Member highlight: Hattie Kaplan
Our congregation is proud to shine a spotlight on Hattie Kaplan, a senior at Truckee High School, who is turning her passion for service into action. Hattie is organizing Miles That Matter, a student-led 5K walk/run and community festival designed to support girls in Moshi, Tanzania (sign up at this link)
The funds raised will provide reusable menstrual cups through CouldYou? Cup, with a bold mission to end period poverty by 2040. In addition, proceeds will support the Empower HER workbook, which helps girls build confidence and resilience through lessons in health, financial literacy, leadership, and more.
The festival is free to attend, with donations encouraged. Registration for the 5K is $40 for adults and $20 for youth and students. Attendees can enjoy local vendors, live music, food, raffles, and family fun. Every participant and donor will receive a handmade bracelet symbolizing global sisterhood, plus raffle tickets for every $10 donated. In her own words, Hattie shares:
"My Jewish values have always taught me the importance of tikkun olam-repairing the world-and lifting up others in need. Leading Miles that Matter is my way of living out those values, creating a community event that brings people together while making a tangible difference in the lives of girls across the globe."
We are proud of Hattie and the example she sets as a leader, role model, and changemaker. Join her in building confidence, health and global employment-one mile at a time!
Rabbi’s Message for Sept. 9, 2025
Shalom,
The order of things matters. We may not always notice, yet things happen in a certain order to help us make sense, to learn, and to understand. We celebrate the transition to a New Year, Rosh Hashanah, and then dive into the work of the Yamim Noraim - Days of Awe. After ten days, we arrive at Yom Kippur, the day that helps us hold on to and reflect on the past year, while uttering words that urge us to look ahead - we stand between the past and the future, it is in a particular order.
This week, as we enter the final two weeks of the year, and the Hebrew month of Elul, we find in parashat Ki Tavo an important instruction manual, and order of things to do upon crossing into the land. In Deuteronomy 26:1, we read: When you enter into the land that Adonai, your God, is giving you as a heritage, and you possess it and settle in it, you shall take some of every first fruit of the soil which you harvest from the land that Adonai your God is giving you, put it in a basket and go to the place where Adonai your God will choose to establish God’s name. And a chapter later in the same portion, 27:2, we read: As soon as you have crossed the Jordan into the land that Adonai your God is giving you, you shall set up large stones. Coat them with plaster and inscribe upon them all the words of this Teaching.
We express gratitude, and we ensure we are holding onto the ‘Teaching’, the Torah. We have to first cross into the land, then we take time to express gratitude for all we receive. Yet, which comes first? While the order of the verses is to express gratitude first, the language of the second passage seems to indicate otherwise. In a fabulous volume, It Takes Two to Torah, Rabbi Dov Linzer and journalist Abigail Pogrebin discuss this very curiosity. One conclusion Pogrebin presents is the following:
AP: If we bring it back to the “first fruits” of tihs parsha, here’s how I’d connect them: Moses is telling his people, “These are your instructions when you get there. Yes, you must give a piece of your harvest to God; but the stones you’re supposed to do right away. You’re going to inscribe these stones before you bring in the first fruits.” Again, the Torah comes first, but emboldening this population to do it themselves is a way to have them be Godlike and inscribe the law with their own hands.
DL: I really like that. God comes first when you enter the Land. The Torah is saying, “Take responsibility. Show gratitude.” But showing gratitude doesn’t mean submission or dependence. It’s really, "Own the responsibility - follow the law - but also make it yours.” (Page 288)
Mrs. Pogrebin and Rabbi Linzer discuss the balance between recognizing God and all the gifts we receive with our gratitude and knowing that Torah is something we continue to author, together with the divine spark within each of us. In this season of Elul, the twilight of the year, we are searching our past year for how we can grow, for that we are grateful as we cross, not the Jordan, but into a new year. And, we are re-committing ourselves to our role as authors of our Jewish story. May we discover again our commitment to both as we prepare to cross into this New Year.
Shavua Tov & Shanah Tovah,
Rabbi Evon
Rabbi’s Message: September 1, 2025
Years ago, when we were living in Israel and our Bigs and the Littles were no more than a dream, there were a series of rockets from Gaza. Every day, at some point between breakfast and naps, a siren would wind up its chilling call and I would snatch my children from their play and sprint to our re-enforced saferoom or, if we were out at the park or the grocery store or buying a pizza for dinner, then the closest bomb shelter. We would tuck ourselves in, my arms wrapped around my squirming two (and, years later, four), singing songs or telling stories or getting to know the neighbors as we waited for the “booms” to subside.
At the time, I was asked why we weren’t planning on moving back to the States.
It was the same year as Sandy Hook. And I thought a terrible thing to myself: well, at least when we are attacked here, there is a saferoom where we can go.
This year, after dropping my children off for their first day of school, I opened up the news to read about the tragedy in Minnesota on August 27th. To see the picture of a mom, holding a shoe in each hand - shoes that I recognize from my own closet - as she sprinted into danger, on the chance that she would be able to wrap her arms around her babies and sing comforting songs to them, too… it reminded me of how painful the reality of this world can be.
It is approaching 13 years since Sandy Hook and the war I first experienced with Hamas. There is still no peace in Israel. There are still shootings in our schools here in the United States. In the context of these tragedies, I am devastated to realize: we are still here. In the tender reaching for hope, I can summon the courage to say: we are still here.
Everyone - every human being - should have the privilege of physical safety. No one should need to be this brave. But we are here, nonetheless. We are here to hold the tender hope that peace is possible, that safety is possible, in every corner of this world.
If you are interested in donating to our security fund - particularly in advance of these High Holy Days - please contact Holly at holly@tbytahoe.org. If you would like to get involved with our security committees, please contact Heidi at hdoyle55@gmail.com.
Rabbi’s message for 8/26/25 - Elul camping trip
This past weekend, many of us had the joy of gathering for our intergenerational Elul camping trip. Beneath the pines, with the lake shimmering nearby and the crackle of the campfire in our ears, we stepped into the spirit of Elul — the month of preparation, reflection, and return. What struck me most was how the weekend invited each of us to bring our whole selves into this sacred season, just as the characters of the “Hundred Acre Woods” remind us that there are many ways to approach the journey of a new year.
Eeyore shows us that sadness and stillness are not failures but gateways—moments when quiet honesty grounds us in truth. Piglet, with his anxieties, reminds us that it’s natural to feel uncertainty as we approach a season of change; his smallness gives us courage to be vulnerable and ask for help. Tigger, bouncing with enthusiasm, embodies the energy and excitement that renewal can bring—sometimes we need a little leap to propel us forward. And Pooh, with his gentle equanimity and love of simple joys, teaches us that a steady, content heart is a precious gift in turbulent times. (And if you are feeling like you missed out on the rabbis’ re-enactment of each of these, make space on your calendar next year for this meaningful and joy-filled Shabbat!)
