Year: 2026

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!

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:

  1. Take deep breaths, allowing the exhale to be longer than the inhale.
  2. Become aware of the present moment and the presence of God, setting aside worries about the day ahead.
  3. 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.
  4. 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?
  5. Envision the day ahead in a positive and purposeful light.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Breathe in this moment.
Breathe out love and blessing.

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

Shabbat Shalom.

Stones With a Human Heart

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shabbat Shalom!

Between Heaven and Earth

This week asks something profound of us.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What, then, binds all of this together?

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

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

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

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

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

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

A remarkable friendship exists, when both friends

inhabit different centuries, different countries.

People meet like wandering roots beneath

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

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

in caves and which joy and tenderness can unwind.

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

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

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

twinned together by fate, they must accompany each other:

The friendship when trained hounds sniff out a hiding place

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

Creator, you have gifted me friends of all sorts,

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

At dawn, he will rise early to water my garden

so I may distribute his grapes among spirits.