Rabbi Dina Rosenberg

This week’s Torah portion begins with a powerful line:

“See, I set before you today a blessing and a curse…” (Deut 11:26)

At first glance, it sounds simple—choose the blessing, avoid the curse. But life is rarely that clear-cut, right? Sometimes the most meaningful blessings show up as challenges, hard work, or uncomfortable conversations. And sometimes what feels good in the moment—comfort, convenience, going along with the crowd—can actually pull us away from our values.

The Torah’s message isn’t just about big, dramatic moral choices. It’s about the everyday stuff: how we treat people, how we speak, what we prioritize, what we let slide. Judaism teaches that every choice matters, and that we’re capable of choosing well—not just based on what we feel but based on what we believe.

What’s beautiful here is that we’re trusted. God doesn’t micromanage; instead, we’re given real agency. That’s both empowering and a little daunting. But it also means that even the small decisions—how we show up at work, how we speak to our families, how we act when no one’s watching—can be moments of blessing.

This Shabbat, take a breath. Think about the choices in front of you—maybe not huge, life-changing ones, but the quiet ones that shape your days. Ask yourself: Does this move me toward who I want to be?

This week’s parsha almost sounds like a parent speaking to their child:

“The clothes on your back didn’t wear out, and your feet didn’t swell these forty years” (Deuteronomy 8:4).

Remember the manna? The water from the rock? The roof over your head? God provided all of that. But it’s not just a warm “I love you” moment — it’s also followed by:

“So keep the commandments… walk in God’s ways… and when you’ve eaten your fill, give thanks” (Deuteronomy 8:6, 10).

And that raises the question: Is this pure, unconditional love? Or is God giving in order to get something back — loyalty, gratitude, obedience? It’s the kind of dynamic many of us know from our own relationships: a parent loves deeply, but also wants the child to live by their values and say “thank you” once in a while.

A parent’s love may be unconditional, but the relationship flourishes when the child listens, remembers, and honors that love. God’s love shelters and sustains us, yet it also invites us to respond — to live with gratitude, to walk in God’s ways, and to make choices that reflect the blessings we have received.

Maybe God’s love for us is both — real and sustaining, but also filled with a hope that we will act and align with God’s expectations.

This Shabbat, may we notice the blessings around us before God has to start with, ‘Remember when your clothes didn’t wear out…?’

Happy Tu B’Av — the Jewish Day of Love!

This minor Jewish holiday is actually one of the most joyous of the year — second only to Yom Kippur, according to the Mishnah (Taanit 4:8). It is best known for the beautiful image of Israelite maidens dressed in white, dancing in the vineyards and seeking partners. But there’s a lesser-known, deeply powerful Midrash from Taanit 30b that offers an even more profound message for our day.

At the end of the Israelites’ 40 years of wandering, the final remnant of the generation punished for the sin of the spies — those who had been told they would not enter the Promised Land — found themselves still alive. Every year on Tisha B’Av, the people would dig their own graves and lie down in them, expecting not to wake up. Year after year, many did not. But in the 40th year, fifteen thousand people went to sleep in those graves… and woke up.

Thinking they had miscalculated the date, they repeated the ritual night after night — until they saw the full moon of Tu B’Av rise in the sky. Only then did they understand: the decree was lifted. They were no longer bound to the punishment of the past — they were free to join the new generation, and to walk forward into a new future.

Tu B’Av is a day of personal and communal rebirth. It’s not just about romantic love — it’s about self-love, healing, and the courage to hope again after despair.

In a world that often teaches us to doubt ourselves, to compare, to diminish our worth — Tu B’Av offers a spiritual challenge:

What if the decree against you has already been lifted?
What if you’re already whole enough to begin again?

This Tu B’Av, I challenge you to practice radical compassion — for yourself. Celebrate the love you offer to others, yes — but also the love you so deeply deserve to receive from yourself.

The Shabbat before Tisha B’Av is called Shabbat Chazon—the Shabbat of Vision. On this Shabbat, poised on the edge of memory and mourning, we stand before the destruction of the Temples and the exile from our land. And yet, rather than weep, we are offered a vision: the vision of the Third Temple.

Tradition teaches that this vision is meant to give us hope—hope that one day korbanot (sacrifices) will resume, that all Jews will return to the Land of Israel, and that the building of the Third Temple will open the gates of the Messianic Era.

But what if that is not your vision of Judaism?

What if daily sacrifices and a mass return to Israel do not feel like the spiritual future you long for? How, then, can Shabbat Chazon still speak to you?

Our sages offer another possibility: that the Third Temple will not be a structure of stone at all, but a Temple of the soul—eternal, spiritual, and created by God. Shabbat Chazon, then, is a vision of a world at peace with itself, a world filled with the knowledge of God and the potential for human wholeness. It is a reminder that if we strive to correct our behavior, to live in alignment with our highest values, God will build for us a Temple of unification, where holiness fills every corner of life.

On this Shabbat Chazon, may we lift our eyes to that vision:

A future where every person is valued, no one is hungry, and God’s presence is felt by all humanity.
A vision not of stone, but of spirit.
A vision we can begin building—here and now.

This week in Parashat Matot/Masei, we learn about vows — serious promises people make to take something on, or to give something up. In the Torah, making a neder (a vow) isn’t casual; it is a brit (covenantal agreement between an individual and God). If you say it, you’re expected to follow through. “A person must not break their word,” the Torah says.

But then the Torah does something surprising: it outlines a whole process for nullifying vows.

Why? Because the Torah understands something deeply human: we don’t always make our best decisions in moments of pressure, grief, or fear. Sometimes we speak out of hurt. Sometimes we commit to something that isn’t healthy for us. And sometimes, we change. The Torah teaches us that we need a mechanism for nullifying our vows.

Nullification is not a failure. That’s being alive.

Many of us carry around internal vows we made long ago — and we don’t even realize it. Promises like:

• “I’ll never let myself be vulnerable again.”
• “I’m done trusting people.”
• “I’m not spiritual.”

These are inner vows. And the longer we hold onto them, the more they shape how we show up in the world. But Matot reminds us: not every vow is meant to last forever. And breaking a vow — letting go of a rigid story — can be a holy act.

As we move through the quiet weeks leading up to the High Holidays, maybe this is the question to carry:

What old promise do I need to release to grow into who I’m becoming?