Rabbi’s Message: June 9, 2026
By Rabbi Lauren Ben-Shoshan
This week's Torah portion, Sh'lach, contains one of the most consequential moments in the Torah. Moses sends twelve spies to scout the Land of Israel. They return carrying enormous clusters of grapes and reports of a land flowing with milk and honey. Yet alongside the promise comes fear. As the Torah portion reads: "The people who inhabit the country are powerful, and the cities are fortified and very large." (Numbers 13:28)
The spies are not wrong. The obstacles are real. The challenges are daunting. The danger is not imagined. And yet, ten of the twelve spies make a critical mistake. They allow fear to become the lens through which they see everything. "We looked like grasshoppers to ourselves," they say, "and so we must have looked to them" (Numbers 13:33). Their fear becomes not merely an emotion but an identity. They no longer see the possibility of growth, only the certainty of defeat.
The tragedy of the story is not that the spies were afraid. The tragedy is that they believed their fear completely. But how do we respond when we are afraid? Throughout the Tanakh, we encounter different models for responding to fear.
Abraham faces fear by moving forward anyway. When God calls him to leave his homeland, Abraham receives no map, no guarantees, and no detailed plan. He simply hears, "Go forth" (Lech Lecha). Courage, in Abraham's story, is not the absence of uncertainty. It is taking the next faithful step despite uncertainty.
Moses offers another model. At the burning bush, he is terrified — not only by the fire before him but by the task being asked of him. Again and again he protests: "Who am I?" "What if they don't believe me?" "I am not a man of words." Moses does not overcome fear through confidence. He overcomes fear through relationship. God does not remove his anxiety; God promises accompaniment. "I will be with you." Moses leans on his relationships to manage his fears and move forward.
The prophet Elijah demonstrates a different response. Exhausted, frightened, and fleeing for his life, he retreats into the wilderness. There, God does not appear in the earthquake, the wind, or the fire, but in the kol d'mamah dakah — the still, small voice. The fear caused as these natural phenomena whip around him must have been overwhelming. In this moment, Elijah shows that fear can overtake us. And yet, sometimes, with patience and observation of the situation, clarity arrives not through force but through quiet focus.
The Book of Esther offers yet another model. Esther initially responds to danger with hesitation. Speaking to the king could cost her life. Yet Mordecai reminds her that silence carries risks as well. Fear asks, "What if I act?" Wisdom asks, "What if I don't?" Esther spends time in reflection, consideration, and careful strategy; establishing a well thought out plan and following through on it is her method to manage her fears.
And then there are Joshua and Caleb, the two spies from this week's Torah portion, who see the same giants, the same walls, and the same challenges as everyone else. Their gift is not superior eyesight. It is perspective. They acknowledge the obstacles but refuse to let those obstacles define the future.
This may be one of the Torah's deepest teachings about fear. Fear is information. It tells us something matters. It alerts us to risk. It asks us to pay attention. But fear is a poor prophet.
Fear often predicts catastrophe where possibility exists. Fear narrows our vision until we can only see what threatens us. Fear convinces us that today's challenge determines tomorrow's outcome.
The spies saw giants and concluded that the future was already written. Nonetheless, Joshua and Caleb saw giants and concluded that the story was still unfolding. Every generation faces its own giants. We worry about our families, our communities, our health, our future, our world. The question is not whether we will feel fear. We will.
The question is whether we will allow fear to tell the whole story.
Jewish tradition never asks us to become fearless. It asks us to become wise: to remember that fear is a companion on the journey, but it is not the guide. As we move through all of the world's events this week, may we learn from Abraham to take the next step, from Moses to seek companionship, from Elijah to listen for the still small voice, from Esther to act according to our values, and from Joshua and Caleb to see possibility alongside challenge.
And, most of all, may we remember that we are rarely as small as fear tells us we are.
Celebrating Pride Through Jewish Values of Dignity and Joy
Reflections from NTHC President Heidi Doyle
As we enter Pride Month, we are reminded that Judaism calls upon us to recognize the dignity, joy, and humanity inherent in every person. Pride Month is not simply a cultural observance; it is deeply connected to Jewish values that have guided our people for generations.
Our tradition teaches that every human being is created in the image of God. This foundational belief reminds us that each person deserves respect, belonging, safety, and love exactly as they are. When we honor the diversity of human experience and identity, we honor the divine spark within one another.
This week’s Torah portion also speaks powerfully to the idea of community and shared responsibility. In the wilderness, the Israelites journeyed not as isolated individuals, but as a people bound together through mutual care and covenant. Jewish life flourishes when every person knows they are welcomed, valued, and seen. Our communities become stronger, kinder, and holier when we make room for everyone to stand proudly within the circle.
Pride Month also celebrates joy — and joy itself is a sacred Jewish value. Judaism does not ask us merely to endure life; it encourages us to rejoice in it. Remember the wedding scene in Fiddler? We are commanded to celebrate, to sing, to gather, and to lift one another up. There is holiness in authenticity, in friendship, in love, and in the freedom to live openly and truthfully.
At North Tahoe Hebrew Congregation, we strive to be a community where all are welcome and where compassion and human dignity guide our actions. During this Pride Month, may we recommit ourselves to listening with empathy, standing against hatred and exclusion, and creating spaces where every person can feel at home and welcomed within our mountain community.
We invite everyone to join us as we celebrate Pride Month together during Shabbat services in Truckee this Friday evening, June 5 as we celebrate a Shabbat rooted in joy, dignity, belonging and the sacred worth of every human being.
Heidi Doyle
Beha'alotcha—Words, Tone, and Prayer
June 2, 2026Shalom,
One of the joys of working with adolescents is the unique language they bring into the world. More than once, a student has greeted me with, "Hey, dude!" or "What's up, bro?" I have to admit that part of me finds it endearing. It is often their way of expressing comfort, trust, and connection. At the same time, another part of me wonders whether those words quite fit the relationship between student and rabbi. The tension makes me smile, but it also reminds me that the words, and especially the ‘tone’ we use matter. The way we address one another communicates something about how we see each other and how we wish to be seen.
In our tradition, prayer is one of our forms of communication, of using language. And, I am not sure about all of you, but I know that for me, prayer has been an evolving concept in my life. At times it is about hoping for something; at other times it is mental space to explore how we might strive to be our best selves. In the Torah portion we read this past Shabbat, Beha'alotcha, we encounter one of the Torah's most memorable examples of spontaneous prayer.
It comes after a bout of sibling rivalry between Moses, Miriam, and Aaron. The result of their familial strife is that Miriam becomes stricken with illness. Moses, after experiencing his siblings speaking out against him and his leadership, witnesses Miriam's suffering and offers a prayer: "O God, please heal her!" (Numbers 12:13).
