Rabbi Dina Rosenberg

Like many of you, I’ve been feeling a heavy ache this week. The shooting of Yaron Lischinsky and Sarah Lynn Milgrim—two young Jews simply living their lives—has shaken something deep within me. Maybe it’s because they remind us of people we know. Maybe it’s because the violence feels closer than we want to admit. Maybe it’s because it happened in a place that gave us a certain sense of safety—even if, deep down, we knew that safety was fragile. Washington, D.C. is close, familiar. And somehow that makes this hit differently.

I know that many of you are feeling scared. Antisemitism is rising, and even as we go about our daily lives—going to shul, dropping off kids at school, showing up for Jewish events—there’s often that quiet voice in the back of our minds: What if…?

This week’s Torah portion, Behar/Bechukotai, doesn’t shy away from pain. It speaks openly of blessings and curses, of fear and exile. But at its core is a sacred promise: “I will not reject them… I will remember My covenant.” That covenant is not just between God and our ancestors—it’s alive in us. It’s what binds us to each other, through heartbreak and through healing.

Hope, in times like this, is not about pretending everything is okay. It’s about showing up anyway—with love, with courage, with the decision not to give up on each other or on this Jewish life that we cherish so deeply.

As we enter Shabbat, I hope you’ll take a moment to breathe, to rest, to feel held by community. We need each other now more than ever. I hope to see you at shul this Shabbat.

Sending love and strength to each of you.

Spiritual Meaning: Does God Really Want Perfection?

This week’s Torah portion, Emor, includes one of those passages that can make us squirm a little. It says that priests with physical blemishes—things like a limp, a broken hand, or a blindness—can’t serve at the altar in the Temple.

At first glance, it sounds like God is saying: “Only perfect people need apply.” But is that really what’s going on here?

Jewish tradition, over and over again, tells a very different story. It’s not about God demanding flawlessness—it’s often about us projecting that desire for perfection onto God.

Think about the biblical heroes God chooses:

• Moses says he can’t speak well—yet he becomes the voice of our people.
• Jacob walks with a limp after wrestling with an angel, and gets the name Yisrael, the one who struggles with God.

Far from pushing away imperfection, God seems to draw close to it. And in Jewish mysticism, that’s even more explicit. The Zohar teaches that God is found in brokenness. Hasidic teachings talk about how the divine shows up in the “cracks”—in the struggle, in the pain, in the messy places of our lives. Or as one Hasidic master put it, “There’s nothing more whole than a broken heart.”

So what do we do with Emor? Maybe it’s less about God’s values and more about how people, in ancient times, tried to reflect order and harmony in ritual spaces. The priests who served at the altar were meant to symbolize a kind of cosmic wholeness.

The real message that runs through Torah and tradition is this: God doesn’t wait for us to be perfect. God meets us where we are.

The divine is found in the honest moments, the vulnerable ones, the parts of ourselves we sometimes try to hide. And that’s actually really good news—because none of us is perfect. But all of us are holy.

This week, many of us watched transfixed as the conclave of cardinals gathered to select the new pope. As a Jew, one might wonder: why pay attention to this deeply Catholic ritual? Yet there’s something undeniably compelling about a group of leaders entering a sacred space, closed off from the outside world, to decide the spiritual future of their faith. It is a moment shrouded in mystery, solemnity, and the weight of tradition. These men are not just selecting a leader; they are engaging in a ritual that symbolizes the hopes, values, and direction of an entire people.

This ritual echoes, in a striking way, the central theme of this week’s Torah portion—Acharei Mot. Here, too, we read of a spiritual leader—Aaron the High Priest—entering a sacred space, alone. The Holy of Holies is the inner sanctum of the Ohel Moed, a space so restricted that only the High Priest may enter, and only on Yom Kippur. Within this secretive, solemn context, he performs rituals not just for himself, but on behalf of the entire community of Israel. And when he finishes, he lays his hands upon the head of a goat, transferring the community’s sins and sending it into the wilderness—an act as mysterious as it is powerful.

Both rituals—the papal conclave and the Yom Kippur service—remind us that there are moments in religious life when the community entrusts a select few to enter a hidden realm on its behalf. What happens inside is not entirely revealed. But the outcome—a pope, a purified people—is made public, and it shapes the future.

And yet, as Jews today, we no longer have a High Priest. There is no Temple, no goat for Azazel, no Holy of Holies. So what do we do with this legacy?

The answer, perhaps, is that the sacred space has moved inward. Without a central priestly figure to mediate between us and God, we have become more directly responsible for our spiritual lives. The rituals of confession, atonement, and renewal are no longer performed on our behalf in the hidden chambers of the Temple—they now take place in our homes, our synagogues, and our hearts. Each of us must step, in our own way, into the Holy of Holies. Each of us becomes responsible for the direction of our people and our faith.

There is still mystery in Judaism, still sacredness and structure. But without a High Priest, we are invited into a different kind of intimacy with the Divine—one that relies not on ritual separation, but on communal responsibility and personal reflection. And perhaps that is a kind of holiness that is just as powerful.

Iyyar and the Quiet Power of Sisterhood

As we turn the calendar to the month of Iyyar, we enter a time in the Jewish year that often escapes notice. Sandwiched between the dramatic liberation of Nisan and the revelation of Sivan, Iyyar doesn’t come with grand holidays or dramatic rituals. Instead, its essence lies in the quiet work of healing and preparation. In fact, our tradition teaches that the name “Iyyar” is an acronym for “Ani Adonai Rofecha”—“I am God your Healer” (Exodus 15:26).

It is this quieter, sustaining energy that calls to mind the Sisterhood of our synagogue. Like Iyyar, Sisterhood may not always be center stage, but its impact is essential and enduring. Behind the scenes, Sisterhood organizes, supports, funds, and uplifts. It is the infrastructure that allows the spiritual life of our community to flourish—just as the Israelites, during Iyyar, began to build the rhythms of freedom into the structure of daily life.

In the desert, Iyyar was the month when the Israelites learned how to live together as a people. They received water when it was needed, manna when they hungered, and direction when they were lost. Today, Sisterhood offers similar support: meeting the needs of the moment, filling the gaps, and doing so with humility and generosity. Their work enables the rest of us to gather, to worship, to celebrate, and to mourn—with dignity and care.

This Iyyar, may we draw inspiration from the steady power of healing, and from the women whose quiet strength has built and sustained our sacred community. Sisterhood doesn’t always seek the spotlight—but this Shabbat, we honor it as essential.