Shabbat Message Archives

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.

In Parshat Shemini, Aaron has been waiting for this moment. The people have been waiting too—days of preparation, prayers, hopes all leading to this. Aaron stands at the altar, offers the sacrifices just as God commanded, and blesses the people. And then, finally, the text says, “the glory of the Lord appeared to all the people” (Leviticus 9:22–23). It’s easy to miss how important this is: God’s presence doesn’t show up after the offering alone. It’s after the blessing. It’s almost as if something needed to happen between the people themselves first—a moment of connection, of care, of hope—before the Divine could fully arrive.

What does it mean to bless one another? It’s not magic words or a formal ritual. Blessing someone is seeing them, honoring their humanity, reminding them—and ourselves—that they are worthy of love, dignity, and goodness. When we offer a blessing, we’re not just asking God to be good to someone; we are being good to them. We are making space in the world for light to come through.

Maybe that’s why blessing each other comes first. Before holiness can settle among us, we need to be in relationship with one another—with open hearts, open hands. Every time we bless someone—with our words, our actions, even just with our attention—we create a little more room for God’s presence.

In a world that so often teaches us to hurry past each other, to guard ourselves, to compete—what a radical thing it is simply to stop and bless. To say, “I see you. You matter. I hope good things for you.” That’s how we welcome holiness—not with grand gestures, but with quiet moments of kindness that ripple outward more than we know.

“One Law for the Citizen and the Stranger”

As we conclude the season of Passover, we carry with us the enduring lessons of the Exodus story—lessons not only of freedom but also of responsibility. Again and again, the Torah reminds us that our experience as strangers in the land of Egypt must shape how we treat the vulnerable among us.

In the Torah reading for Passover, we read:
“There shall be one law for the citizen and for the stranger who dwells among you.” (Exodus 12:49)

This is not a political statement. It is a religious one. It is a core value in our tradition that justice must be applied fairly and equitably. We are taught that the laws of a land must be upheld with integrity, and when those laws are bent or broken to harm the vulnerable—especially the stranger in our midst—we are not permitted to look away.

Recently, we have seen deeply troubling reports of individuals being deported from the United States without due process, sent to detention facilities abroad under conditions that evoke some of the darkest moments of human history. Regardless of anyone’s immigration status or past, Judaism insists that every person be treated with dignity, fairness, and according to law.

When the law is used not to uphold justice but to circumvent it, we are not meant to remain silent. As Jews, we are obligated to speak out. The Torah does not give us a choice.

Throughout the Torah, significant attention is given to the clothing of the priests. These garments represent not only the priestly role, but the inner and outer holiness expected of those who serve in sacred spaces. So it’s no surprise that even seemingly small tasks come with detailed instruction. In this week’s parsha, Tzav, we read that the priest must change his clothing before removing the ashes from the altar (Leviticus 6:4).

At first glance, this seems puzzling. Shouldn’t the priest change after removing the ashes—once his clothes are dirty? But perhaps this detail teaches us something deeper: that even the removal of ashes, a basic maintenance task, is infused with purpose. By changing garments beforehand, the priest elevates the act, reminding us that there is no such thing as a task too small to be approached with care and intention.

As we prepare our homes for Pesach—scrubbing stovetops, vacuuming cars, wiping down pantry shelves—we might feel overwhelmed or wonder what purpose all this effort serves. Tzav gently reminds us: every act has the potential for holiness. When we approach even the most mundane chores with mindfulness, they become sacred work.

This season calls us not only to clean our homes, but to refine our hearts. If we can find meaning in the ashes, perhaps we can find holiness in the crumbs. With each small act, we are not just preparing our homes for Pesach—we are preparing ourselves for freedom.

This week’s parashah begins with the word Vayikra—“And [God] called”—but there’s something unusual about how it’s written in the Torah. The final letter, aleph, appears in a noticeably smaller font than the rest of the word. Why?

According to Midrash, this tiny aleph tells a deeper story. It reflects a quiet tension between God’s desire to highlight the special, intimate relationship with Moses, and Moses’ own profound humility. God wanted the text to read Vayikra—signaling a deliberate and loving call to Moses, unlike the more casual way God communicated with other prophets. Moses, however, was uncomfortable with this distinction. He preferred the word Vayikar—“And [God] happened upon [him]”—which implies a more incidental encounter.

Unwilling to let the moment pass without honoring their closeness, God proposed a compromise. The Torah would say Vayikra, but with a small aleph. In that single, subtle letter lies a world of meaning: Moses’ humility, God’s affection, and the unique spiritual connection between them. It’s a reminder that greatness and modesty can—and often do—go hand in hand.

