Category: Torah

From Grief to Geulah-Holding mourning and miracle in the same breath

No other nation on earth asks its people to do what Israel asks each spring: to sit in the ashes of devastating loss on one day, and dance in the streets the next. Yom Hazikaron — Israel’s Day of Remembrance for fallen soldiers and victims of terror — flows directly, by design, into Yom Ha’atzmaut, Independence Day. The transition is not an accident of the calendar. It is a theological statement.

In Israel, when the siren sounds, an entire country stops — on highways, in markets, mid-sentence. Over 24,000 soldiers and thousands of civilians are remembered not as statistics but as names and faces, beloved. Then, within hours, fireworks rise over the same sky. The whiplash is intentional. Joy built on forgotten grief is shallow. And grief without the horizon of hope becomes a tomb.

During my year as a rabbinical student in Jerusalem, I had the privilege of standing on Har Herzl, Mount Herzl, Israel’s national cemetery, for the ceremony that bridges these two days. There, among the graves of soldiers and statesmen, surrounded by thousands of Israelis, young and old, grief transformed in real time. The final notes of the memorial prayers gave way to the lighting of the torches, and the air itself seemed to shift. It was not that the sadness lifted; rather, hope rose to stand alongside it. I experienced more than a transition. This is a theology. In that moment, the narrative of the Jewish state and the narrative of my own Jewish heart were woven together into a whole cloth; each thread distinct yet inseparable from the other.

That sequence — lived in the body, not merely studied in a book — is the pedagogy. You cannot fully understand Yom Ha’atzmaut without first standing in the silence of Yom Hazikaron. The independence feels different when you know what it cost.

We are not asked to choose between memory and celebration. We are asked to hold both and to let the weight of one lend depth to the other.

As American Jews, we stand at a particular intersection in these days. We did not lose children in those wars. We were not present for 1948’s desperate birth, 1967’s breathtaking turn, or October 7th’s shattering grief. And yet, we are not strangers. Israel is not a foreign country to the Jewish soul. It is the address of our deepest longings, the landscape of our prayers, and at the core of our peoplehood.

These two days invite us into belonging, not as spectators but as members of an ancient family. To observe Yom Hazikaron is to say: their loss is part of our story. To celebrate Yom Ha’atzmaut is to say: their miracle is part of our story, too. The spiritual architecture of this sequence teaches us that meaning is forged at the intersection of sorrow and hope. This is the Jewish way. This has always been the Jewish way.

May we honor those who fell, celebrate what they made possible, and carry both truths — as one people, from wherever in the world we stand.

 

The Metaphor of the Moment: Finding Meaning in the Exodus

The rituals and stories of Passover, like many others, are rarely about the literal meaning; they serve as invitations to explore the richer metaphors of human experience. During Pesach, we engage with texts that connect Divine mystery with human limitation, urging us to find hope in the most difficult circumstances.

A provocative and often-overlooked metaphor lies in the Matza. Tradition holds that the Israelites had so little time to escape Egypt that they couldn’t let their bread rise, yet the modern “halachic” or “kosher” process of Matza-making allows the dough to rise for up to 18 minutes. The text notes that, in the chaos of packing and rushing to leave, there was no time to let the dough rise. But surely, 18 minutes could have been found.

This raises a profound question: if we could have made the time, but the story insists we did not, what is the message? It suggests that the Exodus is more than just a historical event; it is a metaphor conveying a larger, universal message. The Matza symbolizes a deliberate choice to embrace the incomplete or unleavened. It serves as a reminder that when an extraordinary moment arrives, we must seize it, ready to leave behind the familiar, the influence, or relative comfort of our old lives before it can rise and hold us back.

 

 

Parshat Tetzaveh-Responsible Governing for the People

Parshat Tetzaveh marks a pivotal shift in the wilderness narrative of the Jewish people. While previous portions focused on the physical Tabernacle, Tetzaveh focuses on the human element: the inauguration of the Kohanim (priests). By establishing this dedicated class, the Torah ensures a disciplined bridge between the Divine Presence and B’nei Israel.