Together, these beloved companions offer us a map for navigating the “Hundred Acre Woods” of our own lives as we step into 5786. Each emotion, whether heavy, anxious, exuberant, or calm, can be a pathway toward teshuvah – turning to our true selves – reflection, and deeper connection with ourselves, each other, and the Divine.
As we turn toward the gates of the New Year, I invite you to bring all of yourself into this season. Mark your calendars and plan to join us for the High Holy Day celebrations both at our synagogue and all around our beloved gem of Creation, Lake Tahoe. Together, we will walk into this new chapter, carrying our sadness, our fears, our joys, and our peace — knowing that, like our friends in the woods, we are never truly alone on the journey.
With blessings of courage, joy, and gentle beginnings,
Rabbi Lauren
Rabbi’s message - Aug 19, 2025
This Shabbat, my socials were covered in yellow.
Not because of a love of bees or sunshine. But thanks to the national protests throughout Israel. An estimated 500,000 people in just the single city of Tel Aviv alone emerged to protest against the current government and almost every aspect of their decisions, from their attempts at “re-balancing” power with the judiciary to their failure to bring home the hostages and foster peace. Outside of my favorite Israeli city, protests, strikes and transportation stoppages occurred throughout the country, from Eilat to Acco and beyond. Over 1 in 10 Israelis found themselves in the streets this Shabbat.
Now, I am, generally, not what I sometimes call a “David Brooks” rabbi. Not that there is anything wrong with that. There are just so, so many Jewish voices in this arena, from the excellent podcast Call Me Back to my personal love-hate relationship with the popular Ezra Klein. But this moment feels different. This feels different because the overwhelming Israeli protests this weekend speaks to the interior, spiritual work that continues to draw me to the rabbiniate. To witness so many friends from every walk of life in Israel - teachers and civil engineers, office workers and archeologists, artists and high-tech executives - express their voice and their dream for change was deeply moving.
And yes, protests are loud. They’re full of drumlines and chants and frustration and passion. But at their core, they are really quiet things. They start in the hush of the heart, in the stillness of a sleepless night, in the whisper (or knowing Israelis, the volley) of conversation around a Shabbat table: This is not the world I want. Or even more bravely: This is the world I still believe we can build.
That’s the part I can’t stop thinking about — that beneath all the signs and songs and sirens is a remarkably Jewish act: a confrontation with hope. Not cheap hope, not naïve optimism, but the gritty, grown-up kind that stares reality in the face and still chooses to dream. It is the hope we sing of during Hatikvah; it is the hope of Theodore Hertzl’s “If you will it, it is no dream”. That’s the hope I saw waving as a yellow flag across my feed last Shabbat.
And that brings us to our spiritual work. In just a few weeks, the shofar will sound, and with it, the ancient call to look inward and forward. So, let's begin where all meaningful change begins — with a question: What are our hopes for the coming year? Not just for the headlines, but for our homes. Not just for the protests, but for our prayers. Over the coming days, may we find the strength to ask this question honestly, and the courage to listen closely for the answer.
Shavua Tov, Rabbi Lauren
Eikev - Next Generation Aug 12 2025 (Rabbi’s message)
Shalom,
As we continue to stand on the bank of the Jordan River listening to Moses’ farewell speech (which is almost the entirety of the Book of Deuteronomy) we come to our parasha for this week: Eikev. We continue to learn about the blessings and curses resulting from our response to the Mitzvoth - the Commandments. Yet, there is a verse in this week’s portion that helps us see deeper into the mitzvoth as educational tools. It is about building our future!
We are familiar with the charge that we recite in the V’ahavta prayer - V’Shinantam L’Vanecha - and you (singular) shall teach your children (Deut. 6:7) which appeared in last week’s portion; this week we learn - V’limadetem Otam - and you (plural) shall teach them (Deut. 11:19). While these phrases ring in similar ways, our tradition teaches us that there is more to this pair of verses.
In the Babylonian Talmud, this second verse is discussed and juxtaposed to the first on numerous occasions. We learn that we are to understand them in similar ways, but the second is broader in its command. This second verse expands the responsibility to not only one’s biological children, but also to the children in the community.
From this we recognize the responsibility of imparting not only the mitzvoth, but also our tradition at large, rests with all of us.
In a world in which we take in so much information, it is becoming more and more complex to sift the information. How much the more so is this true for the way our young people learn. We are all always modeling for others.
As we engage in parashat Eikev this week, may we all recognize the responsibility we have to teach, whether overtly in the form of lessons or covertly through our modeling, the younger generations in our communities and our world. May we also take to heart the responsibility to help our children, our own and those within our community, sift and discern the lessons that ought to be gleaned from what they experience, see and hear throughout life.
Shavua Tov,
Rabbi Evon
Rabbi’s Message for Aug 5, 2025 - Tu B’Av
As we reach the full moon of Av — Tu B’Av, the fifteenth of the month — we arrive at a holiday that is both deeply ancient and beautifully relevant. Often called the “Festival of Love,” Tu B’Av stands quietly in the Jewish calendar, yet it speaks volumes about the nature of love in its many forms: love between people, love between communities, love of self, and love of the Divine.
At the heart of this day is a powerful teaching from the Mishnah (Ta’anit 4:8):
“There were no days as joyous for Israel as the fifteenth of Av and Yom Kippur. On these days, the daughters of Jerusalem would go out in borrowed white garments… and dance in the vineyards. And what would they say? ‘Young man, lift up your eyes and see what you choose for yourself…’”
While the Mishnah calls Tu B’Av a joyful day, its deeper essence is about encounter, choice, and connection. This is not a tale of romance alone — it is a story of sacred love, rooted in dignity, humility, and shared values.
In Jewish tradition, love (ahavah) is never simplistic. Our sacred texts explore love in layered and nuanced ways:
Ahavat Re’im — the love of friends and companions. As the Talmud teaches, “Either companionship or death” (Ta’anit 23a). Deep friendship is a lifeline, a sacred bond built not only on affection but on loyalty and moral responsibility.
Ahavat Chinam — selfless love, a love that asks for nothing in return. Our sages tell us that the Second Temple was destroyed due to baseless hatred, and that it will be rebuilt through baseless love — a radical, active compassion toward others, even when we don’t agree or understand.
Ahavat HaGer — the love of the stranger. This form of love, commanded over thirty times in the Torah, challenges us to expand our circle of empathy beyond the familiar. It is love as justice.
Ahavah between partners, as celebrated on Tu B’Av, reminds us that romantic love, when rooted in holiness, can be a reflection of divine presence. But even here, our tradition stresses that love is not just a feeling — it is a daily practice, expressed through kindness, respect, listening, and growth.