This is certainly one form of prayer—a prayer of supplication. It is Moses' request that God remove the illness from his sister and restore her to health. Rashi comments on this moment, drawing on the Midrash, teaching that "if one is asking a favor of their fellow human being, one should first say two or three words of supplication and then make the request."
At first glance, this sounds a bit like a teenager saying, "Mom, your new haircut looks great. Can I borrow the car keys?" But I think Rashi is aiming much deeper. He is teaching us about what he calls the "correct attitude in social life." Our words matter. The way we speak to one another matters. The brief phrasing of Moses' prayer reminds us that kindness, humility, and compassion should be present in our actions, and also in our speech.
Perhaps that is why I find myself reflecting on those moments of being called "dude" or "bro." The words themselves are not the issue. What matters is learning that language carries meaning and shapes relationships. Whether we are speaking to a parent, a teacher, a friend, a stranger, or even to God, Divine, Mystery of Creation - whatever it is we believe, our words have the power to build connection, express respect, and communicate care.
As this week begins, may we examine the ways we connect with others through words—speaking with kindness and compassion, and listening with the same care and attention.
Shavua Tov,
Rabbi Evon
Rabbi’s Message, May 26, 2026
As the weather temporarily warmed this past long weekend, my fun-time “beach reading” was consumed by the Dungeon Crawler Carl series by Matt Dinniman. While the books contain plenty of adventure, humor, and absurdity (and a warning about their colorful language), they also spend a surprising amount of time wrestling with a question that feels deeply relevant to our own lives: How does a person maintain their integrity when circumstances become less than ideal? What happens when life becomes messy, even very messy? What principles remain non-negotiable, and where does flexibility become necessary? How do we hold onto our values when circumstances constantly pressure us to compromise them? These are the questions I carried with me when I began reading this week's Torah portion, Parashat Nasso.
The longest portion in the Torah, Nasso opens with a census of the Levite clans and an accounting of their responsibilities in caring for the Israelites' sacred space. It then turns toward a series of situations in which things have gone wrong. The Torah discusses theft, wrongdoing, restitution, and the process of repair when someone recognizes their mistakes and takes responsibility for them. These passages offer a vision of accountability rooted not merely in punishment, but in restoration.
Yet the section that often receives the most attention appears a bit later: the ritual of the Sotah. The Sotah ritual addresses a painful situation in which a husband accuses his wife of infidelity, while the wife maintains her innocence. The Torah describes a circumstance in which jealousy has overtaken the husband: "a fit of jealousy has come over him and he is wrought up about the wife who has defiled herself; or if a fit of jealousy has come over him and he is wrought up about his wife although she has not defiled herself" (Numbers 5:14). For many modern readers, this passage feels deeply uncomfortable. The ritual reflects assumptions about gender, power, and marriage that stand far from our contemporary values. It would take five pages for me to list all of the reasons that I find this text challenging (at best) and repulsive (at worst).
Yet Jewish tradition rarely asks us to ignore difficult texts. Instead, it invites us to wrestle with them.
One of the most remarkable aspects of the rabbinic tradition is that our sages themselves struggled with the Sotah ritual. Rather than treating jealousy as proof of guilt, they increasingly shifted attention toward the destructive power of jealousy itself and how society could help moderate behavior driven by this feeling. (Mishnah Sotah 1:4-5) The Talmud ultimately teaches that the practice ceased altogether. (Rabbi Yochanan Ben Zakkai, Mishnah Sotah 9:9) According to the rabbis, when adultery became widespread in society, the ritual no longer functioned as intended and was abolished. (Babylonian Talmud, Sotah 28a) In effect, the tradition chose to retire a troubling institution rather than preserve it unchanged.
This move reflects something profound about Jewish ethics in the context of less than ideal circumstances. The goal of Torah is not blind obedience to our worst instincts. The husband in this story arrives consumed by suspicion and fear. The Torah acknowledges those emotions, but the larger arc of Jewish tradition refuses to let jealousy have the final word.
Perhaps that is one reason this passage appears alongside laws of restitution and repair. Human beings make mistakes. We become angry. We become fearful. We become convinced that our perspective alone tells the whole truth. The challenge lies not in avoiding every difficult emotion, but in deciding what we do once those emotions arrive.
In Dungeon Crawler Carl, the characters rarely face a clean choice between good and evil. More often, they must choose between competing goods, competing loyalties, or competing harms. The same often proves true in real life. Most of us do not wake up wondering whether to become villains. Instead, we face decisions clouded by grief, uncertainty, fear, exhaustion, conflicting responsibilities, and yes, even jealousy.
The Jewish response does not expect perfection in these messy circumstances. It seeks integrity. Integrity means returning, again and again, to the values that define us: justice, compassion, truthfulness, accountability, dignity, and peace. It means asking not simply, "What do I want?" but also, "What kind of person do I want to become?" It means recognizing when jealousy, anger, or fear have begun to drive the conversation and even the decision-making that we want to do. And it means remaining willing to engage in repair when we inevitably fall short.
Nasso reminds us that living in ideal circumstances is not always possible, not even in the Bible. Like the characters in Dungeon Crawler Carl, we often find ourselves navigating situations in which every available option carries risk, cost, or uncertainty. The Jewish tradition does not promise us perfect choices. Instead, it offers us a compass: compassion, accountability, repair, and dignity. When circumstances become messy, those values may not tell us exactly what to do. But they can help us remember who we want to become.
Condolences to the Muslim Community of San Diego
This week, our hearts are with all communities that experience violence in their sacred spaces, but particularly, the Muslim community of San Diego following the devastating shooting at the Islamic Center of San Diego. We mourn the loss of life, hold the injured and traumatized in our prayers, and extend our deepest condolences to all those whose sense of safety and sacred belonging has been shattered by this violence.
Jewish tradition teaches that every human being is created b’tzelem Elohim — in the image of God (Genesis 1:27). To attack a community gathered in prayer is not only an assault upon human life, but upon the sacred dignity carried within each person. The Talmud teaches: “Whoever destroys a single life, it is as if they have destroyed an entire world” (Mishnah Sanhedrin 4:5). Each life lost in this tragedy was an entire world of relationships, memories, hopes, and love.
Our tradition also reminds us that houses of worship are meant to be sanctuaries of refuge and peace. In the Book of Isaiah, God’s vision for the future is that the Temple shall become “a house of prayer for all peoples” (Isaiah 56:7). Places of worship — mosques, synagogues, churches, temples, and sacred spaces of every tradition — should never become places of fear. They should be places where human beings gather to seek meaning, connection, healing, and the Divine.