The transition from building structures to preparing “human vessels” reminds us that even the holiest space requires empathetic leadership to come to life. The priesthood was not an elite social hierarchy but a role of “functional holiness.” In Exodus 28:1, God commands Moses to “bring near” Aaron and his sons to serve, separating them to manage the meticulous maintenance of the Mishkan, which the general population could not sustain.

The priestly garments are a physical manifestation of this duty. The Choshen (Breastplate) bore the names of the twelve tribes, ensuring that the Kohen Gadol (High Priest) literally carried the nation’s weight “on his heart” (Exodus 28:29). This teaches that a leader’s primary function is representation and empathy, not merely ritual performance.

Faithfulness among the Kohanim was measured by adherence to strict protocols. The Milu’im (consecration process) involved smearing blood on the right ear, thumb, and big toe (Exodus 29:20), symbolizing a total commitment to:

  • Hearing: Attuning oneself to Divine instruction.
  • Action: Performing service with precision.
  • Movement: Walking a righteous path.

The Ner Tamid (Eternal Flame) serves as the ultimate metaphor for this duty. Commanded to kindle the lamps “from evening to morning” (Exodus 27:21), the priests maintained a consistency that transcended personal fatigue. Their faithfulness was embodied in the Tamid—the “always.”

The discipline required to keep the light burning is a powerful metaphor for contemporary society. Capricious or arbitrary leadership undermines the sacred role of those dedicated to preserving institutions. Just as the Kohanim served the Mishkan, today’s dedicated bureaucrats and elected leaders play a critical role in upholding the rule of law.

Long before democracy took its modern form, our tradition recognized that power is a sacred responsibility to the people. This value remains central to the rule of law and equal protection. Like the Kohanim, we are entrusted with preserving these “eternal flames” for generations to come.

 

Two questions to each of us

 

What do you stand for?

What are you willing to do about it?

Knowing who we are and the values we believe in is the first part of a critical two-step process.  The second step is knowing what you will do to realize them.

Sadly, we have grown accustomed to thinking we have done our part by voicing our opinions in public spaces. We have also shifted responsibility to the government without demanding accountability. However, only by engaging in the work can our opinions become a constructive force.

If you believe in feeding the hungry, for example, giving to a food bank in both time and money will help bring food to those in need.  Advocating for them by reaching out to those in power over the public funds is another.  Merely Saying you are against hunger on social media is a hollow gesture and a waste of time.

Decide what issues are significant enough that you will engage.  Most of us only have enough time to work on one or maybe two.  But in focusing and doing the work, you become a change agent. We are empowered to champion the values we believe in only if we are willing to commit in tangible ways to them.

 

 

Starting All Over Again -Bereishit

There is an old joke that goes something like this:

The rabbi sees Mrs. Schwartz in the grocery store just before the High Holidays. He greets her as most rabbis would, “Mrs. Schwartz, it’s so good to see you. I look forward to seeing you in the synagogue for the High Holidays.”

She replies, “It’s good to see you, too, rabbi. But I don’t think I’ll be coming.”

“Oh,” said the rabbi, “I hope everything is alright. Why won’t you be there?”

“Well, rabbi,” she responds, “Every year, it’s the same old thing. We even read the same Torah portion.”

Although the joke isn’t particularly funny, it notes an essential part of our wisdom tradition; every time we read “Bereishit Bara Elohim” or any part of the Torah, it is different because we are different. Every time we engage in a text, our understanding differs from the last time. Our experiences shape and influence us and, therefore, also affect how we grasp the text. Our lives have evolved, and likely, the questions on our minds do, too. All of us have experienced the same thing differently. Let me explain.

Think about returning to a place you’d been before. Despite our expectations, we experience it differently this time around. The river is not the same water; our favorite book or movie reveals different secrets. Even my beloved childhood Twinkies do not taste the same.

A teacher of mine shared that the answers you get depend on the questions you ask. Our texts are treasure troves, just waiting for us to uncover the precious jewels they contain. The questions I ask in middle age are very different from the ones I asked as a young person. The issues I confront today in our current climate have me seeking answers to deeply troubling questions about meaning, seeking wisdom from this insightful tradition.
We begin again with the first words of the Torah. But what does it mean? How does the message resonate with you now?