Ahavat Hashem — love of God. While this theology isn’t a match for everybody, it is an option to explore: Ahavat Hashem is not a distant, theological idea, but a personal, embodied striving. As the Shema commands: “You shall love Adonai your God with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your might.” This love fuels all others — when we love the Source of all being, we learn to see each human being as sacred
In the ancient Jewish world, this moment was celebrated in the vineyards of ancient Jerusalem; the daughters would dance in borrowed garments so that no one would be shamed by status or wealth. Every person was seen for their character, not their clothing. Love was sought not through possession or appearance, but through discernment and dignity.
This public ritual — people meeting one another in openness, joy, and equality — symbolized something bigger: the possibility of a society rooted in love rather than fear, in connection rather than competition.
In our time, Tu B’Av calls us to reclaim that vision.
From the mussar tradition, we know that love is not instinct alone — it is a middah, a soul-trait to be cultivated.
True love requires balance. Unchecked, love can become attachment, control, or even idolization. But refined through self-awareness and discipline, love becomes expansive and sustaining. As mesilat yesharim (The Path of the Just) teaches, a loving person is one whose heart is open to others, whose actions are aligned with compassion, and whose ego does not block relationship.
Tu B’Av, coming just weeks before Elul and Yom Kippur, invites us into this work. Before we return to divine connection, we are asked to return to each other — to repair relationships, to open ourselves to forgiveness, and to choose love again.
May this Tu B’Av be a day of renewal — not only for romantic relationships, but for all the places in our lives where love is needed.
May we love more bravely.
May we be willing to be seen, and to see others fully.
May we choose love — in all its forms — not only when it is easy, but when it is healing, demanding, and holy.
With blessings for love that is rooted, whole, and enduring,
Rabbi Lauren
Rabbi’s Message - July 29, 2025
Part of our deep, underlying purpose as a community is to be a garden of Jewish joy in our glorious gem of Creation. This past Shabbat, we embodied that particular and fantastic joy with our local community’s celebration of Caleb Yakar’s B’Mitzvah. Yet every time I open the national newspaper, I have been feeling apocalyptic. But I suppose, according to the Jewish calendar, ‘‘tis the season.”
This coming week marks the commemoration of Tisha B’Av. Tisha B’Av makes emotional space for disaster and destruction, for mourning our mistakes, for tending to our trauma, and honoring our grief.
This tender day emerges from a real, lived tragedy for our people. Discussed in the book of Jeremiah and emotionally explored in the book of Lamenations, Tisha B’Av marks Nebuchadnezzar II’s military success in 586 BCE.
Our holy books are not the only ruminations we have on this event. Uncovered at Tel Lachish between 1935 and 1938, the Lachish Letters consist of a collection of ostraca (ink on pottery). Dating from the 6th century BCE, this collection gives insight into the thoughts of those alive during the Babylonian siege of Jerusalem, the war that led to the destruction of the First Temple and the fall of the Israelite state and Davidic dynasty. The Lachish Letters offer glimpses of their mood, including an anonymous prophet’s singular cautionary alarm: “Beware!”
While this holy day makes space for grief and fear — which if you know me, you know I think that this is vital for healthy emotional and spiritual growth — it doesn’t offer insight into how we can possibly maintain emotional and spiritual buoyancy during this season.
However, this week’s Torah portion offers us a suggestion.
Parashat Devarim opens the book of Deuteronomy, the final book of Torah. The Greeks renamed the book “Deuteronomy” because it acts as a summary of much of the Israelites’ story. It begins with Moses and the Israelites standing on the banks of the Jordan River. Before the people can enter the Land, Moses invites them into a kind of narrative therapy: a retelling of their collective trauma, growth, and identity. Moses doesn’t simply recount history—he reinterprets it. He transforms wandering into wisdom. What we see in this act is the Torah’s answer to our modern malaise:
Meaning is not given; it is made—through reflection, through relationship, and through remembrance.
Jewish wisdom has long understood this. The Sfat Emet, commenting on Devarim, teaches that Moses was not just giving a historical account, but awakening the inner voice of the people. In other words, he was not just speaking to them—but from within them. This is what true meaning does: it reconnects us to something timeless within ourselves.
Searching for deeper meaning within our lives and within the times in which we live is a fundamental part of the human experience. Particularly in times of difficulty and trauma.
This Shabbat, as we enter Devarim—literally, “words”—I invite you to pause and ask:
What is the story I’m telling about my life?
Where do I find meaning—beyond the accolades of others, beyond the power and noise of technology, beyond the external?
How might I become, like Moses, a narrator of purpose for myself and others?
How can I protect my narrative within my own heart, without hardening my heart to others’ narratives?
We are not meant to sleepwalk into the Promised Land. We are meant to awaken into it—with courage, clarity, and a sense of sacred mission.
May we each find the words we need to speak, the stories we need to reclaim, and the meaning that can anchor us amidst the whirlwind of the world.
Rabbi’s Message July 22, 2025
Shalom,
Summer is often a time for travel, for adventure and journeys. The Great American Summer Road Trip is a regular fixture. Travel brings so many great opportunities and experiences. Some like to jet to far off places for a taste of different cultures, while others like experiences in their backyard. Still others look to guides and travel agents to show them great places and some enjoy the self-guided exploration. In our Torah story, our People’s story, we are often on the move. Whether it is Abraham and Sarah, Joseph followed by his brothers down to Egypt or the epic adventure of our forty year sojourn in the wilderness, our Jewish story is one of travel, of adventure, of suspense and promise. With the reality of our digital world and lifestyle, we often log our travels with pictures stored at our finger tips (or in our pocket) on our smart phones, but some of us go a step further and keep travel logs and journals reflecting on our time on the go.
On this coming Shabbat, we conclude the book of Numbers. We read about the sojourn of our ancestors during their wilderness journey in the double portion of Mattot-Masei - the Tribes and the Stages. While some of the text describes the role the different tribes will play as they settle the land, it still reflects the reality of being on a journey. Other sections of the parasha describe a travel log of sorts. And rather than recounting the experiences along the way, it describes all the places the Israelites camped. There is much to interpret and learn from this narrative. It provides us a way to recall all our time on the go.
This section of Torah helps us remember the milestones, the moments along the way; some of them were triumphant like leaving Ramses, and others less so like Rithmah the place we camped when the spies came back with their negative report. The task of peoplehood charges us to remember, to make memory. We often confuse this with history, yet memory and history are not always equal, rather they echo one another.
In this moment in Torah, even in the life of our Tahoe Jewish Community and our congregations, we are tasked with identifying those milestones and moments. How do we recall our story, crafting and curating it for perpetuity? That is our task as links in the chain of tradition. Mattot-Masei, our portion, reminds us how our ancestors engaged with this, and we must too.
Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel wrote, “Jews have not preserved the ancient monuments, they have retained the ancient moments. The light kindled in their history was never extinguished. With sustaining vitality the past survives in their thoughts, hearts, rituals. Recollection is a holy act: we sanctify the present by remembering the past.” (Man is Not Alone, p. 162)
As we embrace this Shabbat and consider the camp sites of our ancestors and how they tell one story, our Jewish story, let us also consider the choices on the path of building community and our nation. Let us always notice the opportunity to make memories!
Shavua Tov,
Rabbi Evon
July 15, 2025 - Pinchas (Rabbi’s Message)
By Rabbi Evon Yakar
Shalom,
I recently heard someone, someone I trust implicitly, share that I am quite passionate about what matters to me. Then, I was studying this week’s portion, Pinchas, with someone and was reminded of the juxtaposition between passion and zealotry. You see, Pinchas is characterized by our tradition as having passion for God and for being a zealot. So, obviously, I turned to the beautiful and problematic tool of AI to learn more about this juxtaposition. Here’s what I did and learned:
Prompt: What's the difference between passion and zealotry?
AI Generated Response: Passion is a strong feeling of enthusiasm, love, or desire for something, while zealotry is an extreme or fanatical devotion to a cause or belief, often characterized by intolerance of other viewpoints and a willingness to act unethically or violently to promote one's ideas. While zeal can be intense and driven, zealotry often implies an excess of zeal that can become harmful or lead to fanaticism.
I am not sure if I could identify the difference between the two without equivocation. Yet, I was reminded and learned that if passion is the realm of feeling then zealotry is more so in that of behavior and action. This is often a gray area and sometimes a fine line. It is one, that when crossed, can lead to far less clarity. Pinchas has passion for God, as we learn in Torah (Num. 25:10) according to the JPS translation. However, the Hebrew (koof-nun-aleph) is much closer to zealousness. So, was Pinchas a passionate adherent to God and Israel? Or was he a zealot driven to actions he justified as piety?
This is for us to discern, and not about Pinchas per se, but rather in each instance, each moment we are confronted with a value choice. I find myself asking this question about the realities on the ground in Israel. What is passion for our people and what is zealotry? I urge you to study the recent words of Rabbi Josh Weinberg (click here>>>). He outlines reality among Israeli society at this moment. He outlines the messianism of the settler movement (perhaps with a tinge of zealotry?) and the passion of Progressive Judaism. As you read, consider how we as a people, we as a community, each of us as Jews/Jewishly adjacent can live our passion and avoid the pitfalls of zealotry.
Pinchas receives a covenant of peace from God for his actions. I struggle to feel this is the right response by God. Yet, it is our story and our charge to wrestle with it, to make meaning from it, and respond to our moment…perhaps with passion.
May this week provide opportunities to feel passion for our people and tradition and may we be guided by our highest principles in all we do.
Shavua Tov,
Rabbi Evon
Message July 8, 2025: Balak
By Rabbi Evon Yakar
Shalom,
Gratitude is the order of the day for me. I am grateful to our community leaders for granting me the sabbatical just concluded. Rabbi Lauren is also deserving of my thanks for her leadership and presence during this time. My days since April first were filled with embracing time with my kiddos. We played, recreated, read, planned for Caleb’s Bar Mitzvah, and enjoyed a flexible schedule. One somewhat unexpected positive was the chance to coach Little League this past Spring. I challenged myself to embrace baseball, I tested my team-building skills to corral nine and ten-year-olds on the diamond and in the dugout, and I witnessed my little guy Jonah demonstrate amazing fortitude and grow in beautiful ways. During the final month of sabbatical, Rachel and I were blessed to celebrate twenty years of marriage with a weekend away. I think about this brief expression of gratitude and I am also grateful to Rachel, my partner in all and best friend. She embraced my sabbatical presence and energy with such grace and love - thank you!
A sabbatical is a unique gift and opportunity. Among them is the chance to broaden and shift perspectives, for time to distill all that occurs throughout our days at a different pace allowing lessons to be differently clear. Returning to my routines and work flows with energy is a commitment I am making. In Torah this week, we are witness to an amazing story. One that many consider Torah’s moment of comedy. It is parahsat Balak, the story of the Moabite King wishing to condemn us, the non-Israelite prophet Balaam hired for the task, Balaam’s talking donkey, and ultimately words of blessing. (Check out Balak resources here - click>>>.) At the comedic height of the story, Balaam is saddled on his trusted donkey en route to curse our ancestors. Yet, the donkey is confronted with an angel of God and swerves from the path. Eventually, even Balaam’s eyes are opened to witness the angel.
A B Mitzvah student once taught me in reference to this story that it is about being more spiritually aware. The parasha is a reminder to take stock, to step back and see more broadly, with a more open heart, all that unfolds before us. At the end of each day, our control is only over how we respond to what occurs in our lives, in our world. To master our own behaviors and actions, to measure our words. The story of this non-Israelite prophet Balaam is one that has the power to lift our eyes to see more, to broaden perspective, to not rush to conclusions.
This was a gift of sabbatical: Time to discern and distill what matters, to gain perspective and clarity on the possibility here in our community, and to hone commitment to what I am able. Thank you for the gift of time and thank you to our ancestors, those who curated our Torah story, for giving us this tale of ‘spiritual awareness’ and even a good laugh!
Shavua Tov,
Rabbi Evon
Reflections from your Board President: Proud to Be an American Jew
Happy Fourth of July!
They say the Fourth of July is the one day all Americans come together to celebrate independence, freedom—and the fact that we can eat an unreasonable number of hot dogs without judgment. (As the rabbi said to the caterer: “Just because it’s kosher doesn’t mean it’s a mitzvah to eat twelve!”)
As we prepare to celebrate the Fourth of July this coming Shabbat, I’m filled with gratitude—for this country, for our freedoms, and for our community. I am a proud American Jew. Proud to live in a place where I can practice my faith openly, speak freely, and raise my family with both Jewish values and American ideals.
At North Tahoe Hebrew Congregation, we are blessed to live those values every day. Our Temple family is built on the cornerstones of Torah, tradition, and togetherness. As we gather around barbecues and picnic blankets this week, let’s also gather in spirit with one another—remembering the blessings of freedom and the joy of belonging.
This Shabbat, as fireworks light up the sky, may we be reminded of the sparks within us—the ner tamid, the eternal light, that guides us to justice, compassion, and connection. As it says in our Torah, “Proclaim liberty throughout the land to all the inhabitants thereof” (Leviticus 25:10). This verse, engraved on the Liberty Bell, speaks to our dual identity as Jews and Americans—charged to bring light to the world, and liberty to all. From my family to yours, I wish you a joyful, safe, and spirited Fourth of July. May your hearts be full, your table surrounded by loved ones, and your soul uplifted by the blessings of freedom and faith.
