Year: 2026

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.
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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!

LGBTQ+ Rights are Jewish Rights

Shortly after I arrived in Raleigh, I encountered an unexpected and deeply sobering phenomenon. On multiple occasions, different people reached out to schedule appointments with me to ask how to apply for asylum in Canada. They heard that I am a dual U.S. – Canadian citizen and wanted to explore whether that path might be available to them and their families.

Each of these individuals shared something significant in common. Every one of them identifies as a member of the LGBTQ+ community. Each expressed fear that their rights to healthcare, marriage equality, bodily autonomy, and legal protections will be rolled back or eliminated under the current US administration. Each worried that as more federal protections for LGBTQ+ people are weakened or returned to individual states, they could lose access to employment, face barriers to housing, be denied equal benefits, or be forced to choose between their livelihood and living openly as their full selves. Many spoke of a growing fear that discrimination, harassment, and even violence could once again become sanctioned by law or tolerated by society.

A great deal has changed in the past half century, and we should never minimize the progress that has been achieved. At the same time, we still have a long way to go before true equality, safety, and full inclusion are a lived reality for our LGBTQ+ community. As of today, the ACLU is tracking 384 anti LGBTQ+ bills across the United States. Here in North Carolina alone, there are currently seven anti LGBTQ+ bills on the state’s legislative docket. While not all of these bills will ultimately become law, the very fact that they appear on legislative agendas causes harm. It sends a message of fear and exclusion that impacts not only LGBTQ+ individuals and families, but all of us who believe in dignity, justice, and the sanctity of human life.

For decades, the Reform Movement has spoken truth to power, stood with the marginalized, and advocated boldly on behalf of LGBTQ+ rights. Even with so much progress, there is still much work to be done. The Reform Movement’s long history and clear commitments to LGBTQ+ inclusion and justice can be explored through its published positions and educational resources. In recent years, the Central Conference of American Rabbis published Mishkan Ga’avah: Where Pride Dwells, a sacred collection that celebrates and affirms the achievements of the LGBTQ+ community. Through liturgy, poetry, prayer, and reflection, the book frames LGBTQ+ dignity firmly within a Reform Jewish spiritual and ethical context.

Some may ask why the Jewish community, and particularly the Reform Movement, has been so deeply committed to advocating for LGBTQ+ rights. Others may question why we teach about these issues so openly in our synagogues and religious schools.

Our answer is found at the very heart of Torah. Judaism teaches us that we are commanded to speak up for those whose voices are too often silenced, to pursue justice relentlessly, to challenge systems that cause harm, even when doing so is uncomfortable, and to stand up for what is right and just. Sometimes this means questioning accepted norms, especially when those norms treat human beings as “other” or “less than.” There is a profound difference between diversity and inclusion, and liberation and justice. Diversity may invite us into the room. Justice insists that every person’s full humanity is honored once we are there.

The Torah articulates this most powerfully in the language of sacred worth. “God created humanity in the divine image, creating it in the image of God, creating them male and female.” (Genesis 1:27). This teaching, that every human being is created b’tzelem Elohim, in the image of God, demands more than tolerance. It demands affirmation, protection, and love – precisely because every single human being is imbued with the spark of the Divine.

This week’s Torah portion, Parashat Yitro from the Book of Exodus, brings us to Mount Sinai and the giving of the Ten Commandments. Revelation at Sinai is not selective. The entire Jewish people stand together, every soul present and every voice counted. The rabbis tell a midrash, a story, to emphasize that every single person was included in both the giving and the receiving of Torah. They teach that the Divine voice at Sinai did not speak in a single voice alone. Rather, God appeared in many voices, so that each person could hear Torah in the way they were able to personally perceive and receive it. Covenant belongs to all. No one is excluded from standing at the mountain. No one is erased from the moment of sacred encounter. That vision stands in direct opposition to any system that seeks to deny the dignity, safety, or humanity of LGBTQ+ individuals.

We live in a world that still does not fully embrace the fullness of the humanity of those in the LGBTQ+ community. Here in the United States, we are witnessing a growing movement to erode hard won protections, to threaten the sanctity of LGBTQ+ lives, to limit access to healthcare and family benefits, to undermine marriage equality, and to endanger the safety and well-being of transgender children and adults. These realities are not abstract. They affect people we love.

This weekend at Temple Beth Or, we continue a long-standing decades old tradition (begun by our beloved Rabbi Emerita Lucy Dinner) with our weekend-long Sex Education Retreat for our eighth and ninth grade students. As part of this meaningful and values driven weekend, we are honored to welcome David Weitzman from Keshet as our guest speaker for our community-wide Erev Shabbat service, for our Confirmation students, and as a featured educator throughout the retreat. Keshet is a national organization dedicated to LGBTQ+ equality in Jewish life. David’s presence allows us to engage in these conversations thoughtfully and faithfully across generations.

