In Chapter 9 of Numbers, the Israelites are commanded by God to observe Passover in the wilderness, and they do. Those who are ritually impure or unable to participate are given another opportunity at a later time. At first glance, it seems like an odd time to mark such a significant occasion. Wouldn’t it make more sense to wait until they arrived safely at their destination in the Promised Land? Wouldn’t it be easier to celebrate once the journey was complete?
However, that is not the instruction the Israelites receive. In that moment, we learn something important about ourselves and our tradition. If we wait for everything to be perfect or complete before we celebrate, we may never celebrate at all. The Israelites are instructed to commemorate their liberation while they are still in the middle of their Exodus story. They do not wait for everything to be resolved and wrapped up in a neat bow. They pause to remember, to give thanks, and perhaps to gather the strength they will need for the journey ahead.
There is a lesson in this for all of us. It reminds me of a famous teaching where the sages teach that when a funeral procession and a wedding procession meet, the funeral procession yields to the wedding procession (Ketubot 17a). This teaching does not diminish the pain of a funeral. Rather, it reminds us that even in a world where sorrow is present, we have an obligation to also make room for joy.
We live in a moment when it can feel difficult to celebrate. Our nation faces deep divisions and challenges. Around the world, wars continue, and communities grapple with violence, hatred, and uncertainty. Many of us carry personal worries alongside these collective concerns. In light of these difficulties, it can be tempting to think that joy should wait. Perhaps, we think, we will celebrate when things get better. However, Jewish tradition has never worked that way.听
In this Torah portion, our ancestors observed Passover while wandering through the wilderness. Similarly, we as Jews have lit Shabbat candles in moment of exile. We have observed holidays, danced with the Torah, and celebrated in moments of hardship and oppression. We still do, to this day. And it鈥檚 not because we are ignoring reality, but rather, because celebration is more than a reward for reaching the end of the journey- it is part of who we are. Our tradition gives us moments that remind us of what we are working toward- opportunities to gather with loved ones, to express gratitude, to witness beauty, and to experience joy.
As we look at our country, our Jewish community, and our world, we should not turn away from the challenges that confront us. But we also should never give up our Jewish joy. We must gather for Shabbat, mark holidays, rejoice at weddings, welcome children, and celebrate graduations, anniversaries, birthdays, and more, together in community. We hope you’ll join us this Friday for our spirited, fun, and even a little silly Hot Shabbat鈥攁 celebration of Shabbat, summer, and all that is joyful in our community.
Like our ancestors marking Passover in the wilderness, we must pause to celebrate. Not because the work is finished, but because for the journey to continue, we need to pause and gather strength for the road ahead.听
Shabbat Shalom,
Cantor Sydney Michaeli听
The pursuit of peace is so compelling that Jews pray for it many times a day.听 We even greet each other and take leave of each other with a wish for it.听 The Midrash tells us that even if Israel gave itself over to worshipping idols, if they lived in peace with each other, they would be spared punishment.听
This Midrash is puzzling.听 Can the pursuit of peace really take precedence over Judaism鈥檚 symbol of the ultimate betrayal of God? Beyond that theological question, are there other fundamental Jewish imperatives that might set aside supremacy of peace? What about seeking justice, or not standing idly by while another is oppressed? What about self-defense, or rebuking another person who is committing a transgression? In our everyday lives, do we overlook the wrongs we see committed around us in the interest of preserving peace?听 Or do we speak out and risk disturbing that peace, which we also understand Judaism to command?
What better way to answer the questions raised by one Midrash, than by quoting another?听 Our congregation鈥檚 name comes from a verse in Pirkei Avot, the Ethics of Our Fathers, which calls on us to be like the students of Aaron, loving peace (Ohev Shalom) and pursuing peace (Rodef Shalom).听 The rabbis tell us: 鈥淲henever Aaron walked along the road and met a wicked man, he would greet him warmly.听 On the following day, when that man was about to commit a transgression, he would say to himself: 鈥榃oe is me!听 After doing this, how can I lift my eyes and look Aaron in the face?听 I would be ashamed before him.鈥欌澨 In this way, Aaron鈥檚 pursuit of peace led others, by example, towards righteousness.听
Like all the most powerful teachings, this response by the rabbis leaves questions unanswered. We know we cannot always choose the path of no conflict. But the Midrash challenges us that, even in our pursuit of justice, a peaceful message can do more than we realize. May we, as individuals and as a community, be blessed with peace.听 And may we use that blessing to bring good to the world.
Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Jeffrey Saxe
The Torah describes the Israelites gathering 鈥渁s one鈥 at the foot of the mountain. Yet we know they were hardly all the same. They brought different experiences, personalities, fears, and dreams. What united them was not uniformity, but a willingness to learn together, grow together, and build something greater than themselves.
This week, I had the privilege of meeting with a rabbi and educator from a Reform congregation in London who came to learn more about 海角原创 鈥 especially our work with young families and the many ways we strive to create meaningful Jewish life across generations. During our conversation, they spoke with admiration about the vibrancy of our congregation and the reputation we have developed as a leader within the Reform Movement.
As gratifying as those words were to hear, I found myself reflecting on what truly makes our community special. It is not simply our size, our programs, our professional and lay leaders, or even our innovation. It is the spirit behind them. Like the Israelites at Sinai, our congregation is made strong because people continually choose to show up for one another 鈥 to teach, to learn, to volunteer, to sing, to celebrate, and to care for one another.
Our young family programming, which so impressed our visitors, is not successful because of any one event or initiative. It succeeds because parents, clergy, educators, staff, and volunteers together create spaces where Judaism feels joyful and accessible. We are building a community where children grow up knowing that Jewish life is filled with warmth, meaning, and belonging.
Shavuot reminds us that Torah is never meant to remain frozen in one moment in history. Every generation receives it anew. Every community interprets it through the lens of its own experiences and aspirations. In many ways, that is the sacred work happening every day at 海角原创. We are not simply preserving Judaism; we are helping shape its future.
There is a beautiful Midrash that teaches that when Torah was given at Sinai, each person heard it in a way they could uniquely understand. Perhaps that is one of the great lessons of Shavuot for us today: a thriving Jewish community is one that speaks to people where they are, while still inviting them to grow.
As we celebrate this festival of revelation, may we continue to be a congregation that opens doors widely, nurtures the next generation lovingly, and inspires others through the sacred work we do together.
Chag Shavuot Sameach,
Cantor Michael Shochet
听
The post Our Thriving Community A D鈥檝ar Torah about Shavuot first appeared on 海角原创.]]>What does it mean to count the days and weeks between these holidays? For me, above all else, the omer serves as a reminder that Passover (our holiday of freedom) and Shavuot (our holiday of receiving Torah) are connected. Once we are free – as the Ancient Israelites suddenly found themselves to be, on the other side of the parted red sea, and as we remind ourselves we are, yearly in the spring – we face a different challenge: what should we do with our freedom?
The Ancient Israelites in the wilderness, whose story we re-read each year, answered this question by accepting the Torah. They used their newfound freedom to commit to a code of ethical living, a specific form of relationship with each other, with other people, with the earth, and with God.
Shavuot, which begins next Thursday night, is our time to remember that we are the inheritors of their covenant and the authors of its next chapter. Part of what that means, I think, is that Shavuot asks of us: what will we do with our freedom? How will each of us recommit to living ethical lives?
Broadly speaking, in Jewish tradition, one of the reasons we need to keep asking ourselves this question is that the world keeps changing, and so the ways that we follow the commandments might need to change along with it. Take, for example, the commandment that the great sage Akiva argued was the central commandment of the Torah: 鈥渓ove your neighbor as yourself鈥 (Leviticus 19:18). Loving our neighbors, and loving ourselves, may look similar from year to year, but as we face new challenges, and potentially, also have access to new opportunities, 鈥渓ove your neighbor as yourself鈥 might require of us actions we鈥檝e never undertaken before.
Every Shavuot becomes an opportunity to ask ourselves: what are my ethical obligations in the world, and what are the ways I can fulfill them? Some years, our answers to this question might lead us to recommit to actions we are already taking, and other years, this question might be a catalyst to explore new ways of being, new connections, and new possibilities.