Shabbat Shalom and Happy Independence Day!
Heidi Doyle
Notes from the President (Jun 24, 2025)
We need YOU!
It is my honor to serve as your NTHC President. Our congregation started over 25 years ago in the living rooms of our founders, who were looking for a way to express their Jewish roots and values in the mountains. This passion has led to a wonderful, caring, and spiritual congregation of over 80 families and individual members. We pride ourselves on serving full and part-time residents and visitors from around the world.
It takes a talented team to keep this wonderful experiment going, and I am asking for your help. I want to thank our outgoing Membership Chair, Rebecca Meyerholz, and Ken Richards, NTHC Treasurer, for their combined 12 years of service. Our community is forever grateful.
We are currently seeking 3 new board members to lend us a couple of hours a week to help with the functioning of NTHC starting July 1, 2025. Specifically, we are seeking a treasurer, a membership chair, and a member at large. This is a great opportunity to give back while hanging with a great group of like-minded folk! If this sounds like something you may be interested in, let’s talk!
Trust me (as my bubbe would say), this is a great way to give back while ensuring that our small, but mighty Tahoe-Truckee Jewish community remains an active and meaningful expression of our Mountain Jewism.
Shalom,
Heidi Doyle
hdoyle55@gmail.com
Rabbi’s Message: June 17, 2025
From Rabbi Lauren Ben-Shoshan
There’s a well-loved teaching in Jewish tradition — one that comes not from the Torah, but from the deep well of Mussar, our tradition of ethical self-refinement. It’s often attributed to the 18th-century Chassidic master Rabbi Simcha Bunim of Peshischa. He said:
A person should carry two slips of paper in their pockets at all times. On one, write: “Bishvili nivra ha’olam” — “The world was created for me.” And on the other: “Anochi afar v’efer” — “I am but dust and ashes.”
The first reminds us of our inherent worth. That each life – including ours – contains infinite value, and that our actions matter. The second reminds us to stay humble — that we are finite, fallible, and fleeting.
The genius of the teaching lies not in either message alone, but in the balancing act between the two. Knowing when to reach for each pocket — when to speak up and when to listen, when to act and when to reflect; that’s the sacred art of living within Judaism. It is a practice that insists that strength must be tempered with humility, and humility must not collapse into passivity.
But today, in light of the news from the past week, I’ve been imagining an update — a version for those of us navigating the emotional weather of today’s world, where headlines clash with heartbreak and urgency confronts hope.
In one pocket: the Talmudic imperative for self-defense from Sanhedrin 72a, “Haba lehorgekha, hashkem lehorgo” — “If someone comes to kill you, rise up and kill them first.” And in the other: the final line of the Kaddish, “Oseh shalom bimromav, hu ya’aseh shalom aleinu…” — “May the One who makes peace on high, make peace upon us.”
These two teachings also represent a kind of spiritual duality. One is fierce, pragmatic, a moral claim that self-defense is sacred. The other is aspirational, poetic, a prayer for a world we don’t yet have. And like the two slips of paper from Rabbi Simcha Bunim, we need both — and we need the wisdom to know when to pull out each one.
But which values should we use when we need to begin to cultivate this kind of wisdom? During the past Shabbat’s Torah portion, Beha’alotecha, Moses and the Israelites are faced with a series of ethical leadership challenges. The parasha is filled with transition and tension. The Israelites are mid-journey, navigating both literal wilderness and spiritual uncertainty. In the midst of this chaos, we see two moments that remind us what ethical leadership and community really look like.
First, the story of Pesach Sheni, the “Second Passover.” A group of individuals, having been rendered ritually impure through no fault of their own, approach Moses and ask, “Why should we be left out?” (Numbers 9:7)
Moses doesn’t scold them. He doesn’t tell them that rules are rules. Instead, he brings their concern to God — and astonishingly, God creates a new opportunity. A second chance. Pesach Sheni is born.
This isn’t just good policy; it’s holy responsiveness. A signal that inclusion and compassion towards those in tough situations is not an afterthought in our tradition — it’s the divine impulse.
Then, later in the parashah, we see another moment of vulnerability: Miriam is struck with tzara’at after questioning Moses’ leadership. Moses has every reason to harden his heart against her. But instead, he responds with one of the most vulnerable and heartfelt prayers in the entire Torah: “El na, refa na la” — “God, please, heal her now.” (Numbers 12:13)
This is not the voice of someone reaching for the sword. This is someone pulling out the second slip of paper — the one that says: choose compassion. Choose love and healing and peace. Even in pain, even when wronged.
These two stories — the Second Passover and the prayer for Miriam — remind us that real leadership isn’t about being right or being strong. It’s about being human. It’s about hearing the cry of those left out, and about choosing healing over humiliation.
So where does that leave us — especially now, in a time where many of us feel as though we’re constantly switching between pockets?
There are days when the threats feel urgent, when we reach instinctively for Sanhedrin 72a, for the reminder that we must act decisively in defense of ourselves, our people, our values.
And then there are moments when we are called — or maybe summoned — to pull out the other slip of paper: “Oseh Shalom.” To imagine that peace is possible. That despite the wounds of the world, we can still pray for healing — and not just pray for it, but work toward it with empathy, listening, and courageous love.
In Mussar, this act of switching between impulses is not a weakness. It is strength, refined. The greatness of the Jewish soul is not found in always knowing the answer — but in cultivating the humility to ask which part of ourselves is needed in this moment: the fighter, or the peace maker.
So let us walk into the world with two slips of paper in our pockets.
One that affirms: “If someone rises to kill you…” because protecting life is sacred, and we do not shy away from hard truths. And one that whispers: “Oseh Shalom…” because peace is not naïve — it is holy.
As we hold each of these in our pockets, let us remember the lessons of this parashah: that second chances matter, that prayers for healing are never out of place, and that the truest strength is not domination, but compassion.
We may live in tension between pockets — but we live with one heart. And if we’re lucky, and if we’re wise, that heart will beat for justice and for peace.
Wishing you a Shavuah Tov, a good week,
Rabbi Lauren Ben-Shoshan
Shabbat with author Michael Cooper (June 20)
In introducing our conversation this Friday, we'll therefore begin with the question:
"At times like these, why are we talking about history and historical fiction?"
And with that as our starting point, I would hope to explore the uniquely unsettling moment of reading historical wartime fiction in a time of war, and what lessons and hope might be drawn from identifying history's reverberations that echo through the corridors of time and can still be heard in our world.