Our community is profoundly grateful for all of our security partnerships around our beautiful basin, including The Secure Communities Network, Placer County, and El Dorado County. As a Jewish community, we know too well the trauma that follows violence directed toward people because of their faith. We know the heartbreak of wondering whether sacred spaces are safe. And because we know that pain, we are called to stand in solidarity with our Muslim neighbors and with all communities targeted by hatred.
Pirkei Avot teaches: “In a place where there are no human beings, strive to be human.” In moments such as these, may we choose compassion over indifference, solidarity over isolation, and courage over hatred. May the memories of those who were killed be a blessing. May healing come to the wounded and traumatized. And may the day come soon when every person can enter their house of worship in peace and leave it in peace.
Ascending: Moving Towards Sinai
Shavuot - May 19 2026
What was the last long trip, or journey, you experienced? What were the highs? The lows? Each journey is full of both valleys and peaks, and both teach us profound lessons that build our character. It is also the plains between the two that formulate our present. Now, these journeys can be the great experiences of recreation and travel, and they can be the seemingly ‘regular’ parts of life, including education, parenting, friendship, and community. However, as we view the journeys in our lives, each has a beginning and an end, and each is filled with peaks, valleys, and plains.
Thursday evening, we begin the holiday of Shavuot. Probably the highest peak during our people’s desert journey. According to our tradition, it is not the highest by elevation, for Mt. Sinai was not the biggest mountain, nor the smallest. It celebrates that moment at Sinai of Revelation, what we call Matan Torah, the Giving of Torah. There is no doubt that this forty-year journey was filled with plenty of highs, lows, and just regular ol’ days. Yet, it is these formative years, this story contained in Exodus through Deuteronomy that form Am Israel - the People of Israel. Among the rituals that help us celebrate this high point are the reading of the Scroll of Ruth, reciting the Ten Commandments, eating dairy, decorating with greenery, and a night of study. It is the first and last in this list that strike me as crucial components of our journey as Jews. Exploring the text of Ruth, her story, and certainly her kindness—what we call chesed, as well as engaging in study, envelops us in the Jewish experience. When we recognize the power of Ruth’s story, one of kindness, of lacking materially but wealthy spiritually we can embrace so much of what life brings our way.
On this Shavuot and as we stand again at Sinai, may each of us find the peaks, the valleys, and embrace the plains of our Jewish journeys and life’s journeys. Make sure to check the Temple calendar for access and registration for the national virtual Tikkun Leil Shavuot. Join rabbis and teachers from around North America to learn as we explore revelation and continue our Jewish journey.
Shavua Tov,
Rabbi Evon
Rabbi’s Message: May 12, 2025: Mark Your Calendars for Pride Shabbat
There are moments in Jewish text when love appears quietly, almost hidden beneath the surface of political danger and uncertainty. And then there are moments when love refuses to stay hidden at all.
This week’s Haftarah, from the First Book of Samuel, gives us one of those moments.
David is in danger. King Saul’s rage has become unpredictable and violent. Jonathan, Saul’s son, devises a secret code to warn David whether it is safe for him to remain or whether he must flee for his life. It is a story of loyalty and protection, of devotion enacted not only through words, but through risk. And then, after the signal is given and David understands he must go, the text offers us something astonishingly tender:
“They kissed one another and wept together.”
(1 Samuel 20:41)
Before they part, Jonathan and David once again bind themselves to one another and to future generations through covenantal language. They reaffirm their vows of care, protection, and beloved enduring connection. Even as political instability swirls around them, love remains steadfast.
Jewish tradition has often emphasized many forms of love. In the V’ahavta, we are commanded toward love of the Divine through our everyday actions. In Ahavat Olam, we speak of the eternal love that surrounds and sustains Creation, that we bask in this love each and every day that we express gratitude for the world around us. In our daily lives, we strive toward chesed, lovingkindness, as a sacred way of moving through the world.
But the Jewish tradition also understands something else: love itself is holy.
The Song of Songs declares:
“Set me as a seal upon your heart…
for love is strong as death.”
(Song of Songs 8:6)
And elsewhere:
“Many waters cannot quench love,
nor can floods drown it.”
(Song of Songs 8:7)
These verses do not describe a fragile love. They describe a love that persists through danger, exile, grief, uncertainty, and fear. A love that insists upon human dignity. A love that binds souls together even when the world around them feels unstable.
This year, as we gather for Pride Shabbat – in Truckee on Friday, June 5th – we do so with full awareness that many members of the LGBTQ+ community continue to experience fear, vulnerability, and political uncertainty. And yet, Jewish tradition asks us not to retreat from love in difficult times. It asks us to deepen our commitment to it.
Love that protects.
Love that tells the truth.
Love that honors the image of God reflected in every human being.
Love that creates covenantal belonging.
At Pride Shabbat, we are excited to honor love in all its forms: romantic love, familial love, friendship, chosen family, communal care, and the sacred love that emerges when people are fully seen and fully welcomed. Like Jonathan and David standing together at the edge of uncertainty, we reaffirm our commitment to one another. We reaffirm that our community will strive to be a place of safety, dignity, tenderness, and joy.
And we remember the ancient wisdom of our tradition: that love is not peripheral to Jewish life. It is one of the forces that sustains the world.
We hope you will join us for Pride Shabbat on Friday, June 5th in Truckee, as we celebrate the holiness of love, covenant, and belonging together.
Rabbi’s Message: Lag B’Omer: The Joy We Choose
By Rabbi Lauren Ben-Shoshan
There is something quietly unexpected about Lag B'Omer, the holiday that we celebrate today. Lag B’Omer arrives during the heart of the Counting of the Omer, a stretch of sacred time between Passover and Shavuot. Traditionally seen primarily as a period of reflection and serious contemplation, these are days that ask us to pay attention — to our habits, our relationships, our inner lives. (Indeed, the theme of our Mountain Mussar Omer Journal focuses on building the skills of awareness and attention that help us do this important spiritual work.) These days invite us into the slow, sometimes uncomfortable work of becoming more honest, more patient, more aligned with who we hope to be.
And then, just after we pass the halfway mark, the tone shifts for the day. Fires are lit. Music is played. Weddings are held. There is laughter on Lag B’Omer where, just a day before, there may have been restraint.
