Shabbat Weekly Dvar Torah

Each year, in the dog days of summer, our text and our tradition point us towards love. Coming out of the intense mourning of Tisha B’Av, we find ourselves poised at the nexus of Shabbat Nachamu, the Shabbat of Comfort and Shabbat Vaetchanan, this Shabbat on which we read the Torah’s commandment to love God with all our heart, with all our soul, with all our strength. And tonight, largely unnoticed outside of Israel, we’ll celebrate Tu B’Av…. And, while the modern celebrations mirror our Hallmark holiday, Tu B’Av appears in rabbinic literature and beyond as a day of comfort and healing, a return to love after the pain and grief of Tisha B’Av — commemorating tragedies in Jewish history and considered to be the saddest day on the Jewish calendar.

There’s a well-known story (apocryphal or true, we’ll never know) of Napoleon riding by a synagogue on Tisha B’Av (which falls tomorrow night through Sunday) and hearing wailing and crying from within. When he asked an aide what was going on, he was told the Jews were mourning the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem 2,000 years before. His response: “A nation that cries and fasts for over 2,000 years for their land and Temple will surely be rewarded with both.” I heard that story for the first time at Camp Pembroke, the Jewish girls camp I attended from ages 9 to 19. And the main question that I remember thinking about the story at the time was: Why were they crying so loudly that Napoleon could hear them from outside!?!

Most of us remember playing hide-and-seek as children. I often thought of the game as one that revealed the difference between those of us who relished being “it” (trying to find their friends after the proper period of counting) and those for whom being “it” came with severe anxiety. As far as the hiders went, growing up was marked by being able to find ever more sophisticated places to take refuge. It was only when the cry of “Ollie Ollie oxen free!” could be heard that we knew it was safe to come out. And it all began again from there. This Shabbat we read the Torah portions Matot-Masei, which taken together, bring the book of Numbers to a close. Among the many matters discussed — such as the rules for entering a foreign city and the taking-on and annulling of vows — are the cities of refuge to be established once the Israelites settle in Canaan.

Every so often, the Jewish calendar gives us a parsha that arrives right on time — not just in the weekly rhythm of Torah, but in the deeper rhythm of our lives. Parshat Pinchas is one of those moments. On the surface, it’s not a parsha that immediately signals inclusion. It begins with zealotry and ends with offerings. But tucked within its verses is a quiet, powerful revolution led by five women — daughters who asked a question, told the truth, and changed Torah forever. Their names — Machla, Noa, Hogla, Milka, and Tirza — are not just listed once. The Torah mentions them again and again. We are meant to remember them, to speak their names, to learn from their courage. Their father, Tzelophechad, had died without sons. And in the system of inheritance at the time, that meant his family’s name, and land, would be erased.

As Balak begins, the 40 years of desert wandering have passed and the Israelites finally arrive on the borders of the land of Canaan. They are about to move in and conquer it all and seem unstoppable to their opponents. Balak, King of Moab, a neighboring nation, comes up with a novel plan: he will hire Bilaam, a top pagan sorcerer, to curse the Israelites, destroying their chances of defeating his own army and entering his land. Only the scheme doesn’t work. Bilaam may be a polytheistic prophet, but he is also an honest man who conveys only what God permits him to say. This is a colorful portion: we are gifted with such entities as a professional sorcerer-for-hire, an angel with a fiery sword, a talking donkey…

In the immediate aftermath of the horrors of October 7, there was a fleeting sense among many of us that a swift, decisive, and clear victory might be within reach. But nearly two years later — despite the remarkable achievements of the IDF and perhaps even because of them — that initial hope has given way to a deep and widespread sense of exhaustion. This fatigue has seeped into nearly every corner of Israeli society. The ongoing anguish over the hostages, the mounting toll of casualties, the refusal of the Haredi community to share in the burden of national defense, and the constant disruption of daily life have left a nation frayed and disoriented. Worse still, we find ourselves divided — politically, ideologically, even spiritually — on how to move forward.

There’s a certain kind of person who simply cannot handle other people being free. Not because they oppose freedom, of course. Heavens, no! They'll say things like: "I'm all for justice!" or "I believe in equality!" — as long as you don’t outshine them … Once you start living a little too out loud? Suddenly they’re quoting scripture, calling security, and suggesting it’s “not the right time.” Welcome to Parshat Korach, where the Torah introduces us to a man who would have absolutely crushed it on Instagram Reels.

Like so many of you, I’ve been feeling it all for a week — terror, awe, dread, gratitude. I have been glued to my screen, stunned by the audacity and precision of the IDF, the IAF, and the Mossad. Who are these people? I kept asking. How do they dare? Then came messages from friends and family in Israel under fire. Exhausted, anxious, heartbroken. Yet still — steady. Determined. United. One phrase kept running through my mind: We are living in Biblical times. There’s something ancient and electric in the air. Even the name of this war — Am KeLavi, “A Nation/ People Like a Lion” — is drawn straight from the Torah (Bemidbar/ Numbers 23:24).