From Narrow Places to New Possibilities: A Reflection for Rosh Hodesh Nissan

Leaves are beginning to sprout from the earth. What was dry, frozen, and lifeless only weeks ago is now stirring with new growth. Spring has arrived, bringing with it the promise of renewal—a chance to shed the weight of both physical and spiritual darkness and to embrace the possibility of transformation.

As we welcome Rosh Hodesh Nissan, we mark not just the beginning of a new month, but the beginning of a new season in the Jewish spiritual calendar. Nissan is the month of liberation. It holds the story of our ancestors’ escape from enslavement in Egypt, a journey from bondage toward freedom, from the known to the unknown.

The Hebrew word for Egypt—Mitzrayim—means “narrow places.” It evokes more than just geography; it reflects all the constraints, fears, and burdens that keep us small. During this season, we are invited to leave behind our own Mitzrayim—the narrow places within and around us—and to imagine lives filled with breath, space, and purpose.

Just as the leaves push through the soil to reach the light, we too are called to emerge, to grow, and to bloom. Our journey begins now—with Rosh Hodesh Nissan—and continues through the Exodus story of Passover, culminating at Shavuot when we stand at Sinai and receive the Torah anew.

This week’s parashah, Ki Tissa, includes a powerful instruction: before the Kohanim (priests) could serve in the Mishkan, they had to wash their hands and feet—or risk death (Exodus 30:19-21). It’s a striking requirement, but one that carries deep meaning.

A commentator notes that hands and feet are the “doers” of the body. Our hands create, build, and sometimes take what isn’t ours. Our feet move us forward but can also lead us astray. By washing these parts specifically, the priests weren’t just engaging in a physical cleansing but a spiritual reset—preparing themselves to stand before God with intention and purity.

This idea resonates today. Before we enter sacred moments—whether it’s prayer, meaningful work, or an important conversation—we’re invited to pause and reflect: Have our hands been used to lift others up? Have our feet led us toward goodness? While we may not have the same ritual, the message remains: holiness requires preparation. Taking time to realign our actions and intentions can transform even ordinary moments into sacred ones.

I have the privilege of serving as a liaison to the Jewish Chaplains Council, advocating for Jewish chaplains in the United States Armed Forces. In our last two meetings, we have wrestled with a contentious and deeply concerning issue: the use of Jewish chaplain insignia by messianic “clergy.”

Currently, a messianic chaplain—who refers to himself as a ‘rabbi’—has chosen to wear the same insignia as ordained Jewish chaplains. Because the tablet insignia is universally recognized as a Jewish symbol, this has led to confusion among soldiers seeking spiritual guidance from a rabbi. Some have unknowingly turned to this individual, believing him to be a legitimate Jewish chaplain. The issue extends beyond personal counseling—when a commanding officer requests a Jewish chaplain to lead a Shabbat service or a Jewish ritual, mistakes have been made, resulting in a messianic chaplain being assigned to a role meant for a Jewish clergy member.

Symbols matter.

This lesson is reinforced in this week's Torah portion, Parashat Tetzaveh. God commands that the sacred vestments of the High Priest include two shoulder pieces adorned with lazuli stones, upon which are engraved the names of the twelve tribes of Israel (Exodus 28). Commentators teach that these names were not merely decorative—they symbolized the High Priest’s sacred duty to carry the people of Israel upon his shoulders. He was not just an individual; he was a representative of all Israel, standing before God on their behalf, praying for them, and atoning for their sins.

The symbols we wear convey responsibility, identity, and purpose. When a Jewish chaplain wears the insignia of the tablets, it signifies a sacred trust—that this individual stands as a recognized and ordained representative of the Jewish people, providing authentic Jewish leadership and pastoral care. When this symbol is misappropriated, it creates confusion, misrepresentation, and the potential for spiritual harm.

Just as the High Priest’s vestments reflected his holy mission, so too must the insignia of Jewish chaplains remain a clear and unmistakable mark of Jewish leadership and service.

Parshat Terumah is filled with measurements—cubits of wood, loops of fabric, exact placements of gold and silver. At first glance, it can feel dry, even technical. If every word of the Torah is sacred, why does God devote so much space to building instructions? But when we step back, something deeper emerges: this is not just about construction—it’s about relationship.

God and Israel are at the beginning of their covenantal journey, learning to trust one another, testing boundaries. By delivering the Israelites from slavery, God has upheld the divine side of the covenant, acting as protector and redeemer. But will Israel fulfill their part? Will they follow, even when there are no miracles, no plagues, no parting seas—only instructions for building something sacred? The Mishkan is their first test. God asks them not just to build a physical structure, but to build holiness, not only in the wilderness but within their hearts.

