Rabbi Dina Rosenberg

Last night, as I finished the (relatively) calm moments of putting my children to bed, I received a text from my sister: “Which news station are you watching?” I quickly picked up my phone—and was stunned to see the headlines reporting that Israel had launched a preemptive strike on Iran’s nuclear facilities.

My immediate reaction was to check on my family. I messaged my cousins in Israel: Are you okay? Their responses came back filled with anxiety and uncertainty.

I found myself wrestling with the same question that has echoed in the hearts of so many: How is it that such a small country stands at the center of so many global and regional tensions? For years, the Iranian regime has openly declared its desire to destroy Israel. Israel continues to live under the threat of annihilation—an existential danger not just to its people, but to the ideals of democracy and stability in the region.

The Westchester Jewish Council captured this moment well:

At this critical time, we stand in unwavering solidarity with the people of Israel and with the brave members of the Israel Defense Forces who are working to defend the nation and its citizens.

Each weekday morning in our Shacharit service, we recite Tachanun, our prayers of supplication. Included in that liturgy is this timeless plea:

שׁוֹמֵר יִשְׂרָאֵל
שְׁמֹר שְׁאֵרִית יִשְׂרָאֵל,
וְאַל יֹאבַד יִשְׂרָאֵל, הָאוֹמְרִים: שְׁמַע יִשְׂרָאֵל.

Guardian of Israel, guard the remnant of Israel.
Do not let Israel, who proclaim “Sh’ma Yisrael,” be lost.
We do not know what will happen next. But we pray.

We pray for the safety of Israel.

We pray for all civilians—Israeli, Iranian, and others—who are caught in the crosshairs.

We pray that God will shelter Israel in love and spread over her the sukkat shalom, the canopy of peace.

As we enter into Shabbat, we pray for what feels most elusive:

A Shabbat of calm.
A Shabbat of peace.
A Shabbat of healing.

Parshat Nasso: The Power of Blessing

This week’s parsha, Nasso, contains one of the most beloved passages in the Torah — Birkat Kohanim, the Priestly Blessing (Numbers 6:24–26):

May God bless you and protect you.
May God shine His face upon you and be gracious to you.
May God lift up His face to you and grant you peace.

At first glance, it’s a simple blessing of goodness and peace. But the commentators point out something deeper: these are not blessings for wealth or success alone, but for inner light, for being seen and held in a relationship with the Divine — and ultimately, for shalom, peace in its fullest sense: wholeness and harmony.

In our often chaotic lives, it’s easy to focus on what we lack. This blessing reminds us to center what matters most — relationships, grace, presence, and peace — and to become channels of blessing for those around us.

As we enter Shabbat, may we take these ancient words to heart: to bless one another with kindness, to seek connection and understanding, and to create moments of wholeness in our families and community.

Sivan: The Month of Sacred Partnership

We’ve just entered the month of Sivan, the time of year when the **Gemini constellation—the twins—** rises in the sky. In Jewish time, this is the season of Matan Torah, the giving of the Torah at Mount Sinai.

The image of twins feels especially fitting. Tradition tells us that Moses received two tablets: one set written by God that Moses shattered when he saw the Israelites worshiping the golden calf, and a second set dictated by God and written by Moses, which endured. Why did the second set last? Maybe it’s because it was the product of partnership—God dictated, but Moses carved the words.

Sivan reminds us that revelation isn’t a one-way street. Even the most holy gift must be received with readiness and care. At Sinai, the people gathered “as one person with one heart.” Just as God descended, the Israelites ascended. It was a shared spiritual womb—God and Israel creating something sacred together.

This month invites us to renew that partnership. Torah is not just something we received once, it is an ongoing experience; it’s something we help bring to life—with our questions, our actions, and our presence.

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.