To understand Lag B’Omer, we have to hold its history alongside its emotional wisdom. Tradition teaches that this day marks a pause in a devastating plague among the students of Rabbi Akiva — a tragedy our sages link to a failure of respect, of truly seeing and honoring one another. Lag B’Omer emerges, then, as a moment of relief, but also as a quiet corrective: a reminder that spiritual growth is never separate from the way we treat the people around us.
At the same time, the day is bound up with the life and teachings of Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai. According to tradition, the day of his passing was one of profound illumination, so much so that it is marked not with mourning, but with light. The bonfires that flicker across hillsides and backyards echo that teaching — that wisdom, once kindled, continues to radiate outward.
So Lag B’Omer is not an interruption of the Omer so much as it is a reorientation within it. It asks not only what are you working on, but why. To me, joy – joy in our relationships, joy in our lives, oneg in our Shabbat, joy in Creation – is a deeply profound “why”. You might have heard me discuss this before, but I have come to think about joy in two distinct ways. There is the kind of joy that arrives without effort — a wild joy found in the spontaneous moments that pop up around us. A burst of laughter, a feeling of connection, the sudden recognition of beauty. It surprises us. This kind of joy is real and necessary; it reminds us that life has its own generosity.
But there is another kind of joy, quieter and more deliberate. A cultivated joy. The kind that requires us to tend to the soil of our souls, to diligently plant seeds, and after careful tending, to watch it grow slowly, sometimes almost invisibly, through the choices we make over time. We harvest this kind of joy through deliberate choices. Through attention. Through repair. Through ritual and holiday practice with one another. Through showing up again and again, even when it would be easier to turn away. This joy is not always immediate, but it is enduring. It is the fruit of a life that is being lived with intention.
Lag B’Omer, I want to suggest, is a holiday of cultivated joy. It does not arrive because everything has suddenly become easy. It does not wait for the work of the Omer to be complete. Instead, it invites us — almost insists upon us — to make space for joy right here, in the middle of this challenging, reflective season. To gather what has been growing, even if it is still tender and new. To notice what has begun to shift within us. To celebrate not perfection, but participation.
In this way, the joy of Lag B’Omer is not escapism from the challenges of a plague or the cruelty and lack of respect in our world or even the grief of loss. Choosing to celebrate even in the midst of difficulty is an act of intentional meaning-making. It is a way of reminding ourselves why we engage in this work at all. Not simply to become more disciplined or more aware, but to build lives that can actually hold joy — lives in which connection, beauty, and presence are not accidental and distant, but possible and a part of the work of our own hands.
This is, in many ways, the heart of why we are building emotional and spiritual skills through our Mountain Mussar Omer Journal. Day by day, week by week, we have been tending something within ourselves — patience, inner calm, order, clarity — often without immediate reward. Lag B’Omer invites us to pause and ask: what seeds have I planted? What has taken root? What, even now, might be beginning to bloom? What can we harvest, even briefly, from the quiet goodness we are cultivating in our lives?
Because when we do, we are not stepping away from the work. We are sustaining it. We are replanting, deep within ourselves, the essential truth that this tradition returns to again and again — that even in the midst of challenge, even in seasons of becoming, life is not only something to be shaped. It is something to be cherished.
Lag B’Omer Sameach.
Rabbi’s Message: April 28, 2026
Lately, I have been thinking about wisdom. Not just how do we accumulate time and experiences, but what are the systems of thought that can lead from the stacking of time and experiences into relevant, usable wisdom that we can live by? Fortunately, this week’s Torah portion has a suggestion.
In Parashat Emor, the Torah offers us a map of sacred time: the festivals that shape the Jewish year. But what if this calendar is not only about when we gather, but about how we grow wise?
After all, not all growth naturally leads to wisdom. We can accumulate experiences, even insights, without becoming more grounded, more compassionate, or even more clear. Wisdom asks something more of us. It asks that we live through our experiences in a way that transforms us. The Torah’s cycle of holidays, I want to suggest, is not only a ritual calendar: it is a wisdom cycle. A path that teaches us how to grow, season by season, year by year.
We begin with Passover, the moment of awareness. Wisdom always begins here: with the willingness to see. Something in our lives feels constricted, misaligned, or incomplete, and we allow ourselves to notice it. This is no small thing. To wake up — to say this does not need to be this way — is the first movement toward wisdom.
Then comes the quiet work of the Omer, those in-between days where nothing dramatic seems to happen, and yet everything is happening. Here we reflect, we refine, we practice. In the wilderness of this space, we begin to experiment and to stretch the parts of ourselves that we constricted before. Wisdom grows in these spaces of attention. It is cultivated through small, repeated acts of noticing and choosing. We are not yet ready to declare who we are becoming—but we are preparing the ground.
At Shavuot, we arrive at commitment. Wisdom requires a “yes.” Not a perfect one, not a permanent one — but a real one. We choose a path, a value, a way of living. We receive Torah not as information, but as orientation. Wisdom begins to take root when we align our actions with what we know to be true.
With Rosh Hashanah, we are invited into envisioning. Having lived with our commitments, we ask again: Who am I becoming? Not in abstraction, but in the texture of our lived days. Wisdom expands when we can imagine a self that is more spacious, more generous, more healed, more whole — and begin to lean toward it.
That vision leads us to Yom Kippur, the sacred work of repair. Because if we are honest, we will find the places where we have fallen short — where our lives have not yet caught up to our intentions. Wisdom is not the absence of error. It is the capacity to respond to error with clarity and humility, with vulnerability and courage. It is the willingness to take responsibility and begin again.
And then, Sukkot, the harvest. Here we step into a life that is both fragile and full. We gather what we have learned — not as perfection, but as experience integrated into who we are. Wisdom ripens when we can say: This is what I have learned. This is who I am, for now. And we allow ourselves to dwell, even briefly, in that knowing.
And then—the cycle begins again. Not because we are stuck. Not because we have failed. But because wisdom is not a magical destination at the end of a singular journey. It is a practice.
Each year, we return to awareness with new eyes. We prepare with greater depth. We commit with more intention. We envision more honestly. We repair more compassionately. We harvest more humbly. The calendar of Emor teaches us that time itself can be a guide — if we are willing to move through it consciously.
President’s Message: Reflections from a Tahoe Shabbat Retreat
From NTHC President Heidi Doyle
Last weekend, I had the pleasure of joining a truly special retreat in South Lake Tahoe with members from Temple Or Rishon, North Tahoe Hebrew Congregation, and Temple Bat Yam. About 30 of us gathered for a meaningful and joyful weekend that beautifully blended learning, community, and the natural splendor of our Tahoe home.
We spent time studying sacred texts, sharing a rich and thoughtful Shabbat experience, and engaging in conversations that were both insightful and inspiring. Just as meaningful were the quieter moments—short hikes among the pines, taking in the breathtaking views of Lake Tahoe, and simply enjoying each other’s company.
