Tag: Rabbi Efrat Zarren-Zohar

This week’s Torah portion, Behar-Bechukotai, is the origin of the call to “Proclaim liberty throughout the land.” (Leviticus 25:10). As an American, I read those words and think of the Liberty Bell, on which they are inscribed. But in context, this verse is part of a set of mitzvot about land use, distribution of resources and the importance of sacred rest. One of those mitzvot is the requirement of the shmita year, a Shabbat for the land every seventh year in which fields are allowed to lie fallow and all debts are forgiven.

As many of you know, and some of you have been privileged to experience, the March of the Living is an extraordinary and transformative experience. This year’s 2026 March returned last week… Ten years ago, I was in Poland and Israel on Miami’s Leo Martin March of the Living. The trip fell precisely during Parashat Kedoshim (Be Holy), our Torah portion last week, and Parashat Emor (Say… to the Israelites), our Torah portion this week. I'll share two remarkable stories with you (among so many others that take place during this remarkable program).

Years ago, Nina Yarus introduced me to the study of Mussar; I had never heard of it, and I had been a rabbi for at least 15 years already! When I mentioned Mussar to my Orthodox husband, he rolled his eyes. Apparently, in the Orthodox world it’s often used by teachers to lay on the guilt, or parents to give textual support for their parental disapproval. Most of the Mussar texts were written in pre-modern times and in very medieval language and style – probably why so few liberal Jews even know about it, let alone study it.

You know how sometimes during a conversation you start to zoom out because the topic fails to grab your attention? That’s kind of what this week’s parshios, Tazria and Metzora, do. They begin a lengthy discussion about laws of spiritual impurity before going on to cover the incredibly exciting topic of tzara’as (skin disease), the metzor (the one suffering it), and their laws of purification. Can’t wait, huh? But, before we go there, the Torah reminds us about the need to perform a Bris on an eight-day old male which, quite frankly, seems out of place. True, the parsha starts off talking about birth, but there are other more relevant places for the mitzvah of Bris, which is why commentators try to learn something from it.

Early this week, terrorists set fire to four Hatzalah ambulances in London. Hatzalah – the volunteer Jewish emergency service built on the principle that when someone is dying, minutes matter. I made the mistake of spending too long on X reading reactions. Tweet after tweet questioned why Jews should have their own ambulance service at all. The Jewish community’s response was swift: these ambulances are funded by Jews and run by Jewish volunteers, but they serve everyone. I couldn’t stop thinking about that response. Not because it was wrong – I am genuinely proud of what Hatzalah does. But because of what it assumed: that Jewish particularity requires a universal alibi. Would arson be any more justified if these ambulances served Jews? Would anyone demand this of a Black mutual aid society? A church food pantry? An Asian community health clinic?

In Israel today, there are sounds we have come to know all too well — the sharp, jarring alerts, followed by the rising and falling wail of sirens that send us rushing to safe rooms and bomb shelters. These sounds rupture the rhythm of daily life, filling the air with urgency, fear, and vulnerability. They remind us, again and again, that the danger is real, that our security is not to be taken for granted, and that we are still engaged in the struggle for continued existence in our land. Against this backdrop, Parashat Vayikra introduces us to a radically different kind of sound…

I used to think that Parashat Vayakhel had “interesting material” and “boring material” in it. The “interesting material” is Moshe / Moses bringing the Israelites together and telling them to make an offering to G!D based upon how their heart is moved to do so. Following that, Moshe / Moses continues by asking those who are skilled to come and make all the objects that G!D has commanded regarding the Mishkan / Tabernacle, the place where the Divine Presence will dwell. So the whole community of Israelites brings and makes objects for the Mishkan / Tabernacle — blue, purple and crimson yarns or tanned dolphin skins or gifts of copper or spun goat’s hair…

Parshat Ki Tisa picks up with Moshe still meeting with HaShem on Har Sinai. God instills Moshe with instructions for taking censuses, anointing priests, and keeping Shabbat. After doing all this, HaShem gives him the tablets with the Ten Commandments. Down on the ground, though, a jarringly different sequence of events takes place (Shemot 32:1-4). We know this as the sin of the eigel hazahav, or the golden calf. Moshe famously comes down and smashes the tablets, after which HaShem commands him to carve new ones. One way to make sense of this off-putting episode is to see the golden calf incident as an instance of the worship of gold, the worship of money.

If you are lucky, you will live to see your parents begin to need you in the way you once needed them. You will feel it most in the small things: lifting a cup of water to your motherʼs lips; adjusting the light your father can sleep. Laying a hand on his forehead. And you will be desperately sad, but also lucky, because each time you do these things, you will remember that they once, so many times, did them for you. And you will know that you were, and are, loved. God, too, is a parent. But Godʼs biggest tragedy, if one can say such a thing, is that God will never grow weak or old. God will never need us to do for Him what He once did for us.

This week’s parsha, Mishpatim, is one of the longest and most detailed portions in the Torah. After the dramatic moment of Mount Sinai - thunder, lightning, and the giving of the Ten Commandments - the Torah shifts gears completely. Parshat Mishpatim is filled with laws about everyday situations: Borrowing and returning objects, Accidentally causing harm, Interpersonal responsibility, How people are expected to treat one another when things go wrong. There’s no drama. No miracles. Just regular life. And that shift is intentional. Right after revelation, the Torah teaches us that holiness doesn’t stay on the mountain.

