Shabbat Weekly Dvar Torah

The priestly blessing found in this week’s parashah, Naso, is one that has been an important part of our people’s story for three millennia. In the days when the Temple stood in Jerusalem, the priests offered this blessing on behalf of G-d to the people. This tradition continues today in many congregations, where those who are descendants of the Kohanim, the high priests, ascend the bimah and bless the congregation. This blessing is also recited under the chuppah, when children are welcomed into the covenant and named, and it is the prayer bestowed upon children by their parents at Shabbat and holy days. The three benedictions of this prayer are simple and yet incredibly powerful. The words ring in our ears as we consider the many special moments when we’ve heard them. I recently came across a story that spoke of the extreme importance and power of these words.

As we step into the month of June — Pride Month — the Jewish calendar hands us Parshat Bamidbar, the first Torah portion in the Book of Numbers. And yes, it opens with… a census. It’s the spiritual equivalent of a divine Excel spreadsheet: rows, columns, names, tribes, tallies. Not exactly the kind of Torah portion that screams, “Celebrate queerness!” And yet — Bamidbar may be exactly what we need this month. Because buried within its orderly accounting is a message that’s anything but bureaucratic. Rashi, our ever-astute medieval commentator, tells us that God commanded the census not for logistics, but for love.

This week’s double Torah portion, Behar–Bechukotai, closes out the book of Leviticus with what can only be described as a spiritual mic drop — or maybe more accurately, a Torah-powered origin story. Because what we get here isn’t just a list of laws. It’s a blueprint for building a society powered not by force, but by faith. Not by conquest, but by conscience. And most importantly — by the superpower we’ve relied on for generations: learning. In Parshat Behar, we encounter Shmita — the mitzvah to let the land rest every seven years. No planting. No harvesting. No business as usual. Just stop. Trust. Recharge. It’s the Torah’s version of powering down in order to power up.

I can’t keep most plants alive, but somehow my orchids thrive. Fragile yet resilient, they bloom when I least expect it. On one of the darkest days of the last year, I returned home shaken by the loss of eight Israeli soldiers in Gaza to find that an orchid I thought was long dead had flowered. During the shiva for my daughter’s closest friend, also killed in Gaza, another bloomed despite having shed its flowers only a month earlier. On the day following the attacks of October 7th, I sat dazed and disoriented in my garden watching a bee gather pollen from a flower.

Kedoshim contains the two great love commands of the Torah. The first is, “Love your neighbor as yourself. I am the Lord” (Lev. 19:18). Rabbi Akiva called this “the great principle of the Torah.” The second is no less challenging: “The stranger living among you must be treated as your native-born. Love him as yourself, for you were strangers in Egypt. I am the Lord your God (Lev. 19:34). These are extraordinary commands. Many civilizations contain variants of the Golden Rule: “Do unto others as you would have them do to you,” or in the negative form attributed to Hillel (sometimes called the Silver Rule), “What is hateful to you, do not do to your neighbor. That is the whole Torah. The rest is commentary; go and learn.”(Shabbat 31a). But these are rules of reciprocity, not love.

One of the most beautiful pieces of Jewish liturgy is one of the most modern: the Prayer for the State of Israel. But despite its beauty and poignancy, the prayer has become a locus of controversy. In the early 1990s, a tradition of sorts emerged: whenever people disliked what the Israeli government was doing, they stopped reciting the prayer or altered its wording. During the Oslo process, many on the Orthodox right refrained from reciting that prayer entirely or changed its wording. And since Benjamin Netanyahu’s government took office, and especially since the war in Gaza began, many on the left have been calling for similar changes or omissions; replacing words with those they find more palatable or not saying the prayer at all.

Parshat Shemini presents a pivotal moment in the Torah, particularly in the context of community and leadership. The portion details the inauguration of the Mishkan (Tabernacle) and the roles of Aaron and his sons as the first priests. One significant event is the tragic death of Aaron's sons, who bring unauthorized fire before God. This alien fire consumed them, and they instantly died. A day that began amidst celebration, and particular elevation for Aaron and Elisheva’s family of Kohanim (priests), turned into one of death and grief.

As we move through the Jewish year, few holidays reveal as much about the Jewish soul as Yom Kippur and Passover. One calls us inward, into silence and fasting. The other calls us outward — into storytelling, song, and shared meals. Though they stand in stark contrast, both holidays use food — or its deliberate absence — as a spiritual tool, helping us sharpen our focus and deepen our connection to Jewish memory and meaning.