What stood out most was the opportunity to build new friendships and deepen existing ones. There was a genuine sense of connection, laughter, and shared purpose throughout the weekend.
If you weren’t able to attend this year, I strongly encourage you to consider joining us next time. And for those who love the outdoors, we’re already looking ahead to a family-friendly camping Shabbat weekend coming up in late August.
We are truly fortunate to benefit from the collaboration between our three congregations and the strength of our shared leadership. Wishing everyone a wonderful week—please feel free to reach out with any questions.
Passover Recap: Joyful energy!
The room was alive with laughter, warmth, and the kind of joy that comes from truly being together. Thank you Rabbi’s for guiding a wonderful Passover Seder and being beacons of light for our community.
—Passover volunteer Lisa Richards
And a big thank you to all volunteers who cooked, set up our beautiful space, and stayed to clean up! Thank you to Team NTHC volunteers—we couldn’t do it without you!
Rabbi's Message - April 21, 2026: Acharei-Mot Kedoshim - The Grand Code-Switch
Shalom,
The grand code-switch arrives this evening. It is the moment in the Jewish calendar, the days of modern holidays, that we code-switch from the mourning and introspection of Yom HaZikaron to the celebration of Yom Ha’atzmaut. Zikaron - Memory, Israel’s Memorial Day, is today, Tuesday, and as the sun sets this evening, we instantly switch to celebrate Atzmaut - Independence. What if our mourning has not spent enough time in our hearts, in our souls, and we are just not ready to celebrate? What if we’re not in a “place” to engage our young people, our children, in the conversations of Zikaron, especially in recent years, and yearn to jump to the jubilance of Atzmaut? Can this struggle be Kodesh (often translated as holy) too?
These are questions without answers. They are real and present, and they are prescient as they indicate a sense of being unsettled as we yearn to look ahead. It just feels uncomfortable right now. From 1951 to 1963 Israel’s government, Knesset, set these modern holy days with much debate and intention. When we overlay the larger Jewish calendar, we notice that the Torah readings that almost always coincide are Acharei-Mot and Kedoshim, this year it is a double portion when they are together for this week and this coming Shabbat. (Click here for a summary of these Torah readings>>>.)
Acharei-Mot, after the death, refers to the death of Aaron’s sons, Nadav and Avihu, while Kedoshim brings us into the holiness code, a road map for living lives of kodesh. One common thread I have heard from various voices over the years about the connection between Torah and these modern holidays teaches, “...these parallel the transition from the mourning of Yom HaZikaron to the holiness of Kedoshim and the joy and celebration of Yom Ha’Atzmaut.” It holds an expectation of a code-switch, from mourning to celebration, from loss to growth, perhaps.
This forty-eight hour roller coaster demands a lot of us intellectually, emotionally, spiritually, and more. Embracing this asks us to simultaneously hold both, yet to separate them too. Over recent weeks, I have been pressed by an important question about striving to understand Kodesh, often translated as holy. Yet, it seems this translation is a big interpretation, and maybe even a narrowing of its meaning. Kodesh, is broader than just an identification of things that are set apart, separate, and distinct, although that is one part of its meaning. One understanding that is currently resonating strongly teaches, “Kodesh is an intense consciousness of life.” It is a raw awareness that we are living, that our world is living, that we are part of that. This view helps us recognize that this switch from memory and mourning to determination and celebration is holding all of life, an intense consciousness of living.
However we’re holding these modern holidays, whatever ways we choose to note and honor them, may we ensure we are intensely conscious of the gift of life and may that inspire us towards choices, behaviors, and commitments that honor this gift.
May the Memories of those who died in defense of the Modern State of Israel and as victims of Terror forever be a blessing on this Yom HaZikaron and always. May we discover ways to honor and celebrate our determination as a people as we code-switch into Atzmaut this evening.
L’shalom - Towards Peace & Wholeness,
Rabbi Evon
Sermon, Parashat Shmini, April 10, 2026
This week, we enter the sacred—and unsettling—terrain of the Book of Leviticus, Parashat Sh’mini. A moment that begins in radiance—Aaron and his sons inaugurating the priestly service—quickly turns to heartbreak. Nadav and Avihu, Aaron’s sons, bring what the Torah calls esh zarah, a “strange fire,” and in an instant, they are gone.
The Torah’s response is spare, almost unbearably so:
Vayidom Aharon — “And Aaron was silent.” (Leviticus 10:3)
No eulogy. No tearing of garments. No public mourning rituals. In fact, Moses instructs Aaron and his remaining sons, Elazar and Itamar, not to mourn in the usual ways. The communal need for order, for continuity, overrides the personal need for grief. And we are left with a question that is as ancient as this text and as immediate as this very week:
What do we do when bad things happen to good people?
The truth is, most of us do not arrive at moments like this empty-handed. We arrive carrying emotional toolkits shaped long before we knew we were collecting them—formed in our families of origin. In The Relationship Cure, psychologist Dr. John Gottman describes four emotional cultures that shape how we respond to pain: Some of us were raised to dismiss emotion: “You’re fine. Keep going.” Some were taught to disapprove of emotion: “Don’t cry. Be strong.” Some experienced a kind of emotional permissiveness: feelings everywhere, but little guidance on what to do with them. And some—if we are fortunate—were raised with emotion coaching: where feelings are noticed, named, and held with care, even as boundaries are maintained.
Now imagine Aaron in that moment.
He has just lost two sons in a sudden, incomprehensible way. And instead of being surrounded with space to grieve, he is—perhaps—placed into something like an emotion dismissing or even emotion disapproving environment: “Do not let your hair grow wild. Do not rend your clothes… lest you die.” (Leviticus 10:6) Hold it together. Stay composed. The community needs you.
And Aaron?
He is silent.
Some read Aaron’s silence as strength. And perhaps it is.
But what if it is also something else?
You often hear me quote that grief is love that doesn’t know where to go. But, what happens when grief has nowhere to go? What if Aaron’s silence is not only spiritual acceptance, but also the echo of a system that cannot yet hold his pain?
The Torah does not tell us what Aaron feels. It only tells us what he does not do. And so we are invited to ask: What do we do—with our own grief, and with the grief of those around us?
Rabbi Harold Kushner, in his book When Bad Things Happen to Good People, wrote from his own place of profound loss. And he offered a reframing that has comforted generations:
The question is not “Why did this happen?”
The question is: “Now that this has happened, what will we do for one another?”
