Month: July 2026

I Get By With a Little Help From My Friends

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

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

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

At first, I hesitated.

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

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

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

The boxes could wait.

Friendships cannot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What are your thoughts?

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

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

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

Shabbat Shalom!

Rabbi Sharon L. Sobel

From Lamentation to Consolation to Action

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rabbi Josh Weinberg, Orly Likhovski, Rabbi Michael Marmur

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shabbat Shalom!

Rabbi Sharon L. Sobel

Tzimtzum: The Sacred Pause

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

End of Numbers and beginning of Deuteronomy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shabbat Shalom!

Rabbi Sharon L. Sobel

Where Will Your Journey Take You?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shabbat Shalom!

Liberty and Justice for All

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

MAY WE GAIN WISDOM in our lives,

overflowing like a river with understanding.

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

May our deeds exceed our speech,

and may we never lift up our hand

but to conquer fear and doubt and despair.

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

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

And light up the universe with the joy of wholeness,

of freedom, and of peace.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The work of the covenant is not yet complete.

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

The answer is found within you and me.

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

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

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

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

Shabbat Shalom, and Happy Independence Day!