Learn about Michael Cooper
Michael J Cooper is a northern California native, who moved to Israel after graduating from Oakland high school in 1966. Living in Jerusalem during the last year the city was divided between Israel and Jordan, he studied at a Hebrew teacher’s academy, and after the 6-Day War, studied biology at Hebrew University in Jerusalem for two years, followed by studies at Tel Aviv University Medical School where he graduated in 1975. After internship and a year of residency, he returned to California to specialize in pediatric cardiology at UCSF. He remained on faculty at UCSF while working as a Kaiser pediatric cardiologist for the next forty years. For the past twenty years he has returned twice a year on volunteer medical missions to the Palestinian Authority, caring for children without access to care. He will be traveling to Israel this July for another medical mission, as well to visit family and friends, and to attend the 50 th reunion of his Tel-Aviv University medical school class. When not traveling, he writes and teaches Hebrew to 7 th graders at his synagogue, Congregation B’nai Shalom. He lives with his wife in Lafayette, California with a neurotic but lovable Golden Retriever and a spoiled-rotten cat. Three adult children occasionally drop by.
His “writer’s journey” began following the assassination of Prime Minister Yitzchak Rabin in 1995. Dr. Cooper was determined to convey a message of coexistence and peace, and began writing op-eds, essays, and historical fiction set in the Holy Land at major turning points of history. His latest prize-winning novels are part of that endeavor.
Set during WW1, the pages of WAGES OF EMPIRE and its sequel, CROSSROADS OF EMPIRE, are filled with real people from that time: Chaim Weizmann, Asher Ginsberg (AKA, Achad Ha’am), Faisal bin Hussein, Gertrude Bell, TE Lawrence, Winston Churchill, and the narcissistic antisemite, Kaiser Wilhelm II.
WAGES OF EMPIRE, winner of the 2025 Pacific Book Award for best historical fiction as well as other awards, begins at the start of WWI, introducing the fictional 16-year-old Evan Sinclair as his story is interwoven with other fictional and the historical characters. We follow Evan as he leaves home to join the Great War, crosses the Atlantic Ocean and enters the killing fields of the Western Front. Little does Evan realize that, despite the war raging in Europe, the true source of conflict will emerge in Ottoman Palestine, since it’s from Jerusalem where the German kaiser dreams to rule as Holy Roman Emperor with dominion over Arabian oil reserves, control of the Suez Canal, and with an eye to promote Germano-Nordic racial supremacy throughout the world. Joining the war in occupied Belgium, Evan will help turn the tide of a war that is just beginning, and become part of a story that’s still being written.
CROSSROADS OF EMPIRE, winner of the 2024 CIBA first prize for wartime fiction and other awards, continues the story. With Evan having survived German artillery and poison gas, he barely survives a hospital ship’s sinking by a German U-boat. Left with amnesia, Evan doesn’t remember who he is. As he struggles to regain his memory, the Middle East Front explodes with pitched battles at the Suez Canal and Gallipoli. Evan eventually and under mysterious circumstances regains his memory and discovers far more than his memories: he finds love for his father and grief for his mother who died in childbirth two years before. He also discovers something completely unexpected—hidden secrets of his bloodline—an unbroken lineage that stretches back to the Crusades that will determine his future role in the Great War and beyond.
Rabbi’s Message: June 10, 2025
By Rabbi Lauren Ben-Shoshan
This week’s Torah portion, Parashat Beha’alotcha, presents us with a deeply moving, often overlooked moment in our spiritual narrative — one that teaches us about compassion, humility, and the redemptive power of second chances.
Numbers, chapter 9, introduces us to the unique commandment of Pesach Sheni — the Second Passover. As the Israelites prepared to observe Passover in the wilderness, a group of individuals who became ritually impure – due to contact with a corpse – approach Moses and Aaron. They ask, with yearning and integrity: “Why should we be deprived and not be able to offer Adonai’s offering at its appointed time with the rest of the Israelites?” (Numbers 9:7).
Moses consults God, and the response is astonishing: God creates a new opportunity. Those who could not bring the Passover offering due to impurity or being on a distant journey are now granted a second chance, exactly one month later, to reconnect, to belong, and to fulfill their spiritual commitment.
This moment is not just about ritual. It’s a declaration that second chances are not just possible, but holy too. Judaism recognizes that sometimes life’s circumstances — or our own missteps — may interrupt our path. But the Torah teaches: there are ways to find a path forward.
In our own lives, we often find ourselves burdened not just by mistakes or bad choices, but by the weight of our inability to forgive ourselves for them. Whether due to guilt, shame, or a relentless inner critic, self-forgiveness can feel elusive. Yet Pesach Sheni reminds us that second chances are sacred too.
But how do we engage in this kind of healing?
Dr. Everett Worthington’s research on forgiveness — especially self-forgiveness — has shaped the therapeutic and spiritual understanding of how people move from shame and guilt toward healing. At the heart of this work is the REACH model, originally developed for interpersonal forgiveness, but later adapted for self-forgiveness. Here's how it applies, and how we can use it as a step-by-step practice:
R – Recall the Hurt
Self-forgiveness begins not with denial, but with honest confrontation. We must recall the situation — what happened, what we did or failed to do, and how it impacted ourselves and others.
This step is about truth-telling. Not exaggerating our wrongs, but also not minimizing them. It can be emotionally painful to sit with this, but reflection must precede healing. Using judgmental attributions – like “I was awful” or “I ruined everything” – is not helpful at this stage. Journaling or talking to a trusted confidant or therapist can help process the memory with clarity and compassion.
In the Torah, we see this through the scapegoat ritual in Leviticus 16. Aaron and the priests name their sins out loud before engaging in the proscribed forgiveness and letting go ritual. We do this at Yom Kippur, during the Viddui or confessional prayer. By naming our mistakes, we honor what happened and the real consequences that resulted.
E – Empathize with Yourself
This is where self-forgiveness starts to diverge from guilt and move toward healing. Often, we empathize with others — but with ourselves, we become harsh critics.
Empathy doesn’t mean excusing behavior. It means recognizing that we acted under stress, fear, ignorance, pain, or unmet needs — and that we are more than the worst thing we've done. It means speaking to yourself with the same compassion you would speak to a dear friend. Empathy allows us to see ourselves as flawed but redeemable human beings.
A – Altruistic Gift of Forgiveness
Dr. Worthington frames forgiveness — even toward oneself — as a gift, not a transaction. It's not earned through punishment; it's given through compassion. Just as we can forgive others for their humanity, we can choose to forgive ourselves as an act of grace.
In Judaism, this echoes the principle of rachamim (compassion), which the Talmud says is one of God’s primary attributes (Exodus 34:6). We are invited to emulate this divine quality — especially inward.
C – Commit to Forgive
Forgiveness is not just a feeling; it's a decision. Dr. Worthington stresses that we must commit to self-forgiveness, even when guilt returns. This is especially important because shame has a way of resurfacing.