The conversations I have been having over the past year (since the beginning of the current U.S. administration) have been deeply painful. They carry fear, uncertainty, and the longing to be safe and seen. At the same time, they remind me why education, advocacy, and communal responsibility matter so deeply. The Sex Education Retreat weekend is not separate from these concerns. It is one of the ways we lovingly teach our youth, and ourselves, that Judaism insists on dignity, safety, and the sacred worth of every human being.

Last week, I wrote about the danger of being a bystander. When it comes to LGBTQ+ justice, we cannot stand on the sidelines. We are called, as a community, to stand up, to speak out, and to advocate with compassion and courage. Judaism does not ask us to be comfortable. It asks us to respond. We live our values when we show up for one another and insist, together, on the sacred worth of every human life.

I close with this prayer, which remind us why we gather and why this work matters:

“We come together this Shabbat, each bringing to this sanctuary a private world of hopes, of fears, of dreams. Some of us are burdened by anxieties and cares that all but crush our faith in the future. Others have hearts filled with happiness, grateful for the joys of the past week, yet aware that even the most fortunate are vulnerable before the mystery of tomorrow. Every life is a unique blending of joy and sorrow, of fulfillment and frustration.

Beneath our uniqueness we are all bound together by our common humanity. All of us most deeply yearn for the blessings of freedom and peace.”
(Kol HaNeshamah: Shabbat Vehagim).

Please join us this evening for our special Erev Shabbat Service this evening with guest speaker, David Weitzman from Keshet.

Shabbat Shalom!

Bearing Witness Commands Responsibility – Do Not be a Bystander

We pray for a world where God no longer cries nor grieves over what is taking place because we have figured out how to live with one another in compassion, kindness, harmony, justice, and peace.

This week, my heart feels heavy – because this week has required us to bear witness.

Bearing witness is not simply noticing what is happening around us. It is allowing what we see to enter us and change us. Judaism teaches that once our eyes have seen, once our ears have heard, and once our hearts have discerned what can no longer be ignored, neutrality is no longer an option.

For us as Jews, bearing witness commands responsibility.

This understanding is not theoretical for me. It was instilled in me at a young age. My father taught my siblings and me that Judaism does not permit the luxury of looking away. He taught us that once your eyes have seen and your ears have heard, you are commanded to respond. Bearing witness is not optional. It obligates action. One of his favorite Jewish teachings was Leviticus 19:16 from the Torah which names this obligation clearly:

“Lo ta’amod al dam re’echa – do not stand idly by while your neighbor bleeds.” Jewish tradition understands this as more than a prohibition against indifference. It is a command rooted in seeing. Once your eyes have seen and your heart has heard, you must act, to do your part to repair what is broken.

This week, we bore witness to many things.

On Saturday, on a brutally cold day in Raleigh, nineteen Buddhist monks entered the city on the 91st day of their 2300-mile “Walk for Peace.” This was neither a political nor a religious demonstration. It was an offering rooted in their core values of peace, compassion, and mindfulness, extended to a nation hungry for all three. North Caroline Governor Josh Stein declared January 24th “Walk for Peace Day” as thousands gathered at the North Carolina Capitol to greet them. In his remarks, he acknowledged not only those present, but the many more following their journey from afar via social media. He said, “You are bringing people hope. You are inspiring people at a time when so many are in need of inspiration… In our heart of hearts, we don’t want to feel on guard against our neighbors. We want to come together… No matter your faith or where you call home, we all have a role to play in bringing about peace.”

How striking that the monks arrived in Raleigh this particular week.

Earlier that same day, in Minneapolis, Alex Pretti, a thirty-seven-year-old ICU nurse for the United States Department of Veterans Affairs, was shot and killed by federal immigration agents while trying to help someone in distress. This occurred during a gathering of approximately fifty thousand people following the January 7th killing of Renee Good, at an event called “ICE Out of Minnesota: Day of Truth and Freedom,” organized by community leaders, clergy of many faiths, and labor unions. Leaders from across the Reform Movement traveled to Minnesota to stand alongside the community, to offer solidarity, and to bear witness in person. Presence matters. Refusing to look away matters.

Our hearts ache for what is taking place in our country. A nation fractured by fear. A people struggling to recognize one another as neighbors rather than threats. Bearing witness to this reality is painful, but refusing to see it would be far more dangerous.

