Year: 2026

Elul As a Training Camp

Elul gives us time to prepare before the High Holy Days are even on the close horizon. Like training for a race, the goal is not simply to reach the finish line, but to be changed by the journey.

Two of my brothers are marathon runners. Running, however, has never come naturally or easily for me. It is hard on my knees, aggravates an old back injury, and, truthfully, I much prefer cycling. But running has one great advantage: it is portable. You can do it almost anywhere.

In 2015, my brother Ezra convinced me to train for my first half-marathon, the Publix Gasparilla Distance Classic in Tampa, Florida. He promised to do it with me, and my cousin Heidi joined us as well. When I crossed the finish line, Ezra immediately texted our siblings: “Sharon did it! She feels lousy and broken but she crossed that finish line!”

I returned to Gasparilla every year until the pandemic, sometimes running, sometimes walking, sometimes training diligently, and once, regrettably, barely training at all. Ironically, that was the year I achieved my best finishing time. It was also the year I developed a stress fracture in my femur and spent nearly a month on crutches. Ouch. Lesson learned.

These days, I walk the races. It is kinder to my back and knees, and I still have the challenge of preparing for something that requires endurance. This year, I plan to walk the Gasparilla 5K, 15K, and half-marathon. Which means I had better start training now!

And that is precisely why I am sharing this with you today.

Today is the first day of the Hebrew month of Elul, the month that leads us toward Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, the Days of Awe (in Hebrew, the Yamim Nora’im). Elul reminds us of something I learned the hard way at Gasparilla: we cannot expect to arrive prepared for something simply because the date appears on the calendar.

The High Holy Days ask something of us. They ask us to examine the year that has passed, to consider whom we have hurt and where we have fallen short, to recognize what we need to repair, and to decide who we hope to become in the year ahead.

That kind of work cannot be accomplished simply by walking through the synagogue doors on Rosh Hashanah.

Elul gives us time to begin an intentional preparation process before the High Holy Days are even on the horizon.

Each weekday morning during Elul, we blow the shofar. The shofar calls us to attention: Wake up. Pay attention. We recite Psalm 27. Then, the Saturday evening prior to Rosh Hashanah, we turn toward Selichot, toward forgiveness, repentance, and repair. These practices are not rituals for ritual’s sake. They create space for questions we may otherwise be too busy, too distracted, or perhaps too reluctant to ask:

Where have I been fully present this year, and where have I merely gone through the motions?

Whom do I need to forgive?

From whom do I need to seek forgiveness?

What am I carrying that I no longer need?

What deserves more of my attention, my gratitude, my courage, or my love?

And perhaps most importantly: Am I listening closely enough to hear the answers?

Most days when I walk my training miles, I follow the same route. I do not wear headphones or listen to music or podcasts. What do I listen to?

Photo: Sharon L. Sobel

I listen to the world around me and within me. I hear the sounds of nature and the rhythm of my feet against the pavement. I listen to the thoughts that surface when I give them enough quiet to emerge. Ideas for teaching, writing, and speaking often come to me along the way. And I notice things I might otherwise walk right past, sometimes beauty growing out of something as ordinary as a crack in the sidewalk.

 

My daily route may not change, but when I pay attention, I have.

Perhaps that is part of the invitation of Elul.

We do not enter a completely different life when the Hebrew calendar turns toward a new year. We return to many of the same people, the same relationships, the same responsibilities, and even some of the same struggles. The question is whether we can encounter them differently because we have learned to see more clearly and listen more deeply.

Elul gives us the opportunity to practice.

And unlike my ill-advised half-marathon for which I did not train, there is no prize for getting through the Days of Awe quickly. The goal is not simply to cross the finish line.

The goal is to be changed by the journey.

Ways to Prepare During Elul

As we begin this journey together, Mizpah offers many opportunities for reflection, learning, contemplation, and renewal:

  • Join us for Erev Shabbat services in our beautiful historic sanctuary. Beginning this evening, and again on August 28, we will incorporate poetry, readings, meditations, and commentary from the Reform Movement’s Mishkan HaLev: Prayers for S’lichot and the Month of Elul to help ready our hearts and minds for the High Holy Days.
  • Spend some time with Mishkan HaNefesh, our High Holy Day machzor.Explore its readings, poetry, commentary, and study texts. Sometimes a familiar prayer, encountered slowly and outside the context of services, can speak to us in an entirely new way.
  • Study Torah with us on Shabbat morning, in person or via Zoom, every Saturday from 9:15 to 10:30 am. Our conversations are lively, thoughtful, engaging, and everyone is welcome.
  • Join us for our Selichot Program and Service, Saturday evening, September 5th at 6:30 pm: “Seeing Ourselves, Seeing Others: Two Short Films, One Meaningful Conversation.” We will watch two short, evocative animated films by Hanan Harchol and explore together questions of judgment, forgiveness, and teshuvah, followed by Havdalah and our beautiful Selichot service.
  • Read something that invites reflection. A few suggestions:
    • Golden: The Power of Silence in a World of Noise, by Justin Zorn and Leigh Marz
    • On Repentance and Repair: Making Amends in an Unapologetic World, by Danya Ruttenberg
    • Zen and the Art of Running: The Path to Making Peace with Your Pace, by Larry Shapiro, PhD
    • This Is Real and You Are Completely Unprepared: The Days of Awe as a Journey of Transformation, by Alan Lew

You do not have to do everything. Choose one thing. Read something. Listen to something. Study. Pray. Walk. Sit quietly. Have a conversation you have been avoiding. Call someone. Ask yourself a difficult question and give yourself enough silence to hear the answer.

There is no single way to prepare.

There is only the invitation to begin.

May this month of Elul give each of us the courage to pay attention, the patience to listen, and the openness to discover something new, even along a path we have walked many times before.

Shabbat Shalom!

Rabbi Sharon L. Sobel

Open Your Hand, Open Your Heart

We live amid extraordinary beauty and abundance, yet need surrounds us. How can we open our hearts, open our hands, and make a difference?

The first time I visited Chattanooga, I was struck by its tremendous natural beauty. It is absolutely gorgeous, with lush greenery, breathtaking mountain views, and the Tennessee River meandering through the city.

I love the way history mingles with modernity here. Chattanooga has transformed itself into a vibrant, revitalized city, known as “Gig City” for its pioneering high-speed fiber-optic network. We have a wonderful downtown, a world-class aquarium, the Creative Discovery Children’s Museum, the Hunter Museum of American Art, beautiful parks and trails, and extraordinary natural surroundings.

Our own Mizpah Congregation is part of this rich history. Founded in 1866, Mizpah has been part of Chattanooga for 160 years. Our history is intertwined with some remarkable figures in American Jewish life, including Adolph Ochs, publisher of The New York Times; Rabbi Isaac Mayer Wise, one of the architects of Reform Judaism in America; and our beloved Rabbi Abraham Feinstein, who served this congregation for more than three decades.

When I first arrived, I was also surprised to discover that our congregational cemetery shares a property line with the Confederate Cemetery. And every day on my way to Mizpah, I pass the Trail of Tears. History touches us everywhere we look. Some of that history inspires pride; some of it reminds us of painful chapters in our nation’s past that we must never forget.

Yes, we have so much to be proud of. We live in a breathtakingly beautiful city, surrounded by reminders of a history that is complex and still very much present.

Yet, almost every day when I drive to work, I see another side of Chattanooga.

Just down the block from Mizpah, I notice people who are homeless, sometimes pushing all of their worldly possessions before them in a shopping cart. Some evenings, people use the doorways of buildings around us as shelter.

The contrast is stark and heartbreaking.

This disparity between abundance and need is hardly new. In fact, it lies at the heart of this week’s Torah portion, Re’eh:

If however, there is a needy person among you…do not harden your heart and shut your hand against your needy kin. Rather, you must open your hand and lend what is sufficient to meet the need. Beware, lest …you are mean and give nothing to your needy kin – who will cry out to the Eternal against you, and you will incur guilt. Give readily and have no regrets…For there will never cease to be needy ones in your land. (Deuteronomy 15: 7-11)

Immediately prior to this, the Torah explains that God is giving us a good land with enough food to feed all, so there will “never be needy among you.” (Deuteronomy 15:4)

How can these two seemingly contradictory ideas exist simultaneously in the Torah? How can Torah envision a society in which no one need be poor and, only a few verses later, acknowledge that there will always be those in need?

Perhaps that tension is precisely the point.

The Torah holds both before us an ideal and the reality. The ideal is a society in which God’s blessings are shared so fully and so justly that no one lacks what they need. The reality is the world in which we actually live, where abundance does not necessarily mean that everyone has enough.