The question 鈥渨hat will we do with our freedom鈥 also encourages us to identify avenues of agency in our lives 鈥 even if, or when, we are feeling less-than-powerful. It can be easy (at least for me! And maybe sometimes for you, too!) to become overwhelmed with what we can鈥檛 do. The period of the omer, this long multi-week temporal thread connecting Passover to Shavuot, can remind us to search for the things we can do.
And in Judaism, revelation is collective. Part of what this means is that if we鈥檙e not sure how to figure out what we can do to make a difference, Jewish tradition encourages us to reach out to others, and draw on our wisdom and support. We don鈥檛 have to go it alone.
Perhaps because this week鈥檚 Torah portion, Bamidbar, is often read right before Shavuot, many of the classical midrashim based on B鈥檓idbar deal with the question: how do we spiritually prepare to receive Torah (and recommit to an ethical life)?听 One of my favorite midrashic explorations of this question, from the medieval compilation Bamidbar Rabbah, goes like this:
鈥溾楪od spoke to Moses in the wilderness of Sinai 鈥︹ (Numbers 1:1). From here [i.e., riffing off of this verse of Torah], the sages taught that the Torah was given with three things: with fire, with water, and in the wilderness. [The midrash goes on to point out verses from the Tanakh where the Torah is connected or analogized to each of these three, and then goes on to say:] Why was the Torah given with these three things? Just as fire, water, and wilderness are free for all who dwell on earth, so too words of Torah are free to all who dwell on earth.鈥 (Bamidbar Rabbah, 1:7)
In other words: the wisdom we need to live an ethical and connected life? It is available to us! Our task is to go and learn it, and make it our own.
As we approach this Shavuot, and always, may we all find our way to the Torah we most need.
The post Parshat Bamidbar: What Will We Do With Our Freedom? first appeared on 海角原创.]]>
I will be the first one to admit that I am not a perfect omer counter. There are day I simply forget or only realize I haven鈥檛 engaged in the practice when I am officially too tired to do anything more! But, 听in a season that is often hectic with end-of-year programs, family logistics, of trying to hold both the joy and the heaviness of the world, we鈥檙e given a reminder to take a small pause. To slow down, say a few words, and count.
In many ways, this counting of the omer connects to the Torah portion we read this week, Behar鈥揃鈥檆hukotai. In this section of the Torah, we read about cycles of time- of years of work and years of rest, of times of settling and times renewal. We learn about the sabbath year for crops, and the jubilee year for our lands. It reminds us that time isn鈥檛 just something that happens- it is something we are meant to take notice of. I think the omer reminds of that too.听
So whether you are an avid omer-counter, or you鈥檝e never heard of this practice, I invite you to take a moment to check in. Maybe the idea of counting isn鈥t for you, or maybe it resonates deeply. But this is the invitation of the season- to pay attention, to honor time and space, and to slow down, just a bit.听
Shabbat Shalom
Cantor Sydney Michaeli听
To speak is to make something real. Words transmit values across generations and shape our community and our response to the world. In Emor, speech becomes the bridge between the sacred and the everyday. It is through words that holiness enters our lives.
We see this most clearly in the rhythm of Jewish time. On Shabbat, we speak holiness into being through Kiddush and other blessings. On holidays, we retell our story鈥攚hether at the Passover seder, hearing the shofar on Rosh Hashanah, or blessing the Chanukah candles. These are not passive rituals; they are acts that come from our mouths that affirm our identity.
But Emor challenges us to go further. If Judaism is only something we say in the synagogue or at the holiday table, it remains limited. The deeper call is to let our words and actions align every day. The way we speak to others with kindness, integrity, and sometimes with courage, becomes our way of living our lives through Torah. Our actions add to that to help make the world a better place. All of this is with compassion, justice, and dignity.
From a Reform Jewish perspective, this idea carries a powerful message of personal ethical responsibility. We are not only inheritors of tradition; we are its modern interpreters and its voices. Each of us chooses how to 鈥渟peak鈥 Judaism into the world through the way we celebrate, the values we uphold, and the respect we show to others, including those who believe differently than we do.
鈥淓mor鈥濃攕peak. Let your Judaism be heard not only in prayers, but in the way you show up in the world. Through your words and your actions, you continue the story, bringing holiness into every day.