This has been a challenging year for Jews. The Oct. 7 invasion of Israel, the war starting in Gaza and expanding into Lebanon, threats from Iran, deep political unrest, antisemitism cloaked as anti-Zionism/anti-Israel and unvarnished Jew-hatred appearing across this country and the world have most of us reeling. We are shaken to our core and struggling to figure out how we move forward. Our texts are compelling and filled with timeless wisdom, and we grapple with them this year in ways that we didn’t expect.

During the High Holidays, we are reminded that God understood the need to create a world that balanced Din and Rachamim, law and compassion. Midrashim share stories that this world was not God’s first attempt. Previous creations failed due to the heavy reliance on one or the other trait. Our stories also tell us that the Torah existed even before creation.

This leads me to an interesting thought. Perhaps even the divine approaches the Torah differently, learning from each encounter. Even the almighty learns from the Torah.

Moses once asked the eternal one what would happen to the wisdom once Moses was gone. God sweeps him into a class taught by the sage Rabbi Akiva. Moses is perplexed as nothing Akiva says seems familiar to him as he listens. And then, as if on cue, Akiva closes with, “And all of this comes from the Torah of Moses, our teacher. One of the fantastic parts of our tradition is the messages of core values that remain timeless even if the way they are practiced or understood evolves with the generations.

Our mystical stories talk of black fire and white fire, describing our sacred scrolls.
The words, the letters of the words and even the white spaces on the sacred text are opportunities for us to learn, using the holy text as a timeless source of knowledge, bounded only by our ability to comprehend it.

So, Mrs. Schwartz didn’t get it quite right. As we read the story of God’s creating, let us use this as a chance to see not an old story but as one of a new beginning, reading with fresh eyes, engaging it and asking the essential personal questions as the story of the world and the Jewish people continues to unfold.

Rabbi David Levin is the founder of the Jewish Relationships Initiative, which aims to help seekers of meaning through Jewish Wisdom in human relationships and end-of-life challenges. He is also vice president of the Board of Rabbis of Greater Philadelphia. The Board of Rabbis of Greater Philadelphia is proud to provide diverse perspectives on Torah commentary for the Jewish Exponent. The opinions expressed in this column are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect the view of the Board of Rabbis.

 

When you emerge, who will you be?

Behar-Bechukotai

by Yoram Raanan

Have you ever taken a vacation?

Usually, it is for one of two reasons:

To see or experience something new, or to Rest and relax (and of course some of us combine these). Both are ways to recharge to have a reset, time away from the normal and challenging tasks of work to engage in shavat v’yinafash, resting and refreshing both the body and the soul.

This week׳s Torah Portion Parsha Behar-Bechukotai talks about a reset- The Shmita -a reset of the land.  Every seven years we are supposed to stop tilling the soil to let the fields recharge and all people regardless of stature; resident, worker, and slave alike, even the animals, get to partake equally in what is there.

We let things lie dormant so they can be rejuvenated.

The land is recharged and also not uncoincidentally those who do the hard physical labor of farming are given a respite as well.  We do this for seven cycles of seven years and then in the 50th year is the Jubilee.  “And you shall sanctify the fiftieth year, and proclaim freedom for slaves throughout the land for all who live on it. It shall be a Jubilee for you, and you shall return each man to his property, and you shall return each man to his family.”(Lev 25:10)

What might we learn from such a giant reset?

Our tradition recognizes that there are imbalances in the system- imbalances inherent in all systems.  Some people are more successful in acquiring things, in working skillfully or even artfully, some possess better business acumen, some are particularly adept in choosing the right parents perhaps.  And then, there are those not so skilled.  The Talmud extensively discusses the issue that  “Batar Anya Azla Aniyuta,” or  “poverty follows the poor” or that Poverty actually increases from being impoverished.

All societies naturally tend towards these proclivities,  and it is up to us, those who can make a difference, to make a change.  To reset society to align with our values and principles.  Another example of such a reset is commemorated at this time in our calendar.

