Category: T’shuva

Masei – What do we owe the person who broke something they never meant to break?

Masei spends its final chapters on legal architecture, tribal borders, and inheritance rules. But it also includes the law of the arei miklat, the cities of refuge, built for the person who kills b’shogeg by accident. The neighbor whose axe head flew off the handle. The driver who looked down for just one second.

The Hebrew is doing something specific. Miklat shares a root with klitah, meaning absorption. It’s the word Israel still uses to describe how it takes in immigrants. An ulpan klitah is an absorption center. A city of refuge isn’t a jail cell or a technicality that lets someone off the hook. It’s a place built to take a person in, fully, the way a body absorbs what it’s given.

But the text refuses to keep this simple. The one who fled must remain there, not for a fixed sentence, but until the death of the sitting High Priest, a mortality with no connection to what he did. Step outside the walls before that day, and the victim’s own kinsman, the go’el ha-dam, may kill him without guilt. There is no release date. No parole board, no moment when remorse itself triggers freedom. The clock belongs to no one in the story. Not the guilty. Not the grieving. Not even the community that built the walls.

I think about this law when I’m sitting with people who never swung an axe. The hardest conversations I have as a chaplain are with those left behind after someone they loved has taken their own life. The question always comes, in some form. Why couldn’t I have stopped them? What could I have done differently? The law in Masei is written for the hand that acted. But the ache it names reaches beyond the letter of the text. It reaches the parent who didn’t call back, the spouse who went to sleep instead of staying up, the friend who sensed something was wrong and said nothing. No court can rule on that kind of guilt, because there was no crime. It is its own kind of b’shogeg, harm without intent, and it deserves its own klitah, its own absorption. There is only the unbearable arithmetic of what might have been different, run again and again, with no verdict ever arriving.

We want closure on a schedule, closure being a word that means to shut something. We want five stages of grief with a finish line, a program that promises healing by a set week, and a story the culture is ready to call resolved. Masei suggests some ruptures don’t run on anyone’s calendar. What I have seen console the otherwise inconsolable is not an answer, because there isn’t one. It is something closer to what the city of refuge offered before anyone had ruled on guilt or innocence, before any judgment was handed down. A sacred space of empathy and love. Built to absorb a person exactly as they are, guilt and all, for exactly as long as it takes. No release date there either.

So the harder question isn’t who needs a city of refuge right now. It’s whether we can build one, not to explain away the guilt, but to hold it and stay standing at the gate for as long as someone needs us there.

Parashat Pinchas: Who Told You That Was God?

The most dangerous sentence in religious life is not “God is dead.” It is “God told me to.”

Grant everything. God rewarded Pinchas. The plague stopped. The covenant was real. Let’s sit with that fully, without deflecting into questions of fallacy or anthropomorphism.

Then what?

Parashat Pinchas forces us to ask the question we would rather avoid: how do we distinguish between someone who genuinely heard a divine command and someone who dressed their own violent, irrational certainty in holy language?

Pinchas did not announce a prophecy. He did not consult Moses. He did not wait for the cloud to move. He felt something burning within him, seized a spear, and acted. The text calls it kana’ut, zealotry. And zealotry, by definition, does not pause to ask whether the voice it hears is God’s or its own.

This is not a theoretical problem. Yigal Amir was certain that God wanted Yitzhak Rabin dead and pulled the trigger on Israel’s Prime Minister. The settlers who burn Palestinian villages invoke divine command. The men who flew planes into buildings on September 11th believed, with everything in them, that they were doing God’s bidding. Every act of religious extremism in our lifetime has been committed by someone who felt what Pinchas felt: a burning, urgent, absolute conviction that the holy cause could not wait for process, permission, or the slower work of community discernment.

Pinchas heard God. We have stipulated that. But that settled question raises an unsettled one: what did the rest of us receive when God rewarded him? A record of a single grace, given to a single person in an unrepeatable moment? Or a template, permission for anyone who burns with enough certainty to act without constraint?

The tradition answers this with unusual clarity: it is not a template. The rabbis ruled explicitly that kana’ut cannot be taught, authorized, or legislated. What Pinchas did cannot be commanded because the moment you command it, you hand a weapon to anyone who has ever mistaken their own rage for the voice of God.

But this only sharpens the question. If we cannot rule it out, cannot authorize it, cannot teach it, then how does anyone know, in the burning moment, whether what they feel is revelation or self-deception?

