Shabbat Weekly Dvar Torah

When I read the news that the hostages had indeed been released as planned, I shed tears of relief, tears of joy, tears of sorrow for those who were lost, so many tears filled with such a mix of intense emotions. The co-mingling of joy and sorrow is a leitmotif in Jewish life. From breaking a glass under the chuppah to Monday’s release of the hostages, we Jews live with a mix of complex emotions at the heights of our happiness and the depths of our despair. Hagai Luber, whose son made the ultimate sacrifice for the Jewish people, in the poem he wrote "With Unmixed Feelings," invites us to reflect on a complex reality where joy and grief coexist, and each moment presents emotional and ethical choices. May this be a new beginning (a kind of Bereisheet or Genesis) for the hostages and their families, the people of Israel, and the Jewish people around the world.

On Oct. 14, 1663, the English civil servant Samuel Pepys decided to pay a visit to the Jewish synagogue in London’s Creechurch Lane. Jews were a novelty in Restoration England. They had been expelled from the realm nearly four centuries earlier, and it was only in 1656 that they had once again been permitted to live on English soil. Pepys, knowing nothing of Judaism, wasn’t aware that his excursion happened to coincide with the most euphoric day in the Jewish calendar – the festival of Simchat Torah, or “rejoicing with the Law.” What he saw bewildered him.

One of the privileges and responsibilities that I have as a congregational professional is serving on the faculty of the Union for Reform Judaism's summer camps. Imagine my surprise when three summers ago, my first serving in the unit at Olin-Sang-Ruby Union Institute (OSRUI) that focuses on the arts for students in the seventh through tenth grades-that our topic was Kohelet, the Book of Ecclesiastes. My immediate reaction was: "It's so dark. This is summer camp where they are supposed to have fun! What are they going to get out of the ramblings of an older person reviewing and lamenting on life?" Three summers later, the staff members-and even some of the campers-are still talking about the session. The mere mention of the word Kohelet evokes a nod, a knowing utterance, of something that was deep yet accessible, provocative yet distressing, memorable and powerful.

Parashat Ha’azinu, which we read this Shabbat, is almost entirely poetry: Moses’ farewell song to the people. At the end of his life, he does not leave them with laws or lectures, but with words to be sung. Moses understood that songs linger. A melody can echo in our minds for years, touching the heart as much as the mind. He wanted his message to endure not only as teaching but as music — something that could be carried in memory and spirit. Commenting on a verse that could sound quite bleak - “See now that I, I am He… I put to death and I bring to life” (Deut. 32:39) - Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, z”l, explained that it reveals the rhythm of covenantal life: brokenness and renewal are always intertwined. As we have just emerged from the Ten Days of Repentance, we know this rhythm well. We faced our flaws, our brokenness, and then celebrated the possibility of renewal.

The sound of the shofar is primal & ancient. It produces a strange sense of awe and reverence. Think back to that moment before the first blast is sounded; a hushed expectancy fills the synagogue. At the moment we hear the first piercing note, we are struck with an almost childlike wonderment. And for most of us, it is one of our earliest childhood memories. The notes of the shofar are not beautiful by any musical standard, but somehow, we find in their thin piercing blasts something that calls to us. We feel connected to the shepherds and kings, the prophets and prophetesses, who first heard these same notes in the land of Israel more than 3000 years ago. But what is the call of the shofar?

The Practice of Gratitude: Parashat Ki Tavo opens with Bikkurim, the offering of first fruits. Israelite farmers were instructed to take the first fruits of their harvest and bring them to the Temple in Jerusalem. They would present their baskets to the priest and recite a formal declaration: a brief retelling of Jewish history, from wandering to slavery to our arrival in the Land, culminating in gratitude to God for the Land and its abundance. But Bikkurim wasn’t just a personal act — it became a ritual of public celebration.

I was eight years old in Basel, Switzerland, the day I learned about the way places have layers. It was a chilly, autumn Shabbos, and my father and I were on a walk by the river. My father pointed out different sights as we walked: there is the house where his elementary school friend lived. There is the gate they walked through to get to school, there is the shop run by the woman rumored to be a witch. And there, he said, pointing to a small, shady area, is the place where they burned the Jews in the 14th century. The rest of the afternoon was like a double exposure... For the first time, I began to understand what it is like when something so beautiful becomes, while retaining all its magic, something terrible as well.

Life moves in cycles. The world around us is never static: days rise and fall, seasons turn, tides ebb and flow. Scientists tell us that even the tiniest parts of our bodies - every cell - operate on a circadian rhythm, a 24-hour clock that governs sleep, metabolism, mood, and even immunity. When we live in harmony with these rhythms, we thrive. When we ignore them, everything feels out of balance. The natural world preaches the same lesson. Trees shed their leaves in autumn, not in despair, but in preparation. By letting go, they conserve energy, store life within their roots, and ready themselves for renewal in the spring. What looks like loss is in fact a cycle of strength. The Jewish year is built on this wisdom of cycles.