As we mark the 34th day of our trek to Sinai the story of Shimon Bar Yochai is also worth noting.  A disciple of Rabbi Akiva, he and his son, Eleazar, fled to escape the Romans, living in a cave for 12 years.  He emerged but instead of re-joining his community, he was disgusted by a perceived lack of piety by the people.  Shimon’s eyes burned everything they saw to a cinder, field and man, alike.  God’s messenger, The Bat Kol, sent him back to the cave for another year and he emerged an enlightened man dedicated to righteous living and scholarship, redeeming Tiberias and possibly laying the groundwork for writing the seminal book of Jewish Mysticism, the Zohar.

This is the charge of this week’s Parsha- for each of us individually to rededicate ourselves to serving the needs of our people compassionately and deliberately, fully committed to the sacred cause of living Jewishly if we are willing to take up the challenge.

When this health emergency is past, will you emerge hardened from the cave? Or will you emerge from this quarantine open and deeper in touch with the values that are there to guide you?  Or, will you figuratively burn what you see to the ground by turning a blind eye towards the deep injustices and needs that exist, or instead, will you choose to engage in pursuing righteousness and Jewish values, treating the people with Tzedek and compassion?

Which path will you choose?

May you choose to walk the Jewish path

Cain Yehi Ratzon,

 

 

 

 

Living a Meaningful Life, we begin Elul with Parsha Re’eh

In the Torah, Moses sets out a choice for us this past week.  Blessings and curses.  It is a deceptively easy binary choice.  Given good stuff or bad stuff as alternatives, it seems like a no-brainer.  I opt for the good stuff!

But it’s really not so simple.  For what does that mean for us to choose the Blessings,  especially to us in the modern world?  That is the fundamental question to consider in the month of Elul, leading up to the Yamim Noraim, these special High Holidays.  Perhaps we, like our ancestors, are metaphorically also on the verge of entering into our own Promised Land. It is more complicated than: Choose Blessings and you go in; Choose Curses and you stay out.  Because it is about more than entering The Land; it is about living fully while there, possessing it and becoming one with it.

During Elul, as we prepare for Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, we ponder the choices we make in our lives.  As we reflect on the year past, we see successes and failures. And as we look ahead, we use this understanding to chart our course.   Are we on the path we want to be on, the one we should be on, the one we need to be on?  And presuming we have been blown off course by the winds and currents of life, how do we right our ship and get back on our path?

Elul is our time to consider these questions.  Before we can ask for forgiveness we need to know where we went astray and maybe understand why.  Before we can ask to be written in the book of life, we need to know what it means to choose a life of blessings so that this coming year brings us meaning and connection.  Then we are able to approach the Divine to make things right and set a course forward for a year where we deliberately choose blessings, knowing what they are and how we might pursue them.

L’Shanah Tova!

How will you look back on your life?

As we begin the last book of the Torah, Moses confronts this question in Parshat Devarim.

Even the title begs the question.  Devarim, what are the words and things?   What is the story we will tell to those we hope will carry it in their hearts after we are gone?

For most of us, this requires us to project forward in order to look back.  But it cannot be make-believe; our legacy will be based on the life we live.  The things we do will be the basis for the memories our loved ones will recall.  How we touch their lives will define whether they can celebrate having had us in their lives.  Our legacy will not have the great accomplishments of Moses, of course as our tradition tells us, there has never been another like Moses. Our legacy will be the impact and influence we have had on our loved ones.  But will we be the best version of ourselves?

The story is told of Reb Zusya, the Chasidic Master, who struggled at the end of his life.  He awoke panicked from a dream about the prospect of entering Heaven.  His students tried to support their beloved teacher claiming he was indeed great like Moses and Abraham.  Zusya replied that he knew that God would not compare him to Moses and Abraham but instead, God would ask why Zusya wasn’t more like Zusya?

If we do not live up to all that we can be, we do not realize our full potential.  And importantly, we let ourselves and our loved ones down.  Only we can write our story by living our lives as best and as fully as we can.  Then we will truly leave a worthy inheritance, a life of merit and honor, of love and accomplishment that will touch the hearts of those we care about.

