to live through us. In what we wear. In how we bless. In the ways we show up for one another. In our hearts, our minds, our memories, and our actions and deeds of love.

The past does not disappear. It becomes part of the fabric of who we are becoming.

So on this night of equinox, of balance, of beginnings that come intertwined with endings, perhaps the invitation is this:

To honor what has been.
To bless what is.
And to find the courage, again and again, to step into what is still becoming.

Happy birthday, Mom!

Courage As An Act of Holiness

Earlier this week, I found myself walking through a space not yet complete, and yet already filled with presence. In the historic Presidio in San Francisco, overlooking the quiet vastness of the bay, a new institution is taking shape: the Courage Museum (A project of Futures Without Violence). It is still being built, still finding its physical form, and yet its spirit is already unmistakably alive.

This is not a museum in the traditional sense. It is envisioned as a kind of laboratory for human transformation, a space that asks not only what has happened, but what might yet be possible. Its founders, including Esta Soler of Futures Without Violence, (and a member of URJ Congregation Emanuel in San Francisco) speak of it as an effort to spark a movement of young changemakers, to turn courage into action before violence ever takes root.

I was there with a group of rabbis as part of my Reform Rabbis’ conference (CCAR). We were invited not simply to observe, but to learn, be inspired, and to bear witness: to stories of gun violence, sexual violence, racial hatred, harm inflicted in the very places meant to be safest. Stories of antisemitism, isolation, pain carried quietly and for far too long. It could have been overwhelming, except that the telling itself was suffused with something else, something that felt like insistence: that these stories matter, that they must be heard, and that listening itself can begin to shift the world.

I was mesmerized.

We were joined by a panel of four Jewish teens from a local Hebrew Day School. They spoke about courage, about what it means to inherit a broken world and still believe in the possibility of repair. They were articulate in a way that felt almost startling, not because of rehearsal and practice, but because of clarity. They did not speak in abstractions. They spoke about responsibility. About empathy. About the quiet, difficult work of really hearing another person’s story. They spoke their truths.

As I listened, I found myself wondering whether courage, in their generation, may look different than it has in our own. Perhaps it is less about certainty, more about openness. Less about having the answers, more about the willingness to stay present to questions that do not resolve easily. There was something in their voices that suggested not naiveté, but a kind of moral imagination, a capacity to envision a world not yet built and to begin, even now, to work toward a future bright with the promise of hope.

Then, as if on cue, we turn this week to the opening word of the book of Leviticus: Vayikra, “And God called.”

“וַיִּקְרָא אֶל־מֹשֶׁה וַיְדַבֵּר ה’ אֵלָיו מֵאֹהֶל מוֹעֵד לֵאמֹר׃”
“And God called to Moses and spoke to him from the Tent of Meeting, saying…” (Leviticus 1:1).

The Torah does not begin this book with action, but with a call. A reaching outward. A voice that invites response.

In our tradition, holiness is not something distant or abstract. It is something we create through attention, through relationship, through the ways we choose to show up in the world. To be called is not only to hear, but to answer. To be called is to recognize that the work of bringing sanctity into the world is not reserved for another time or another generation. It is for each and every one of us, here and now.

Standing in that unfinished museum, listening to those young voices, I felt that call in a new way. Not as something grand or distant, but as something immediate and human. The call to listen more deeply. The call to cultivate empathy, cultivate courage. The call to take seriously the possibility that transformation begins not with systems alone, but with the courage to encounter one another, fully and honestly.

Holiness, then, may begin here. Not only in ritual, though it lives there as well, but in the spaces where we allow ourselves to be changed by what we hear. In the quiet, demanding work of seeing another person’s humanity and refusing to turn away.

There is so much work that remains. And none of it can be done alone.

As we gather this Shabbat, perhaps the question is not only whether we hear the call of Vayikra, but how we choose to answer it. What it might mean, in this moment, to become people who do not wait for a finished world, but instead step, with courage, with empathy, and with open hearts and minds, into the work of building it together.

Shabbat Shalom!