Why does God care about every detail? Because creating a sacred space isn’t just about the finished product—it’s about the love, care, and intention we bring to it. The Mishkan is the first time the Israelites aren’t simply receiving divine gifts; they are creating something for God. Each person brings what they can—gold, silver, colorful yarn, or the labor of their own hands. This isn’t about perfection; it’s about participation.

The details of the Mishkan remind us that holiness isn’t random. We don’t stumble into meaning; we build it. Brick by brick, act by act, we shape the sacred in our lives. When we bring intention to the spaces we create—our homes, our communities, our relationships—we make room for something greater than ourselves.

Maybe that’s why God cares about every cubit. Not because God needs a perfect house, but because we need to learn how to bring holiness into our world, one careful, loving step at a time.

This Shabbat, we join thousands of synagogues throughout the world in celebrating Repro Shabbat, sponsored by the National Council of Jewish Women. We commit to teaching our communities about the Jewish halakhah (law) of abortion access and reproductive health access. This week, we read Parshat Mishpatim, a portion filled with laws that shape the ethical foundation of Jewish society. Among them, we find a verse that speaks directly to the Jewish view on reproductive rights.

“When men fight, and one of them pushes a pregnant woman, and a miscarriage results, but no other harm ensues, the one responsible shall be fined (monetarily)...” (Exodus 21:22-23)

The Torah is making a striking distinction: the loss of a pregnancy, while serious, is not considered murder. Instead, it carries financial restitution. This understanding of the fetus reflects the designation that an unborn fetus does not hold the same status as a living person.

The Mishnah (Ohalot 7:6) goes even further, stating that if a pregnancy endangers the mother’s life, it must be terminated because her life comes first. This is not just a legal ruling – it is a moral imperative. Judaism demands that we uphold life, dignity, and well-being above all.

Judaism acknowledges the pain and complexity that enters decision making of reproductive health and commands that we act with compassion. Our tradition does not judge those who make these choices – it supports them.

As we read Parshat Mishpatim, we are reminded that Jewish tradition has always valued justice (Tzedek), mercy (rachamim), and the dignity of those making difficult choices. May we continue to create a world where these values guide us, where those in need of care find support, and where we uphold the sacred principle of life, especially the life of the person already here.

This past week, we celebrated Tu B’Shvat, the birthday of the trees—a time to reflect on nature’s gifts and our role in sustaining them.

In Peri Etz Hadar (1:4), we learn that every fruit has an angel assigned to it. When we offer a blessing before eating, we activate shefa—a Divine flow—ensuring that new fruit replaces the old. But if we consume without gratitude, we disrupt this flow and diminish the Divine presence in the world. In a sense, this absence of blessing is an act of taking without giving back.

This teaching invites us to consider: How often do we take life’s simple gifts for granted? Do we pause to appreciate the abundance around us, from the food we eat to the breath we take? Trees, like the Jewish people, are deeply rooted yet ever-growing. We endure, adapt, and blossom, even in difficult conditions.

This Shabbat, may you feel the presence of shefa in your life. May you cultivate gratitude and nurture the Divine flow all around you.

What is your red line—the moment that forces you to reconsider your choices, your community, or the company you keep?

Our parsha begins in the aftermath of the tenth plague, with Egypt devastated but still unwilling to surrender. Pharaoh finally releases the Israelites, only to reverse his decision three days later. He rallies his army, sending every chariot in Egypt to pursue them and bring them back to enslavement. As they close in, they witness a miraculous sight—the sea splitting before the Israelites, forming walls of water on either side. And yet, they charge forward.

It is only when God locks the wheels of their chariots, throwing them into chaos, that they finally recognize the truth: God is fighting against Egypt.

Why did it take this moment, after ten plagues and the miracle of the sea, for them to realize they were on the wrong side?

Until now, Egypt’s suffering had been communal—widespread but impersonal. The plagues struck their land, their water, and even their firstborn sons, but the Egyptian army had not yet faced a direct and immediate consequence. Only when their own chariots became stuck, rendering them powerless, did the crisis become personal. At that moment, they understood—too late—that they had chosen the wrong path.

This pattern repeats throughout history. People often ignore global challenges—climate change, political instability, economic inequality—until the consequences reach their doorstep. It’s easy to dismiss disasters as distant problems affecting others, but when wildfires destroy homes, floods displace families, or supply chain disruptions leave shelves empty, reality sets in. Like the Egyptians, many don’t take action until they are personally trapped by the very crisis they ignored.