Two traditions offer guardrails. The American tradition answers with the rule of law: no private conviction, however burning, overrides the collective agreement. The Jewish tradition answers with machloket l’shem shamayim, an argument for the sake of heaven. Hillel and Shammai disagreed about nearly everything, passionately, for decades. What made their argument holy was not that one of them was right. It was that neither of them picked up a spear. The argument itself was the faithfulness.

Korach, by contrast, was certain. He even had a point: all Israel is holy; why does Moses alone lead? But his argument was for himself, not for heaven. Certainty in service of the self, dressed in the language of principle, is exactly what kana’ut looks like from the inside. The difference between Hillel and Shammai and Korach is not the passion. It is whether you can stay in the room when you don’t prevail.

Both guardrails say the same thing in different languages: subordinate private certainty to collective process. Neither is sufficient on its own, and neither holds forever.

The law is corrupted. The argument for heaven devolves into paralysis. The judges weep at the entrance to the tent as the plague spreads. This is precisely the condition that makes Pinchas feel righteous, as he confronts a genuine emergency and a genuinely failed institution.

What does the tradition say, then? Not: pick up the spear. But also not: keep weeping. Stay in the argument, even when the argument is failing. Bear witness. Refuse both the violence and the paralysis. What we surrender is the clean story, the one where we acted, the plague stopped, and we knew we were right. What we keep is harder: the argument, the relationship, the refusal to let our certainty become someone else’s catastrophe.

Right now, both are under assault. The rule of law is openly contested by people certain their cause overrides it. The capacity for machloket l’shem shamayim, good-faith disagreement within a shared relationship, is nearly impossible to sustain in a world that rewards the spear and punishes the pause.

That means Pinchas is not an ancient problem we have learned to contain. He stands at the center of this moment, spear in hand, absolutely certain.

The question is not whether we recognize him. It is whether we recognize him in ourselves.

“The most dangerous sentence in religious life is not ‘God is dead.’ It is ‘God told me to.’”

What’s Going on?

 

As we welcome Shabbat and read Parsha Korach, Marvin Gaye’s What’s going on is an unorthodox way to sing it in. “Korach used the language of justice to serve his own ambition. This Shabbat, Marvin Gaye asks us to look honestly at our own motives — and our world’s.”

Shabbat Shalom

עוֹשֶׂה שָׁלוֹם בִּמְרוֹמָיו הוּא יַעֲשֶׂה שָׁלוֹם עָלֵינוּ וְעַל כָּל יִשְׂרָאֵל וְעַל כָּל יוֺשְׁבֵיm תֵבֶל וְאִמְרוּ אָמֵן

Oseh shalom bimromav, hu ya’aseh shalom aleinu, v’al kol Yisrael, v’al kol yoshvei tevel v’imru amen.

May the One who makes peace in the high places, bring peace upon us, and upon all Israel, and all humankind, and let us say: Amen.

What Jealousy Knows That Love Forgets- Parsha Naso

I have sat with people whose trust has shattered — in marriages, friendships, and communities — and almost always, the breaking came not from a single dramatic act but from a slow accumulation of doubt. A question that shouldn’t have needed asking. A silence that lasted too long.

Parashat Naso knows this gap intimately. It moves through every layer of broken trust, from the outside in: communal rupture, a marriage poisoned not by confirmed betrayal but by suspicion, and finally the Nazir — the one who has seen enough human brokenness to withdraw from relationships altogether.

Each rupture runs deeper than the last. Yet the Torah’s response to each one is the same: none of these restorations happen in private. You cannot repair what was broken between two people with only those two. We need a container larger than the injury — something that can hold what we cannot carry alone.

But the parsha demands something even harder. The Sotah drinks the water without knowing what will happen. That act, entering genuine uncertainty, is itself an act of trust. The Torah teaches something almost paradoxical: you cannot wait until you trust again before taking the risk of trusting.

And where does that courage come from? The parsha answers with Birkat Kohanim, the Priestly Blessing. The blessing is not something we generate ourselves — it comes from outside us, bestowed by the kohanim and ultimately from God. I am placing my name upon you. I am lifting my face toward you. Shalom is not merely peace, but wholeness, the integrity of parts restored to each other. It is given to us precisely so that what comes next becomes possible.

Because the parsha keeps going. The heads of the tribes each bring their offerings — twelve princes, twelve consecutive days, the same gift each time, each one named and fully witnessed. No shortcuts. Consistent presence, showing up the same way again and again, until the wholeness you are building becomes real enough to hold.