Commitment involves deciding: “I will no longer define myself solely by this mistake.” It means deciding that you are not the worst thing that you have done; nor are you the worst thing that has happened to you. This is a form of spiritual teshuvah, where one resolves to grow beyond the harm.
H – Hold on to Forgiveness
This final step is about maintaining the forgiveness you've worked for. It's common to relapse into self-blame, especially during stressful times. Holding on means reminding yourself of the choice you’ve made and practicing resilience.
Dr. Worthington likens this to tending a wound: once it’s bandaged, it still needs care until it heals. Similarly, self-forgiveness is a process that may need to be revisited, but not undone. Especially when your forgiveness feels fresh and tender, remembering to re-choose self-forgiveness regularly is healthy and necessary.
Why This Matters Spiritually and Emotionally
The Divine invention of Pesach Sheni in our Torah portion reminds us that time and grace are not just possible, but sacred too. The REACH model mirrors that. It is a way of moving from paralysis to purpose — not by ignoring sin or pain, but by moving through it with awareness and intention.
Shame, when left unexamined, isolates us. But forgiveness — when approached through honest inventory, empathy, and commitment — reconnects us to ourselves, to others, and to the divine spark within each of us.
Our tradition does not shy away from imperfection. Instead, it meets us in our humanity. The Torah of Second Chances is not only about ritual impurity in the wilderness — it’s about all of us, striving to grow, heal, and return. Just as God made space for those who missed their first opportunity, so too must we learn to make space within ourselves — for patience, for compassion, and for the slow work of self-forgiveness.
May we find the courage to walk the path of healing, knowing that the gates of return are always open.
(And! Looking for more Torah like this? Keep an eye out to be able to mark your calendars for Yom Kippur and all of our other High Holy Day offerings!)
Rabbi’s Article: Showing Up with Pride in Truckee (June 3, 2025)
This past weekend, I had the honor of representing our Jewish community at the Truckee Pride Festival and 5K—a joyful, colorful celebration of love, identity, and belonging. Standing among families, young people, allies, and LGBTQ+ individuals from across the region, I was deeply moved by the spirit of community and courage that filled the air.
Why was it important for me—and for our Jewish community—to be there with a booth? It is hard for me to fully articulate all of the layers of why this is vital, but let me try:
First and foremost, Judaism teaches us that every human being is created b’tzelem Elohim—in the image of God. That belief demands that we honor the dignity of every person. Being at Pride is a living expression of that belief, and of our values of inclusion, justice (tzedek), and lovingkindness (chesed).
Second, visibility matters. For LGBTQ+ Jews, especially in smaller or rural communities like ours, seeing a rabbi and a happy Jewish booth at Pride full of crafts and joy sends a powerful message: you are not alone, and you don’t have to choose between your faith and your identity. You are seen, you are valued, and you belong.
Third, we must acknowledge that religious institutions—our own included—haven’t always been welcoming to LGBTQ+ people. Part of our responsibility is teshuvah, a return to our highest ideals. Showing up is an act of healing and repair.
Fourth, Pride is about partnership. We were joined by local nonprofits, schools, and other neighbors. By being there, we stood in solidarity with people of all backgrounds, working together to create a more just and compassionate community.
Finally, our presence created a safe and sacred space. We made friendship bracelets together, offered listening ears, and made sure our Jewish values were felt in every smile and every welcome.
To everyone who visited our booth or volunteered (thank you, Jess Teitelbaum!) or cheered on—thank you. To our LGBTQ+ members and loved ones—you are a vital part of our community. You bring strength, insight, and joy to Jewish life.
May we continue to walk—and dance—together on the path of justice and love.
Pride continues with community member Victoria Estevez’s film screening of Mikah Myer’s Canyon Chorus (June 4th at 5 pm), and community member Nubbia Greninger’s PG-13 Drag Brunch (June 8 at 10 am). I especially look forward to seeing you at Pride Shabbat on Friday, June 6 at 6 pm in Truckee, hosted by community members Danny Roza and Jason Toups! (See flier below for details!)
With pride and blessing,
Rabbi Lauren Ben-Shoshan
Sermon, May 30, 2025: Shavuot: What revelation are you praying for?
As we look forward to celebrating Shavuot on Wednesday (see the flier below!), I wanted to share my sermon from this past Shabbat, discussing the holiday. Wishing you a meaningful season!
By Rabbi Lauren Be-Shoshan
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This week, we celebrate Shavuot—one of the most layered, quietly powerful, and spiritually resonant holidays on the Jewish calendar.
Compared to Passover or Sukkot—the other two pilgrimage festivals—Shavuot arrives with relatively little fanfare. There’s no matzah to hoard or build-your-own-sukkah kits to assemble. No seders. No guest seating arrangements that devolve into diplomatic crises. From the outside, Shavuot seems understated.
But don’t let the quiet fool you. Shavuot is a spiritual summit, one that invites us not just to remember what once was, but to reimagine who we are becoming.
Historically, Shavuot began as an agricultural festival. It was the Festival of the Harvest (Chag HaKatzir), and also Yom HaBikkurim, the Day of First Fruits, when Israelites would bring the first yield of their crops to the Temple in Jerusalem in an act of gratitude. It was earthy, embodied, full of journeys and floral offerings. It was a holiday you could literally hold in your hands.
But like so many things in Jewish life, this holiday evolved.
After the destruction of the First Temple and the Babylonian exile in 586 BCE—and even more profoundly after the Roman destruction of the Second Temple in 70 CE—Judaism transformed. No longer able to make pilgrimages or bring literal offerings, we began to bring offerings of a different kind: of text, memory, and intention.
Over time, Shavuot became the day we associate with Matan Torah—the giving of the Torah at Mount Sinai. Though the Torah doesn’t state explicitly that it was given on this day, rabbinic tradition connects Shavuot to that climactic moment of revelation. And thus, a harvest festival became a holiday of spiritual harvest—where we don’t bring fruit, but instead ask:
What truth am I ready to receive?
What revelation might change me now?
With these heavy questions, I should also state: Shavuot does not stand alone—it is the culmination of a seven-week spiritual arc that begins with Pesach, called the Counting of the Omer.
On Pesach, we leave Mitzrayim, Egypt—the "narrow places." We throw off the yoke of oppression, stretch limbs unused to freedom, and begin to breathe again. But liberation, while essential, is only the beginning.
We do not leave Egypt just to wander. We are moving toward something.
That something is revelation.
But revelation doesn’t happen in an instant. The Israelites didn’t walk out of Egypt and walk straight into Sinai. They meandered. They doubted. They got blisters. They fought. They thirsted—literally and spiritually. And all of it was necessary. Because you can’t receive holy wisdom with a slave’s heart. You can’t embody Torah if you’re still carrying Pharaoh’s voice in your head.