Yitro, the father-in-law of Moses, may be a ‘bit-part’ player in the Torah narrative, but his contribution is seminal. The hierarchical judicial structure he proposed of appointing “leaders of thousands… hundreds… fifties and… tens” (Exod. 18:21) under the overall direction of Moses has become the foundation of all judicial systems in democracies the world over. Moreover, the criteria he outlines for the appointment of judges has become the gold standard for every just society. “You shall seek out from the entire nation [as judges] anshei chayil: G-D-fearing, men of truth, haters of rapacity” (ibid).

A few years ago, at a conference, I listened in outrage as Liel Leibovitz, a prominent writer at Tablet magazine, argued that four out of five American Jews today would likely not be part of the Jewish future. He was not speaking in theory. He meant real people — some disengaged, others actively harming the community. He argued that we must reconsider who we include in our communal vision. I was furious. I have wrestled with faith and struggled with God, but my commitment to the Jewish people has never wavered. The idea of leaving Jews behind — 80% of them! — felt like a betrayal of everything I believed. That was then. These days, I don’t fully agree with Liel, but I keep returning to grapple with his argument.

In normal times, I approach Parashat Bo in the usual way. I dive deep into fine points of the story and the language of the text. I contemplate the specific meaning of each of the plagues described in this climactic parashah: locusts, darkness and the smiting of the firstborn Egyptians… This is, after all, how we Jews study text, assuming that every detail of the text, even the smallest turn of phrase, contains profound meaning for us. But these are not normal times. This year the text invites me to take a different look. I feel called to zoom out from the fine points of the text and ask: What is the overall message of this portion for me this year? What do the broad strokes of this story teach about a time of massive social upheaval?

There’s an idea I return to often: the word “Torah” comes from the root for the Hebrew word hora’ah, which means instruction or teaching. In other words, the Torah isn’t only a story we read - it’s something meant to teach us, again and again, in every generation. There is always something to learn, if we’re willing to listen closely. In this week’s parsha, Va’era, we are still at the very beginning of the Exodus story. The Israelites are enslaved in Egypt. Their labor is relentless. Their lives are tightly controlled. And Moshe has only just stepped into his role as a leader. Hashem sends Moshe back to Pharaoh with a message we all recognize: “Let My people go.” But at this point in the story, nothing dramatic happens. There is no sea splitting. There is no mass exodus. In fact, things don’t improve at all. Pharaoh refuses. The system tightens. The people remain trapped.

This week, as we conclude the book of Bereshit (Genesis) and turn the page to begin Shemot (Exodus), we experience a profound shift in the narrative of the Jewish people. There is a natural tinge of sadness in leaving the intimate, personal dramas of our ancestors—Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob—whose lives, full of both soaring faith and relational mistakes, have shaped our identity. Yet, this transition is more than just a change of books; it is a fundamental transformation in our collective identity: the move from being a large, extended, complicated family to becoming a small, yet complicated nation.

There is a heart-wrenching story that took place in a DP camp, on erev Yom Kippur with the Klausenberger Rebbe. He was about to do some internal preps for the coming holiday, when he heard a knock on his door. He opened it to a young girl. With tears in her eyes, she said, ‘Please Rebbe, I am part of the orphans here. I remembered that my father used to bless me right before Yom Kippur, but now I am all alone and am wondering if you could give me the traditional blessing that a father is supposed to give his daughter.’ The Rebbe, much moved, said, ‘I will be your father. He took out a kerchief and placed it on the girl’s grateful head, and recited the blessing. She left, very appreciative. A few minutes later there was another knock, and this time, a whole slew of little girls appeared.

About a decade ago, I encountered what I believe to be one of the most challenging and powerful nuggets of wisdom in our Jewish tradition. This is a midrash that tells the story of how Joseph returns to the pit his brothers threw him into when he was 17. He returns to the location of the worst moment of his life and recites the prayer that one says over a miracle. This is an extraordinary act! Joseph turns the hardest part of his life into a blessing. When I first heard this, I didn’t think this was relevant to me. Why would I want to turn the worst moments of my life into blessings? Aren’t some things just really hard and we should leave it at that? I initially responded negatively to this message, but it stayed with me in the years to come. It somehow became my spiritual work. I didn’t know how to do it, but I knew this was my task. I had to find a way to think of the worst moments of my life as blessings. I thought about Joseph.

Some Torah portions reassure you that things will work out. Miketz says, ‘not so fast.’ Dreams collide. Families disappoint. Plans fall apart. Years pass with no resolution. If your life has ever taken a turn you didn’t order, Miketz is speaking directly to you. Joseph’s story works on me because it isn’t tidy. He dreams big, gets misunderstood, disappears for a while, reinvents himself, and then has to figure out who he actually is once people finally start listening. It’s not a success story. It’s a “how did I end up here and what do I do now” story. I used to think Miketz was about achievement. Look, he made it. Now I realize it’s about preparation. Joseph doesn’t rise because he’s lucky. He rises because when things get complicated, he does something very Jewish. He plans…