Kushner teaches that we may not always find satisfying answers to suffering. But we can become the kind of people who respond to suffering with presence, compassion, and care.
If Aaron’s world limited his grief, perhaps our task is to build a different kind of world. A world shaped not by dismissal or disapproval, but by what Dr. Gottman calls emotion coaching—and what our tradition might call chesed (lovingkindness) guided by gevurah (wise boundaries). What might that look like?
It might look like:
Noticing
Paying attention to the subtle signals of pain. Not waiting until someone is falling apart to see that they are struggling.
Naming
Giving language to what is hard: “This is grief.” “This is fear.” “This is anger.” As the Psalms teach us, there is holiness in honest naming.
Validating
Resisting the urge to fix or minimize.
Not “It will be okay,” but “Of course this hurts.”
Holding boundaries with compassion
All feelings are welcome—but not all behaviors are helpful. We can help each other move through pain without being consumed by it.
Showing up
Perhaps most importantly: presence. Sitting beside someone in their sorrow, even when we have no words.
Aaron’s silence lingers in our tradition. It is powerful. It is haunting. But our tradition does not end there. We are a people who learned, over generations, how to build structures of care and to use our tradition and rituals to ensure that this wisdom lives throughout the generations:
Shiva, where we do not leave mourners alone.
Nichum aveilim, comforting the bereaved.
Prayers that give voice to grief when words fail.
We learned—perhaps because of moments like Aaron’s—that no one should have to hold sorrow in silence forever.
When bad things happen to good people—and they will—we stand at a crossroads.
We can repeat the emotional patterns we inherited: minimizing, silencing, avoiding.
Or we can choose something different. We can become a space for one another that notices. That names. That sits beside. That makes room for grief—and for healing. Because while we may not be able to answer why, we can always answer how. How we show up. How we care. How we love.
May we be a community that refuses to let anyone grieve alone. And may we help transform silence—not into suppression, but into a sacred space where presence itself becomes prayer.
Shabbat Shalom.
Rabbis’ Message, April 14, 2026
By Rabbi Lauren Ben-Shoshan
There is a quiet shift that happens as we welcome the new month through Rosh Chodesh Iyyar. It is almost imperceptible at first. The peak of Passover — its urgency, its expansiveness, its miracles — begins to soften and recede into memory. The sea has parted, we have crossed to the other side, and for a brief moment we might be tempted to pause and simply catch our breath. But the Torah, in its wisdom, does not leave us standing still for long. Instead, it gently turns us toward a new question, one that does not arrive with thunder or spectacle, but with a quieter kind of invitation: Who am I becoming?
Our tradition offers us a simple but profound framework for this season of the year. Nisan, the month in which Passover falls, asks what we are ready to leave behind. This new month of Iyyar asks what we are ready to integrate. And Sivan, the coming month that also celebrates Shavuot, is waiting just on the horizon, asking what we are ready to receive. If Nisan is the moment of liberation itself — the breaking open, the leap into possibility — then Iyyar is the practice of freedom. It is where inspiration meets the steady, sometimes challenging and tender work of becoming something new.
It is no coincidence that every single day of this month is counted. The Counting of the Omer draws us into a relationship with time that feels almost countercultural. We do not rush through these days, nor do we treat them as interchangeable. Instead, we mark them, one by one, as if to say that each day matters, that each day carries its own potential for awareness and transformation. In a world that often celebrates change as sudden and dramatic, Iyyar reminds us that the deepest forms of growth are often cumulative, built slowly through attention, intention, and the willingness to return again and again to what matters most.
This is precisely the terrain we are exploring together through our Mountain Mussar Omer Journal series. In this season, we are not reaching for perfection or chasing an idealized version of ourselves. Instead, we are practicing the art of putting one foot in front of the other along our journey. This is the tricky work of living in balance, learning to navigate the dynamic tensions that shape a meaningful life — between structure and flexibility, discipline and spaciousness, effort and rest. Iyyar invites us to walk this middle path with compassion, to recognize that transformation is not a single moment of arrival but an ongoing practice of awareness. As we move through these days, we might gently ask ourselves what it would mean to grow at the pace of trust, to take one small step today, and then another tomorrow, trusting that even the smallest acts of intention can begin to reshape the landscape of our lives. (You can continue along with us here.)
There is also a deep current of healing that runs through this month. Our tradition teaches that the very name of Iyyar can be understood as an acronym for the phrase Ani YHVH/Adonai Rofecha—“I am your healer.” This is not the healing of quick fixes or dramatic reversals, but something gentler and more enduring. It is the kind of healing that comes from steady attention, from the willingness to tend to what has been opened within us, and from the recognition that repair often unfolds gradually, in its own time. It is striking that this month contains within it Pesach Sheni, the “second Passover,” a moment that affirms with great tenderness that it is never too late. If we missed the first opportunity, if we were not ready, if life intervened, we are not shut out. The door opens again. We are invited back in.
As we enter this new month together, we might allow ourselves to trust this slower, steadier rhythm. We might notice the small ways in which we are already changing, the quiet shifts that signal growth beneath the surface. And we might meet ourselves with a measure of compassion that honors both how far we have come and how much still lies ahead.
Chodesh Tov. May this month of Iyyar bring healing to what is tender, steadiness to what is uncertain, and a deepened capacity to walk through our lives with presence, courage, and care.
Rabbi's Message, April 7 2026 - Counting Omer, and Counting our Blessings
Shalom,
Looking around, we can see challenges…and we can see blessings. Both are real and part of living. Journeying through the days of Passover, the first week of our sojourn of forty years in the wilderness, we begin the first stage of this voyage: Towards Sinai. The counting of the Omer, the period of seven weeks from Pesach to Shavuot, from the Exodus to Sinai provides for us ways to see both these challenges and blessings. As Dr. Rabbi Mark Washofsky writes, “In a largely agrarian society, the Israelites were highly dependent on the whims of the natural elements. Sun, storms, rain, wind, and insects were beyond their control and could severely affect their livelihood—even their very survival. In the weeks between Pesach and Shavuot, the people were in a state of limbo, vacillating between fear that weather or pests would destroy the harvest and hope for a bountiful crop. Counting the days could certainly have been a steadying factor, a way to dispel doubts and focus prayers and dreams toward God, and strengthen faith while away from the Temple.”
Navigating this journey through the Omer provides this chance to build up, counting - intentionally marking each day - up towards the peak experience of the revelation at Sinai. In the Omer Journal (click here>>>) for this year, we begin with the middah (Jewish soul trait) of zehirut - awareness or watchfulness - as a lens through which to embrace each passing moment. It is a tool to practice, to better see the blessings filling our lives. As we count, adding one to each day towards Sinai, may we grow ever more aware. May we see better the beauty and blessing that does fill our lives. Perhaps through this, the additive experience of numbering each new day, we build better ways to notice, grow our wonder, remind ourselves of blessing, and allow ourselves to appreciate ever more that life is beautiful.