 

 

This week’s Torah speaks to our world today

Tazria by Christina Mattison Ebert

Our world seems to be in a particularly harsh place. On all fronts we seem to be ailing. People seem unable to talk with one another; our government and institutions are unresponsive to our needs; countries withdrawing from one another, many spiraling into brutal regimes. Anger, fear, and frustration divide us rather than hope guiding and uniting us. This is the backdrop to the double portion of Tazria/Metsora (Leviticus 12; 1-13:59, Leviticus 14:1-15:33), which interestingly addresses these very issues.

 

These Parshiot contain peculiar rituals that are actually timely messages. The ailments that afflict us are more than skin deep according to the Torah, indicating perhaps some spiritual or emotional sickness perhaps that causes the infirmed to be separated from the community. Because these ailments can infect bodies, clothes and even buildings we recognize that there is something more here than meets they eye. It runs deeper and we are compelled to question what might the Torah be cautioning us about. Torah’s message rarely stops at the edge of The Land so we can engage what these portions say about us. But first, let us examine the Parsha a bit closer.

Tazria continues the conversation about ritual impurity from the previous chapter, Shemini. The Parsha moves into the conversation surrounding Tzaraat, an affliction affecting people. It is often referred to as leprosy because it manifests itself as scaly white patches, but more interesting is the decision to bring in the Priest.

The Priest, instead of a doctor, views the afflicted person to decide if indeed this is Tzaraat. The priest instead of the doctor raises our collective eyebrows. We are not the first to grapple with the texts here. Two of our classic commentators, Rashi and Abarbanel, wonder about this too. Rashi hones in on the phrase that notes the Priest is called when the white patch seems to go deeper than the skin of the afflicted person’s body. Arbarbanel focuses in on the idea that the priest is called instead of a medical Specialist to provide treatment for the individual.

We know that medical treatment options were available. Egyptians, Greeks, and Romans practiced sophisticated medicine. In Exodus and 2Kings Abarbanel notes the use of medical treatments. Our texts speak of something besides some physical problem.

Our tradition has seen afflictions as a punishment for sin against God. Nachmanides says the Divine Spirit keeps bodies, clothes, and homes in good appearance. But when one of them sins, ugliness appears on his flesh, clothes or his house. Later, the text tells us that if the affliction reappears, the clothing is burned and houses were taken down. Sforno, another commentator, suggests that perhaps the seven-day process of isolation of the afflicted is meant to rouse the sick person to repentance. We might build upon the ideas of our teachers to suggest our goal is to remedy and repair, performing Tikkun upon “people,” “clothes,” and “houses” instead of tearing them down.

Afflicted people are those who are motivated solely by their own selfish considerations. The “clothes” represent the identities or communities with which we recognize our place in the society, the roles and responsibilities of our jobs that serve others or only ourselves.   The “houses” are the institutions established to promote the common good, but have become corrupt perhaps undermining their missions, supporting very wrong they were intended to redress.

Judaism teaches us to care for the needy and weak. Clothing the naked, feeding the hungry, and caring for the widow and orphan is our charge. Our American tradition should measure our success by how well we care for the weakest among us. Freedom, liberty, and justice are our core values. They have made us a light to the nations. Our text gives us the opportunity to review what we do and consider course corrections to keep our sacred mission working. But the work begins with us.

Buber reflects that a person cannot find redemption until he/she recognizes the flaws in their own souls. A people likewise cannot be redeemed until it recognizes its flaw and attempts to efface them. Redemption comes only to the extent to which we can truly see ourselves. Redemption is not an act of grace; rather it comes when we make the world worthy of it. Only through our faith and deeds can we make so.

We are charged with a holy mission to be agents in the process of Tikkun and creation. We each are part of bigger things that begin with our own selves: family, country, and the world. How do we assume our responsibility in the work? It starts by living up to the standards to which we aspire, acting with kindness and respect for each other, and finding common ground to promote the common good; we must ensure our institutions embody our values, and actively support organizations that promote those values, here and in the world. Tazria/Metsora challenges us to act as though we are each a priest and to act embracing that each of us is B’tzelem Elohim, bringing the holy where it may not exist and effecting the changes we aspire to see in our lives.