Shabbat Shalom,
Cantor Michael Shochet
When it is appropriate to speak out on political issues is one of the most sensitive and important questions religious leaders are called to address today. This week鈥檚 Torah portion, Acharei Mot-Kedoshim, shows us why Judaism does belong in political conversations, and also, why it matters how we talk about it.
The Book of Leviticus鈥檚 function is to complete the formation of the Israelites as a people and prepare them for their journey to the Land of Israel. Until now, it has concentrated on the ordination of the priests and the sacrifices at the Tabernacle that give religion the reputation for being about ceremony. However, this week, all that changes. In the climax of the book, God tells the people what all their preparation is for.听 In a passage commonly called the Holiness Code, God says, 鈥淵ou shall be holy, for I, the Eternal your God, am holy.鈥 Following these words is a list of commandments that encompass both interpersonal behavior and societal morality. Here are a few:
You shall not pick your vineyard bare, or gather the fallen fruit of your vineyard; you shall leave them for the poor and the stranger: I the Lord am your God.
The wages of a laborer shall not remain with you until morning.
You shall not insult the deaf, or place a stumbling block before the blind.
You shall not render an unfair decision: do not favor the poor or show deference to the rich; judge your kinsman fairly.
Do not profit by the blood of your fellow: I am the Lord.
When a stranger resides with you in your land, you shall not wrong him. The stranger who resides with you shall be to you as one of your citizens; you shall love him as yourself, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt:
These commandments cannot be said to govern individual behavior alone. They have much to say about caring for the poor; the fair treatment of workers; the impartiality of judges, the honoring of immigrants; inclusion of people with disabilities; and our obligation to fight against oppression. If Jewish leaders fail to raise up these teachings, we are missing the point of Torah.
At the same time, the way we talk about these imperatives is important. All of these matters have many sides and multiple solutions. They require open minds. Perhaps this is the reason for the interesting presentation of the last part of this passage, below:
You shall not hate your kinsfolk in your heart. Reprove your kinsman but incur no guilt because of him. You shall not take vengeance or bear a grudge against your countrymen. Love your neighbor as yourself: I am the Lord.
The most important commandment of Torah, to love your neighbor, is accompanied by warnings that remind us that being a holy community does not mean avoiding subjects we don鈥檛 see the same way. Rather, we are challenged, not to be silent nor to bear a grudge; to talk about our grievances and assume good intentions; to disagree with each other, and at the same time, to love each other.
Wishing You a Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Jeff Saxe
The post Acharei Mot-Kedoshim: Should We Stay Out of Politics? first appeared on 海角原创.]]>As a child, I had the ability to sit before survivors and hear their stories. I knew tales of older relatives, and I saw the numbers tattooed on their wrinkled skin. I knew my own Saba’s story of escape and hiding. We know that young people today will not have those same opportunities to hear the stories firsthand. Because of that, we must think about what it means to remember when the storytellers are no longer here to share their stories. As second-hand listeners, we must recognize that the memory is no longer something we can simply receive. Instead, it鈥檚 something we must actively carry and hold onto.
Here in our own community, that call to remember is not abstract. At 海角原创, we are part of a congregation that was shaped by the vision and leadership of someone who held these memories first hand. These are not just stories we tell, but a legacy we inherit and hold.
In that spirit, I want to share a story that temple member, Sam Simon, shared with me, about our founding Rabbi, a Holocaust survivor of several concentration camps. In Sam鈥檚 own words, here is a bit of memory we may carry forward.
鈥傗傗傗傗傗”We stopped on the way for lunch in a quaint restaurant/cafeteria.听 Sitting across from Rabbi Berkowits 鈥傗傗傗俛nd me was a slight, older man 鈥 thin.听 He kept starring at us during the meal, and toward the end his eyes 鈥傗傗傗傗傗俵ight up, and he almost lept across the table, in a loud voice: 鈥淚 remember you!听 I remember you!听 You 鈥傗傗傗傗倃ere the boy who sang in the showers!!!鈥
鈥傗傗傗傗傗俌es, Lazlo Berkowits at 16 years old, a prisoner of the Nazis would 鈥渟ing in the showers.鈥
Holding this story close, we are not only called to recall the things that happened to our people, but to honor them in the way we live today. We are reminded to build community with intention and to recognize the humanity in others, even when it is difficult. May we honor those who lived, and those who were lost, not only by remembering them today, but by living lives that ensure their stories are never forgotten. May we always have a song to sing, even in the hardest moments. Zichronam livracha- may their memories be a blessing for all of us.
