Tag: Rabbi Efrat Zarren-Zohar

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).

The truth is that we are all heading to unhappy endings. If we take a step back and consider the big picture, we are all going to die. If we take an even bigger step and consider where humanity is heading, things don’t look good. The authors of the Torah didn’t have our scientific knowledge, but they were intimately aware that life steers us away from happy endings. Instead of offering definitive happily-ever-afters, the Torah shows us an ongoing push and pull between connection and disconnection. When the people of Israel arrive in Egypt at the end of the book of Genesis, it seems that they have a promising future with a friendly pharaoh. But then the Israelite population kept growing, and a “pharaoh who did not know” them rose to power.

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.

Made only of flour and water — with no shortening, yeast, or enriching ingredients — matzah recreates the hard “bread of affliction” (Devarim / Deuteronomy 16:3) and meager food given to the Hebrews in Egypt by their exploitative masters. Like the bitter herbs eaten at the Seder, it represents the degradation and suffering of the Israelites. Matzah is, therefore, both the bread of freedom and the erstwhile bread of slavery. It is not unusual for ex-slaves to invert the very symbols of slavery to express their rejection of the masters’ values. But there is a deeper meaning in the double-edged symbolism of matzah... Matzah is the bread of the Exodus way, the bread of freedom; hametz is the bread eaten in the house of bondage, in Egypt.

An article in New York magazine entitled “How Not to Talk to Your Kids” described Thomas, a gifted fifth grader who attended a highly competitive school. In his school, prospective kindergarteners were given an IQ test to confirm their precociousness, and only the top one percent of all applicants was accepted. Thomas scored in the top one percent of the top one percent. Since Thomas could walk, he has always heard that he was smart. But as he progressed through school, this self-awareness didn’t always translate into fearless confidence in tackling his schoolwork. In fact, Thomas’s father noticed just the opposite...