What Gifts Did You Bring?

The most meaningful gifts we can offer others are rarely material – they are the gifts of our presence, the gifts of compassion, understanding, and kindness.

I grew up in New Jersey, far from both sets of grandparents who lived in New England. Back then, travel to visit was a journey and a real effort. We saw my grandparents only two or three times a year.

After my maternal grandfather died, my grandmother remarried a Holocaust survivor from Germany who worked for Hasbro Toys. When they would pull into our driveway after their long drive to visit us, my four brothers, sister, and I would race out to the car, bursting with excitement after so much time apart. We would exchange hugs and kisses, and often the first thing out of our mouths was, “What gifts did you bring us?”

What gifts did you bring us? My parents were appalled.

And yet, we adored my grandparents, not for their physical gifts, but for their boundless love and their unwavering acceptance. We were young children who had not yet matured enough to express gratitude for the truest gifts they gave us, the gift of themselves, their presence, and their open hearts. We never had the chance to fully express this to my grandmother. She died of metastatic breast cancer just before I turned sixteen.

In this week’s Torah portion, Terumah, from the Book of Exodus, God instructs Moses to tell the Israelites: ‘Tell the Israelite people to bring Me gifts; you shall accept gifts for Me from every person whose heart is so moved’ (Exodus 25:2).” It should be noted that the name of the portion itself, Terumah, literally means “gifts.”

These gifts were for the building of the mishkan, the portable sanctuary. Their purpose was not simply to create a beautiful sacred space, but to allow each person to invest something of themselves in a shared holy project. In giving, the people expressed gratitude for their redemption from Egypt and for the covenant they were about to enter at Sinai. Through these voluntary offerings, they began to understand what it meant to become Am Yisrael, the People of Israel, a people bound to one another and to God.

Of course, God does not need gifts. God does not require gold, fabric, or precious stones, nor even a sanctuary, in order to dwell among us. The gifts were never for God. They were for the people themselves. In the act of giving, hearts were shaped, relationships were formed, and holiness took root.

One of the enduring teachings of Terumah is that the most meaningful gifts in our lives are rarely material. The deepest blessings come from the people who show up for us, who offer their time, their care, their compassion, and their presence. These are the gifts that sustain us as individuals and bind us together as a community.

Life is ephemeral. We do not always realize in the moment the magnitude of what we are being given. Parashat Terumah reminds us to notice, to receive with humility, and to respond with gratitude. To honor the gifts in our lives is itself a sacred act.

This teaching feels especially resonant this week, as our three monotheistic traditions enter sacred seasons that call us to give from the heart, each in our own language and ritual grammar. For our Muslim friends, Wednesday evening marked the beginning of Ramadan, the most holy month in Islam. This sacred time is devoted to spiritual reflection, self-discipline, prayer, and deepened responsibility to community. For our Christian neighbors, Wednesday was Ash Wednesday, the start of Lent, a forty-day journey of humility, repentance, prayer, fasting, and almsgiving. And for our Jewish community, Wednesday ushered in the month of Adar, the month of Purim, when one of our central mitzvot is the giving of tzedakah and gifts to others.

Parashat Terumah teaches that holiness is not built through obligation alone, but through offerings that come from a willing heart. In different ways, these sacred seasons ask the same of us. They invite us to step beyond ourselves, to notice the needs of others, and to recognize that spiritual life is inseparable from how we care for one another.

It is no coincidence that in the week we read a Torah portion devoted to gifts freely given, our faith traditions are each emphasizing generosity, humility, and responsibility for the vulnerable. While our practices and beliefs are distinct, the moral vision beneath them is shared. Difference itself becomes a gift when it leads us toward deeper compassion, greater understanding, and a more just world.

May we learn to see the people in our lives, and the people beyond our own communities, as gifts. May the offerings we bring, of kindness, compassion, and presence, help build a world worthy of God’s abiding presence. “V’asu li mikdash, v’shachanti b’tocham – let them build Me a sanctuary, that I may dwell among them.” (Exodus 25:8)

Shabbat Shalom!