May 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.