Moadim L’Simcha - May Our Seasonal Transitions Be Full of Joy,
Rabbi Evon
Rabbi’s Message: March 31, 2026: Passover Seder
The Passover Seder is one of the most practiced rituals and holy days within Judaism. This is fascinating because one of the most remarkable things about the Passover Seder is that it begins not with answers, but with questions. Before the story of liberation is told, before the plagues or the crossing of the sea, the Haggadah pauses for the Mah Nishtanah — the Four Questions. A child, or anyone willing to take on the role of learner, asks: Why is this night different from all other nights?
In Jewish tradition, this is not a small detail. It is the doorway into the entire evening. We do not begin the Seder with certainty. We begin with curiosity.
Psychologists today are increasingly recognizing something that Jewish tradition has long practiced: curiosity – especially when combined with empathy – is one of the healthiest responses the human mind can have to uncertainty. When we look at the narrative of our ancestors that we repeat each year – the trauma and profound conflict that they endured in Egypt, the unmooring uncertainty that stepping into the wilderness caused – with empathy and then we frame it with curiosity, we train ourselves on how we can see the uncertainty in our world today.
When the brain encounters something it does not fully understand, it can respond in two ways. Sometimes uncertainty activates fear — the instinct to retreat, to defend, or to rush toward quick conclusions. But curiosity activates something different. It turns the unknown into an invitation to explore.
Research in psychology shows that people who cultivate curiosity tend to tolerate ambiguity more easily, experience less anxiety, and remain more open to learning and connection. Curiosity allows us to stay present with complexity rather than immediately resolving it.¹ In other words, when we create space for it, curiosity transforms uncertainty from something threatening into something that has the potential to be meaningful.
This insight feels especially relevant right now, in a world that often seems full of unanswered questions. Many of us carry concerns about the future — about ourselves, our relationships, our communities, our families, or the wider world. The instinct to seek certainty is natural. We want clarity. We want stability. We want to know what will happen next. But the Seder gently reminds us that growth rarely begins with certainty. Instead, it begins with the courage to ask questions.
Jewish learning honors this posture. The Talmud even teaches, “Much have I learned from my teachers, more from my colleagues, and most from my students.”² Learning deepens not when answers multiply, but when questions do. In the Mussar tradition — the Jewish spiritual practice of ethical self-refinement — curiosity can be closely connected to humility. Humility does not mean thinking less of ourselves; it means recognizing that our understanding is always partial. There is always more to learn, more to notice, more to hear.³
Curiosity becomes a spiritual discipline: the willingness to listen before assuming we already know.
Perhaps that is why the Seder places questions at its very beginning. Not just physical freedom but spiritual liberation, it suggests, begins with curiosity. The willingness to look at our lives and our world and ask what we have not yet noticed. As we approach Passover this year, two questions from the Seder spirit might be worth carrying with us: What questions have I stopped asking about my life because I assume I already know the answers? And perhaps even more gently: What feels different this year — in my life, in my relationships, or in the world around me? These are not questions that demand immediate answers. In fact, their power may lie in allowing us to sit with them for a while. This kind of curiosity invites patience and listening. It invites the possibility that the story is still unfolding, in every moment, for every generation.
And perhaps this is one of the quiet emotional purposes of Passover. Not simply to remember an ancient story of liberation, but to practice the posture that makes true liberation possible — a mind and heart that remain open, attentive, and willing to ask again:
Why is this night different from all other nights? Because sometimes the path toward freedom begins with nothing more — and nothing less — than the courage to stay curious.
Footnotes
Todd B. Kashdan and Paul J. Silvia, “Curiosity and Interest: The Benefits of Thriving on Novelty and Challenge,” Oxford Handbook of Positive Psychology, 2nd ed. (Oxford University Press, 2009); and George Loewenstein, “The Psychology of Curiosity,” Psychological Bulletin 116, no. 1 (1994): 75–98.
Babylonian Talmud, Ta’anit 7a.
Alan Morinis, Everyday Holiness: The Jewish Spiritual Path of Mussar (Boston: Trumpeter Books, 2007), 46–47.
Reflections from the Temple President
A Passover Memory Across Waters
There are certain Passover memories that stay with us not just as traditions, but as moments that shape how we understand the story itself.
One of mine takes me far from Lake Tahoe—to the shores of the Red Sea. Years ago, when our family was living in Riyadh, we shared a Passover Seder unlike any other. We gathered for a picnic-style Seder with a Muslim family—dear friends—spreading out our meal near the water, looking across the sea that has carried the Passover story for generations.
As we sat together, I remember looking out over the water and thinking about the Israelites’ journey—about courage, uncertainty, and faith. And I remember sharing that moment with my children, recognizing how extraordinary it was: celebrating a deeply Jewish story of freedom alongside friends of another faith, united in friendship, curiosity, and respect.
That experience has stayed with me because it reminds me that the essence of Passover is not confined to one place or one time. It is a story that invites us, in every generation, to find our own meaning.
Here at Lake Tahoe, we are blessed with beauty and a sense of peace that can sometimes make the challenges of the wider world feel far away. But Passover gently calls us to look deeper.
We may not be standing at the Red Sea—but we can stand at the shores of Lake Tahoe, look out across its vast waters, and reflect on what connects us all. The longing for freedom. The importance of community. The responsibility to care for one another. The understanding that each of us, in our own way, is on a journey.
Passover reminds us that we are not meant to walk that journey alone.
As we gather this year around our Seder tables—with family, with friends, with community—I hope we take time for meaningful conversation, for storytelling, and for reflection. May we listen closely, share openly, and find connection in both oursimilarities and our differences.
And as we move through the holiday, I look forward to celebrating together at our Mimosa Cookie Party—a joyful way to mark the final crossing of the Red Sea and to step forward, together, into what comes next.
Wishing each of you a Passover filled with family, friendship, meaningful conversation, and a deep sense of connection.
Chag Sameach.
— Heidi Doyle
President, North Tahoe Hebrew Congregation
Rabbi’s Message: March 24, 2026: “Next Year In Jerusalem”
A five-minute walk from the Tomb of King David and the room traditionally associated with the Last Supper sits an unassuming office, run by my friend Daniel Hasson. Inside, the Jerusalem Intercultural Center quietly serves the intricate mosaic of people who call this city home — a city held sacred by Muslims, Christians, and Jews alike.