The blessing does not replace the work. It makes the work bearable. Work that each of us is called to do.

The Altar of Accountability: Ancient Ritual as Modern Ethics

The Book of Leviticus, Parshat Vayikrah, is often seen as an outdated and mysterious guide for animal sacrifice. However, beneath the “flesh and fire” lies a sophisticated psychological framework for accountability. Vayikrah teaches us that for a community to survive its members’ shortcomings or failures, it requires a social reset built on four distinct pillars.

  1. Radical Ownership- Semikhah

Accountability starts with Semikhah—the person physically places their hands on the animal’s head [1]. The Ramban, Nachmanides, explains that this act makes the individual recognize the sacrifice as a substitute for themselves; it establishes a visceral link between the person and the cost of their mistake [2]. In modern leadership, this shifts from the passive and all-too-common phrase of “Mistakes were made” to taking personal accountability: “I am responsible.” You can’t pass the blame for an error; you must accept it and embrace the consequence, along with the need to fix it.

II. The Taxonomy of Error- Chatat vs. Asham

Vayikrah distinguishes between the Chatat, the offering for unintentional errors [3], and the Asham offered for breaches of trust or trespass [4]. Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch notes that while a Chatat is a “missing of the mark,” an Asham implies a desolation of the conscience [5]. This framework teaches that accountability isn’t just for malice or punishment; even unintentional negligence requires a public “clean-up.” It highlights that the impact of our actions matters just as much as our intent.

III. Radical Transparency –Vidui

A sacrifice is invalid without Vidui, or verbal confession. Maimonides, the Rambam, states that no sacrifice achieves atonement unless the offender “makes a verbal confession” [6]. Accountability involves acknowledging the harm for which we are responsible. By speaking the mistake aloud, the offender brings the error out of secrecy and into the open, allowing the community to process the breach.

IV. Restorative Justice -The “Fifth”

Regarding robbery, the Torah mandates that the offender cannot seek Divine forgiveness until they settle the human debt: “He shall restore it in full, and shall add the fifth part more thereto” [7]. Rashi emphasizes that restitution must come before the sacrifice [8]. This is the gold standard of restorative justice. True accountability is “Principal Plus 20%,” recognizing that the victim lost not just property but also time and trust.

Conclusion

Vayikrah teaches us that forgiveness is an earned state, not an entitlement. The sacrificial system ensured that the victim was compensated, the mistake was acknowledged, and the offender faced a tangible consequence. By following these steps—Ownership, Categorization, Verbalization, and Restitution—we transform ancient rituals into a timeless blueprint for integrity that remains relevant today.

Citations

  1. Vayikrah 1:4. 2. Ramban on Vayikrah 1:9. 3. Vayikrah 4:2. 4. Vayikrah 5:15. 5. Hirsch on Vayikrah 4:2. 6. Rambam, Hilchot Teshuvah 1:1. 7. Vayikrah 5:24. 8. Rashi on Vayikrah 5:23.

 

New Year 2026

We celebrate two things—the end of the old year and the beginning of the new year. The new year is filled with hope and anticipation of what might be. Last year showed us yet again that things don’t always go as planned—there is good, there is bad—it is a mix. But whatever has happened is now in our past. Those things cannot be changed, but we might learn from them as we move forward.

I am not much for resolutions unless they are real commitments. This is a time to reflect on what is truly important to us, the values at our core, and how they are challenged or reinforced by our life lessons and experiences. What are they, and how can we live them out more fully? If a relationship is important to you, what can you do to nurture it? If being healthier is important to you, what can you do to support the process?

These questions help us identify our commitments, and then we can take the steps to make them a reality. The truth is, life often gets in the way, as we learned from years past. Busy schedules or tiffs can keep us from calling our friend, and the temptation of that cake slice can overwhelm the desire to maintain a diet. Our commitments can help us pick up the phone or put down the fork.

May the coming year be one of fulfillment and meaning, however you may define it. And may you find the power to make it so.

Wishing you a Happy, Healthy New Year.

 

Psalm 27 is added to our prayers during Elul and through the chagim.

We prepare ourselves for this special time with the prayer that we might dwell in the house of the Divine.  May your experience this season be meaningful, filled with reflection, repentance, and renewal.

Thanks to Chava Mirel for this beautiful rendition of Psalm 27:4.

Shabbat Shalom

#BringThemHomeNow