Shabbat Weekly Dvar Torah

In the 1950s, a psychologist named Solomon Asch ran one of the most unsettling experiments in social science. Asch brought subjects into a room with other individuals seemingly just like them. The group was shown two cards – one with a single line, one with three lines of different lengths – and asked which line matched. The answer was obvious. A child could see it. But Asch had actually filled the room with actors. And the actors, who always answered first, unanimously chose the same wrong line. And then it was the real subject’s turn to choose.

This rich Torah portion Beha’alotecha incorporates diverse precepts within Judaism and thus offers many perspectives on how to lead a meaningful life. In it, we see that God leads the Jewish people in multiple ways: through the use of natural wonders, by establishing the Torah as a guide, and by teaching the importance of respectful behavior toward others. These modalities represent three of the myriad ways to find meaning in life and to develop a personal connection with community and the divine presence. Throughout the parsha, the Jews are physically led by the Ark of the Covenant, which held the tablets of the Ten Commandments and would travel in front of them. In this way, both literally and figuratively, the Torah served as the people’s guide in the desert. In our lives as well, the Torah can serve as a guide through the challenges we face.

Lately, I've been having these strange moments. I'll be reading, or teaching, or cooking—and a quiet thought creeps in: Will AI replace me? It's not always a dark thought. Sometimes it's simple curiosity. But beneath it lies a deeper question many of us are asking. In a world of looming superintelligence and advanced robotics: What makes me irreplaceable? It's unsettling to imagine that many of the qualities we take pride in — intelligence, creativity, even productivity — might one day be performed better and faster by machines. But alongside those flickers of unease, I've been having another kind of moment — moments of clarity and grounding. Moments that feel utterly, defiantly human. This past Shavuot, I was lying in a hammock beneath the trees when my five-year-old climbed into my arms. We nestled into one of our "cuddle sessions." I wasn't just hugging her — I was trying to make her feel, deep in her little body, that she is loved. For being her. For being mine.

On Shavuot Jews around the world will spend the night learning - remembering and reliving - the experience of receiving the Torah on Har Sinai. Interestingly there is a much more common occurrence in our lives, the public Torah reading, which happens each week on Mondays, Thursday and Shabbat which also serves to reenact that central national experience of revelation. By examining some of the technical laws surrounding the Torah reading we can gain insight into the meta – ideas the Rabbis wanted to create with this fundamental ritual. The minimum required structure to perform a public Torah reading is that ten verses must be read in total and there should be three aliyot, in which a minimum of three verses are read in each. The facts of these laws are very confusing at first glance. Did the Rabbis not know basic math? If one requires three aliyot of three verses why not rule that the minimum total required is nine verses and not ten? However, when one unpacks the reasons behind these laws a deeper idea emerges.

In Ancient Rome, life revolved around the Coliseum. In New York City, the cultural capital of America, all roads lead to Times Square. And in London, Buckingham Palace stands as the heart of the city. These central monuments reveal the core values of each society — spectacle, commerce, and monarchy respectively. So, what lies at the center of the Jewish Nation? In the opening of the book of Numbers, God instructs the Israelites to arrange themselves by tribe, giving each its assigned position, distinctive flag, and marching formation. But perhaps most significantly, these tribal designations all revolve around a single focal point: "The Israelites shall camp each man with his standard, under the banners of their ancestral house; they shall encamp, surrounding the Tent of Meeting." (Numbers / Bamidbar 2:2)

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.