We know this reality all too well. Our world has extraordinary abundance, and yet people remain hungry. We have tremendous wealth, and yet people sleep without shelter. We have closets overflowing with clothing, and yet others lack even the most basic necessities.

The Torah does not allow us to look at this disparity and simply shrug our shoulders. Notice the language it uses: Do not harden your heart. Do not shut your hand. Open your hand.

The movement is from the heart to the hand. Compassion must lead to action. Our faith in God must be an impetus to action, not an excuse for inertia.

The 18th-century Chasidic master Rabbi Moshe Leib of Sassov expressed this idea in even more audacious terms:

There are times when we must actually believe that there is no God! For example, when someone who is needy comes to ask you for bread, you must not send him away with such comforting words as, ‘God will provide,’ nor may you use God as an excuse by saying, ‘If God wanted you to have my money, then you would have it.’ At that moment, you must act as if there is no God, and you are the only one who can help.

 In other words, we cannot outsource our responsibility to God. We are God’s partners in repairing the broken places of our world. Sometimes the answer to another person’s prayer is not a miracle from heaven. Sometimes the answer is us.

What does that mean for us?

It can mean supporting organizations that provide food, shelter, clothing, medical care, and other necessities to those who need them. It can mean keeping food, water, or other useful items in our cars to offer when we encounter someone in need. It can mean volunteering our time. It can mean learning more about homelessness and food insecurity in our own community, and supporting efforts that address not only immediate needs, but also the circumstances that create and perpetuate poverty.

Above all, it means remembering the dignity of the person standing before us: treating everyone as an individual made in God’s image, b’tzelem Elohim, worthy of receiving honor, blessing, food, clothing, and shelter.

During the upcoming High Holy Days, Mizpah will once again collect funds to support our local food pantry. I hope each of us will participate as generously as we are able. Please watch your email and upcoming congregational notices for more information about how you can help.

I understand that these measures will not eliminate homelessness, hunger, or poverty. No single act of generosity can solve problems this complex. However, Judaism teaches us that even though we cannot finish the work, neither are we free to walk away from it.

The rabbinic sages imagined that when we enter the world to come, we will be asked, “What was your work?” If we can answer: “I used to feed the hungry, I clothed the naked, I tried to do my part,” we will be told:

“This is God’s gate: you who fed the hungry, clothed the naked and did your part, you may enter.” (Midrash on Psalm 118:17)

 We understand that there will always be those among us who are poor or homeless. Yet the Torah’s realism should never be mistaken for fatalism. At the same time, we never give up trying to eradicate these issues.

Rabbi and theologian Leo Baeck wrote:

Every suffering of our neighbor must become our own concern, a test and proof of our ethical freedom… When we face poverty, we meet not the language of fate but the demand of a definite duty imposed on us. In the most special sense of the commandment is the poor man our fellow man… Through him humanity appeals to us, bare and naked, humanity, one might say, asking for human fellowship. (Leo Baeck, The Essence of Judaism)

This is the challenge Re’eh places before us. The Torah does not ask whether we can eliminate every inequity in our society. It asks what we will do when need appears before us.

Will we avert our eyes?

Will we harden our hearts?

Will we shut our hands?

We live amid extraordinary beauty and abundance. The challenge is to make certain that the beauty of our surroundings is reflected in the beauty of how we treat one another.

How will you open your hand, open your heart, and make a difference this week?

Shabbat Shalom!

Rabbi Sharon L. Sobel

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!

Don’t Worry. We’ve Got You.

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

This week, I am surrounded by boxes.

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

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

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

The truth is that I am feeling surprisingly calm.

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

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

“Don’t worry. We’ve got you.”

Those five words have stayed with me.

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

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

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

We rarely know exactly what lies ahead.

The Torah understands these in-between moments well.

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

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

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

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

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

People who show up.

People who carry part of the load.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t worry. We’ve got you.”

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

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

“Don’t worry. I’ve got you.”

Shabbat Shalom!

An Unexpected Gift

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

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

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

Jewish Pride

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

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

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

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

We are living through another challenging chapter today.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How do we respond?

We can show up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shabbat Shalom!

Pride, Allyship, and the Sacred In-Between

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The answer is both simple and deeply Jewish.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That is why Pride Month matters.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Twilight People (by Rabbi Reuben Zellman)

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

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

Baruch Atah Adonai, haMaariv Aravim.

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

 Happy Pride!

Shabbat Shalom!