The Egyptians waited until escape was impossible. The question for us is: Do we recognize our red lines before it’s too late?

Parshat Bo (Exodus 10:1–13:16) tells the story of the final plagues, the Exodus from Egypt, and the transition from darkness to redemption. While it is easy to focus on the death and despair of both the Israelites and the Egyptians, we must be mindful that this is not the end of the story – it is a semicolon, not a period. The next chapter includes the movement from suffering to hope, from despair to unity and resilience.

As we watched the news on Wednesday night and learned of the tragic mid-air collision over the Potomac River, I immediately reached out to my colleague, who is the rabbi at the Conservative synagogue in Wichita, Kansas. While Rabbi Pepperstone shared with me that as far as he knows, no one from the Jewish community was on the plane, a darkness has overtaken the medium-sized Midwestern city of Wichita. Everyone knows someone who has been directly affected by this disaster and the loss seems monumental.

But, with hardship and suffering, also comes community and hope. Yesterday, there was a prayer vigil at City Council chambers, which was filled to capacity and then some. Everyone is coming together to support those impacted by the disaster.

This message of unity echoes the experience of the Israelites, who, even in their darkest moments, found strength in their shared identity and faith. Just as they emerged from Egypt as a nation bound by resilience, so too do modern communities come together to support one another in times of loss. The lessons of Parshat Bo remind us that even in tragedy, we can find strength, solidarity, and hope when we support one another.

How bad does a situation have to get before we cry out to God or ask for help? Though we are social creatures, we often resist reaching out when we’re in need. Fear of vulnerability, pride, or the value we place on independence can make us reluctant to seek support, even though our ancestors understood the necessity of community. We need one another to survive and thrive.

In this week’s parsha, the Israelites, enslaved for generations, cry out to God for help. But why didn’t they ask sooner? Why didn’t God intervene earlier? Perhaps their oppression had become so ingrained that they couldn’t see beyond their suffering, and their silence wasn’t lack of faith but despair. When suffering is constant, we forget that liberation is even possible.

But there’s also a deeper lesson in God's timing. The Israelites’ cry came not just when they were physically desperate, but when they were spiritually ready. Liberation wasn’t just about escaping slavery—it was about a transformation in how they saw themselves and their relationship with God. Sometimes we don’t cry out for help because we’re not yet ready to receive it, or we need to reach a point of spiritual openness.

This is a reminder that asking for help is not a sign of weakness but of strength. Like the Israelites, we are called to cry out—to God and to each other. Healing begins when we let go of the myth of self-sufficiency and embrace vulnerability. Only then can transformation begin, both within us and in our communities.

This past week, I was privileged to attend the Rabbinic Training Institute. For five days, I sat among colleagues learning Torah and living Torah. We prayed, sang, talked and listened to one another as we shared our rabbinic experiences and struggles. On Wednesday afternoon, as we finished davening mincha, the afternoon prayer, a silence settled over the group. The hostage deal had been confirmed by the US, Israel, and Hamas. Some in tears, others experiencing feelings of jubilation and some concerned and confused about what was to come. We looked one another in the eye, and we began to sing.

אַחֵינוּ כָּל בֵּית יִשְׂרָאֵל, הַנְּתוּנִים בְּצָרָה וּבַשִּׁבְיָה, הָעוֹמְדִים בֵּין בַּיָּם וּבֵין בַּיַּבָּשָׁה, הַמָּקוֹם יְרַחֵם עֲלֵיהֶם, וְיוֹצִיאֵם מִצָּרָה לִרְוָחָה, וּמֵאֲפֵלָה לְאוֹרָה, וּמִשִּׁעְבּוּד לִגְאֻלָּה, הַשְׁתָּא בַּעֲגָלָא וּבִזְמַן קָרִיב. וְנֹאמַר 

Translation:

As for our brothers and sisters, the whole house of Israel, who are given over to trouble or captivity, whether they abide on the sea or on the dry land:

May the All-present have mercy upon them, and bring them forth from trouble to enlargement, from darkness to light, and from subjection to redemption, now speedily and at a near time. Now let us say, Amen.

Based on The Standard Prayer book by Simeon Singer (1915)

We sang with our hearts and souls. We sang with all our brokenness. We sang with hope.

While we do not know what is to come and we have divisive views about Israel, we can all agree in the significance and necessity of bringing our brothers and sister’s home. As God willing the hostages begin to return home in the coming days and weeks, I pray that we are all committed to Derekh

Eretz, the commitment to do what is right and decent in the eyes of God and humanity. May they be returned to the land, the home where they belong.