Shabbat Shalom,
Cantor Sydney Michaeli
听The first part of this week鈥檚 parasha is most troubling. Nadav and Avihu bring some type of strange, unsanctioned offering to the sacred altar. There are many commentaries on this story with rabbis suggesting what they might have brought to the altar. Perhaps a foreign, idolatrous substance; perhaps it wasn鈥檛 the substance but the way they men brought it; some suggest that the two were drunk when they can into the sanctuary which is strictly forbidden. I cannot make a judgment on their actions as not enough information is provided. But the part that I feel most uncomfortable with is the part where Moses tells Aaron and the other sons not to mourn the death of Nadav and Avihu. They are told to be silent, not to cry,听 not to tear their clothing, not to take time to process their grief but to continue their work in the Mishkan or Tabernacle.听
How can we reconcile a God of compassion with a demand for such emotional suppression? On the surface, it feels like a denial of the very humanity Torah usually champions. It suggests that “the work” is more important than the worker, and that the sacrifices must proceed even after the most profound of losses.听 Reading this is painful, uncomfortable, and even offensive.
Some might suggest that perhaps the “wrongness” we feel is exactly what we are meant to sit with. This silence isn’t a sign that grief doesn’t matter; it鈥檚 a reflection of those moments in life when a tragedy is so immense that words are not just inadequate鈥攖hey are offensive. By remaining silent, Aaron acknowledges the magnitude of his loss in a way that no eulogy could.
Today, let us remember that while our tradition values the strength to carry on, it must never come at the expense of our right to feel. May we be a community that, unlike the desert Tabernacle, always makes room for the broken heart.
Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Amy Schwartzman
鈥淗ow is this night different from all other nights?鈥 This one question turns out really to be four, each about the reason for a ritual in the Seder. In the Haggadah, as we know, the four questions are asked and answered.
But the most interesting questions have no easy answer. They are in the Haggadah, too, but they are harder to find. Here are two that struck me this year:
鈥淲hy would we celebrate our freedom by restricting it?鈥
Yesterday one of my teen children asked me this question, in our anticipation of the upcoming holiday 鈥 and the dread of observing its rules . I began to try to give a simple answer, and then I realized this question is a central message of the Seder. The entire holiday places freedom alongside bondage. We enjoy a feast that took days to prepare, and yet we refrain from any yeast that had time to rise. We tell the story of our suffering in slavery, while reclining on pillows and drinking wine. Personally, I look forward to the week of giving up bread, not because of what I cannot eat, but because of all of the other things I do eat during this week (including multiple jars of peanut butter along with my matzah!) At the same time, the combination of celebrating what we have and mourning what we didn鈥檛 have, and what many others still don鈥檛 have, is for me the essence of Passover. The Seder and the weekly observance serve to keep this tension as a question in our minds.
鈥淲hat is meant by the sentence, 鈥楢rami Oveid Avi?鈥欌
One of the opening lines of the traditional Haggadah鈥檚 Magid section (the telling of the story) is the sentence, Arami oveid avi. Arami means, 鈥渁n Aramean.鈥 Avi means, 鈥渕y father.鈥 The word in the middle, oveid, can mean 鈥減erish,鈥 or 鈥渓ost.鈥 In addition, the verb鈥檚 form is not clear in the Hebrew. So, the phrase could mean, 鈥淢y father (Jacob) was a wandering Aramean,鈥 or, 鈥淎n Aramean (Laban) tried to destroy my father (Jacob).鈥 There are multiple questions that come from this brief statement! Are we recalling Jacob鈥檚 migration from Haran to Canaan, or his near destruction by his own father-in-law? The rabbis do not agree, and we do not know. More broadly, which story are we telling tonight? The story of the exodus from Egypt, or the story of the origin of our people many generations before? Or, is the Haggadah鈥檚 true agenda to get us to mine our people鈥檚 past, all of our families鈥 pasts, and the experiences of our neighbors, for the stories we long to tell?
Wishing you a meaningful Pesach,
Rabbi Jeffrey Saxe