This same week brought another kind of sorrow. On Monday, January 26, the remains of Master Sergeant Ran Gvili, z”l, age 24 were finally returned to Israel. Ran was the last remaining hostage in Gaza after being abducted by Hamas on October 7 and murdered. At last, his family was able to lay him to rest. For the first time since 2014, no Israeli hostages remain in Gaza. Yet this moment brings neither relief nor closure. It brings sorrow layered upon sorrow. Every hostage was a whole world. Every family now carries a future forever altered by violence.

We send our deepest condolences to Ran Gvili’s family and to all the families of the hostages. May they, and all who mourn, be surrounded by compassion. May they find strength, healing, and the possibility of life beyond trauma. May all who dwell in the land of Israel, and all who long for peace, come to know safety, dignity, and security in the days ahead.

On Tuesday, January 27, we observed International Holocaust Remembrance Day. A day that demands memory, not only of the six million Jews who were murdered, but of the moral cost of silence, denial, and indifference. Holocaust remembrance is itself an act of bearing witness across generations. It reminds us what happens when hatred is normalized and when the world stands idly by.

So much heaviness to hold in a single week, layered atop the personal burdens many among us are already carrying.

Judaism teaches us that it is not enough to wring our hands and say, “Woe is me, how terrible.” “Lo ta’amod al dam re’echa.” We cannot stand idly by. Each of us must take action, even when it feels overwhelming.

Where do we begin?

Some of us will volunteer our time, offering our hands and hearts where they are most needed. Some will write or call our members of Congress, using our voices to advocate for policies rooted in dignity and justice. Some will make donations to organizations that are doing the difficult work of protecting the vulnerable and effecting change. Some will show up, again and again, for neighbors who are afraid, hurting, or marginalized. Action takes many forms. All of them matter.

The Buddhist monks embarked on their Walk for Peace. Others traveled to Minnesota to stand shoulder to shoulder with a community in pain, offering presence, support, and solidarity, and bearing witness in person. Not all of us can do these things. That does not diminish our responsibility. It clarifies it. Each of us must find the action that is ours to take.

This week, Zemer Lexie Nuell, our TBO Director of Music and Community, also felt the weight of what we have been witnessing. She saw the monks on their Walk for Peace and followed the events in Minnesota. She wondered how she would one day explain this moment in history to her children. She wrote, “It’s easy to feel beaten down or helpless watching the news right now. I know there is power and comfort that comes from singing together… I texted about this with another TBO member and knew if she and I felt like that, probably others did as well.” Her response was to act. Within two days, she organized an evening of “Songs of Peace and Protest,” even composing a new original piece for the gathering. With little notice, people came. They needed to be together. They needed to sing, to hold one another, and to remember they were not alone. The evening met the moment with grace, poignancy, uplift, and most of all bonds of unity and community.

Her response is music. Mine is words.

As an intentional interim rabbi, it is not my habit to regularly comment on political matters. But these are not ordinary times. If I do not speak up, I would not be living up to my Jewish obligation of “lo ta’amod al dam re’echa,” the very obligation my father taught me to take seriously. With my words, I hope to inspire, motivate, or encourage others to speak up, volunteer, contact elected officials, support organizations doing good work, and take meaningful action in whatever ways they are able. It does not have to be on these particular issues. It can be for any issue that matters deeply to you.

Judaism teaches that disagreement is not a failure. It is part of sacred community. We can disagree, sometimes passionately, as long as we do so with civility and kindness, and as long as we continue to sit together as one community.

This week’s Torah portion (B’shalach from the Book of Exodus) includes Shirat HaYam, the Song of the Sea. After the Israelites cross to freedom, the Egyptian army drowns behind them. The rabbis imagine the angels rejoicing, only to be silenced by God, who says, “How can you rejoice when My people are drowning?” This is why, at Passover, we remove ten drops of wine from our cups. Even our joy must be tempered by the suffering of others.

We are all God’s children. Even those with whom we profoundly disagree.

If God grieves, if God cries, when enemies perish, how much more must we grieve when innocent people are persecuted, targeted, or killed. How much more must we refuse a world in which fear determines who may safely work, worship, or walk freely.

The monks remind us that peace begins with compassion. Torah reminds us that compassion must lead to action. Bearing witness demands both.

We pray for a world where God no longer cries nor grieves over what is taking place because we have figured out how to live with one another in compassion, kindness, harmony, justice, and peace.

“Then all shall sit under their vine and fig tree, and none shall make them afraid.” (Micah 4:4).

If Not Now (by Carrie Newcomer)

Shabbat Shalom!