The tradition of Counting the Omer—the 49 days between Pesach and Shavuot—helps us ritualize this transformation. Each day is an invitation to take one more step on the path of spiritual readiness.
The Kabbalists, ever poetic, mapped this period onto a divine anatomy: the Sephirot, ten attributes or emanations of the Divine. During the Omer, we cycle through seven of them—chesed (lovingkindness), gevurah (discipline), tiferet (balance), and so on. It’s not just a calendar countdown—it’s a curriculum for the soul.
In our own community, we’ve deepened this exploration through the Mountain Mussar Omer Journals, reflecting each week on a new middah—a spiritual trait—to cultivate in our lives. (Some of you have even written in yours. We are proud of you. Others of you are...enthusiastically aware that they exist. We see you, too.)
This slow unfolding mirrors insights from modern psychology. Carl Jung described individuation—the lifelong process of becoming more wholly oneself. Psychologist Richard Schwartz speaks of Internal Family Systems—the idea that we’re composed of many inner parts, each with its own story and role. The Israelites’ wandering in the wilderness wasn’t just a physical journey; it was an emotional and communal one, peeling back layers of identity and memory.
Or, in the words of Abraham Maslow: we’re on a path to self-actualization. But there are no shortcuts. You can’t leap from trauma to transcendence. You have to walk the distance.
That is the wisdom of the Omer: the soul ripens slowly.
Which brings us back to this moment.
We may not be standing at Sinai in body, but Shavuot insists that we are always standing at Sinai in spirit. And like our ancestors, we are asked to bring not our grain, but our readiness.
Not, "What do you know?"
But, "What are you open to learning?"
Not, "What are you carrying?"
But, "What are you ready to receive?"
Revelation today may not arrive in thunder and fire. It might come in quieter ways—a sudden clarity about a decision. A deeper sense of peace in your body. A reawakened purpose. A new understanding of what is truly holy in your life.
But it only comes if we prepare for it. If we do the work of wandering.
So let me ask you gently—and let this question sit with you, perhaps through the holiday, perhaps beyond:
What revelation do you hope to receive in this season?
Not someday. Not in theory. This season. What are you ready for?
Wishing you a Chag Sameach. May this Shavuot find you not just remembering the mountain, but climbing your own. And may you receive exactly the revelation your soul is ready to hear.
Rabbi’s Message: May 27, 2025
As we open the Book of Numbers (Sefer Bamidbar) this week with Parashat B’midbar, we find ourselves once again standing at the threshold of the wilderness with our ancestors, just before we arrive at Mount Sinai. The parashah begins with a seemingly bureaucratic task: a census of the Israelite community. Names, tribes, numbers. A tally of the people.
At first glance, it might feel dry or technical—but beneath the surface lies a powerful spiritual message.
In Hebrew, the Book of Numbers is called Bamidbar, meaning “in the wilderness.” It is in this uncharted, open space that our people begin to recover, to organize, to journey, to grow. And it is there—in a place of uncertainty—that each individual is counted, by name, by lineage, and with intention.
God commands Moses not just to count the people, but to “lift up the head” (se’u et rosh) of each individual (Numbers 1:2). It’s a phrase that speaks to more than arithmetic. It’s about dignity. It’s about being seen. It’s about mattering.
In our own lives, especially in this season as we prepare for Shavuot and reflect on our journey from freedom to responsibility, Parashat B’midbar reminds us: everyone counts. Not just in the census, but in the community. Every voice, every soul, every story has value. We are not just numbers—we are names. We are needed.
As we read B’midbar, may we take the message to heart. May we strive to see others as God sees them: with infinite worth. And may we be reminded, especially in moments of doubt or feeling lost in our own wilderness, that we, too, count.
Wishing you a wonderful week, a Shavuah Tov,
Rabbi Lauren Ben-Shoshan
Rabbi’s Message on the tragedy in DC: Thursday, May 22, 2025
In reading the news this morning, in addition to our regularly scheduled Omer Journal and important community information, I write to you with a heavy heart. Last night, our wider Jewish family lost two shining souls: Yaron Lischinsky and Sarah Lynn Milgrim, young researchers and educators at the Israeli Embassy, who were tragically murdered while attending a reception at the Jewish Museum. Yaron, an Israeli Christian, was planning to propose to Sarah, an American Jew, next week. Next week. The future was just around the corner—and then, heartbreakingly, it wasn’t.
Throughout the past two years in particular, it strikes me deeply how much we can grieve for people we’ve never met. Grief is love that doesn’t know where to go. And losses like this are a shocking reminder of that love. It reminds us of how much we love each and every one of our people and all those connected to our people. It’s not imaginary. It’s not melodrama. It’s love—yours, mine, ours for the whole of our people, for the whole of humanity—suddenly orphaned, without a destination.
This kind of love sneaks up on you. It lives within our hearts each and every day, more or less unnoticed. Until. You see a picture, read a headline, hear their story—and there it is: a wave of sorrow as real and raw as if you’d shared a Shabbat dinner with them last week. However, this feeling is not a weakness. That’s the calling of the divine spark that resides within each of us, singing to one another’s humanity. It’s deep interconnectedness, the way we have always felt bound to one another—whether in celebration or suffering. Our capacity to mourn—even for those we’ve never met—is a sacred strength. It means we still believe in a world where every life matters. It means that we still love every life.
Now, Jewish tradition does not tell us to wallow endlessly in our grief, nor does it tell us to shut it down and “move on.” What it tells us is this: Avelut—mourning—is not just a feeling; it is a process. And like all Jewish processes, it is structured, sacred, and surprisingly actionable. So what options do we have when we grieve people we never had the honor of knowing?
We start by naming the loss. Say their names: Yaron and Sarah. Or Hersh. Or Shiri and Eden and Ariel and Kfir. Or the names of so many that we have lost to hate in the past few years. A name in Judaism is more than a label—for the mystics, it is a whisper of the soul’s purpose, echoing “I have called you by name; you are Mine” (Isaiah 43:1). We remember names as a way to honor a life shaped by covenant and kindness, held sacred by the human story.
We light a candle—a physical flame that reminds us of the soul’s eternal spark, because “the soul of a person is the lamp of God” (Proverbs 20:27).
We create tzedakah in their honor—not just charity, but justice. Let our grief fuel acts of kindness, of support, of resistance against hate and senseless violence.
We gather—as we’re doing this Shabbat and in the coming weeks—in community. Because Judaism understands that even grief is not meant to be carried alone.
And finally, we pray, not because prayer fixes everything, but because it reminds us that we are not alone in our heartbreak; their humanity is woven into the warp and weft of all of the generations of our people.
May the memories of Yaron and Sarah be a blessing. And may our grief, bewildering and painful as it is, find its way—through action, through compassion, through love—into something healing, something lasting, something good.
With broken hearts, but unbroken spirits,
Rabbi Lauren