As I chatted with Daniel, the Center’s Executive Director, he reflected:
“There is the spiritual Jerusalem that we dream about—and then there is the Jerusalem where people have to catch the bus. It is a spiritual city, but it is also deeply down-to-earth. As the Jewish people, we live our spirituality in daily life, hour by hour. That is true for us here, too.”
The Jerusalem Intercultural Center (JICC) works at that intersection of vision and reality. It supports residents across cultural and religious lines — from Arab Israelis and Palestinians to Haredi (ultra-Orthodox) Jewish communities — helping them access essential, everyday resources. At the same time, it partners with Jerusalem’s municipality to extend services more equitably across the city’s diverse populations.
In this way, JICC acts as a bridge: connecting communities who share common urban challenges with the systems designed to support them. They teach residents how to access their rights, and help city institutions better understand — and serve — the full breadth of Jerusalem’s population.
In a time that often feels defined by intractable conflict, this work is both practical and profound. It is grounded in a simple but radical idea: that every person deserves dignity.
Right now, that mission is especially urgent. For the first time in recent memory, Jerusalem has come under heavy rocket fire. In such moments, access to shelter becomes a matter of life and death. Yet not all communities receive — or trust — the same channels of information. JICC steps into that gap, translating safety protocols into the languages and cultural contexts of the city’s many communities, ensuring that life-saving information is both accessible and actionable. At the same time, they are partnering with the municipality to offer emotional resilience workshops, helping both Haredi and Arab Israeli communities build tools to navigate fear, uncertainty, and trauma.
As Daniel shared with me: “At the end of the day, people need to live their lives with dignity.”
JICC’s work is rooted in that truth. By honoring cultural differences, strengthening communication, and expanding access to vital resources, they are helping to lay the groundwork for something larger: the possibility of peace. Not all at once — but step by step, relationship by relationship, moment by moment.
As we approach Passover — one of the most widely observed rituals in Jewish life — we prepare to gather around our tables for first and second night Seders, and later, for Mimouna. Each year, we end the Seder with the words: “Next Year in Jerusalem.” We are meant to say these words with hope. Not only as a longing for travel or return, but as a vision of what Jerusalem might yet become. The name “Jerusalem” itself gestures toward wholeness and peace — a city not only dreamed of, but lived in with dignity.
This year, as Jerusalem faces both violence and deep internal strain, I find my hope grounded in the work of organizations like the Jerusalem Intercultural Center — and in people like my friend Daniel, who choose, every day, to build bridges in a place that so often feels divided.
Next Year in Jerusalem.Next year with dignity.Next year with peace.Next year with wholeness — for each and every one of us.
If you would like to join us for our communities’ holiday celebrations, please sign up here.
If you would like to learn more and support this vision of Jerusalem, please click here.
Sermon: Parashat Vayakhel-Pekudei
Rabbi Lauren’s Sermon on March 13, 2026 at Temple Bat Yam
Not a sound overly dramatic, but I’ve been thinking a lot about Job lately.
In the book of Job God, and a heavenly force known as the opposer debate about the nature of human beings. Then, in order to test their theory, they pick a human being and experiment on him. That human being is Job. Job loses everything in this experiment. His wife and children are treated like sacks of grain that one can exchange for another without thought or consideration. In the end, when Job asks why any of this happened, God tells Job that the universe is a mystery to human beings like him. The only choice that Job has is to choose to see his blessings and feel gratitude or to choose to see his curses and, I’m quoting the Bible here, die.
The whole thing is frankly shocking. And I never thought God looked particularly good coming out of this story. So it was always a conundrum to me why it was included in our Bible, the holiest of our texts. The seeming capriciousness of the universe in this narrative can be totally galling. I had always looked at it from a theological perspective, trying to analyze why this kind of laissez-faire theology might be included amongst all of the otherwise interesting and often appealing options within our Bible.
Recently though, I started to switch to a pastoral lens when reading this text.
So many of us end up experiencing a portion of Job’s lot. Loss without meaning, tragedy without purpose, trauma without rhyme or reason. It is not necessarily a reflection of how bad or good we are. These experiences might be utterly out of our control; nonetheless they can still cause us deep, emotional or even physical damage or loss. Yet, as Rabbi Harry Kushner stated simply, sometimes bad things happen to good people. The best that we can do is try to figure out how we can, like Job, still find the capacity to recognize even the smallest blessings in these moments.
In this week’s Torah portion, the Israelites finish building their traveling holy space, the Mishkan. The air first fills with smoke and a cloud descends on their beautiful communal, artistic creation. This mysterious cloud inhabits the center of their camp and their newly blessed space until it turns into a pillar of fire by night. It must’ve been terrifying to be an Israelite at that moment. The deep unknowing of what might come, all while living in an unprotected wilderness. The horror of realizing that you need to come to peace with the presence of these raw, destructive forces placed the heart of your community. The terror of uncertainty — from forces without and now within — must have been overwhelming.
How do we develop distress tolerance or endurance in the face of this kind of existential discomfort? How do human beings learn to endure moments like these — moments when the cloud descends and the future becomes unknowable?
One of the first steps in building distress tolerance is simply learning to name what we feel.
Neuroscientists have discovered that when we put emotions into words—when we say I am afraid, or I am angry, or I am grieving—the brain actually begins to calm itself. The part of the brain that sounds the alarm quiets, and the part that helps us think clearly is able to start to come back online.¹ In other words, naming our feelings does not make us weaker. It makes us more capable of living with them.
But the work does not stop there. Once we name an emotion, we can ask it a question:
What are you here to teach me?
Fear might be telling us that something we love is at risk. Grief might be reminding us how deeply we are capable of loving and how much things around us are in flux or changing. Jealousy points us towards what we did not even know that we wanted.
As we navigate this modern world, the full rainbow of our emotions are not enemies. They are messengers.
And yet the Mussar tradition reminds us that emotions must also be well-placed and well-sized. Not every fear deserves to rule us. Not every anger deserves to guide our actions. The spiritual work is to listen to our feelings without letting them become our masters. And this, I think, is what both Job and the Israelites are teaching us.
Job cannot explain his suffering. The Israelites cannot control the cloud and fire that suddenly appear in the center of their camp. Both face a terrifying truth: the universe contains forces beyond their understanding.
And yet neither story ends in despair.
Job eventually says:
“The light of God still shines upon my tent.”
(Job 29:3)
And the Israelites learn to move their tents when the cloud moves and to rest when the cloud rests. They do not eliminate uncertainty. They learn how to live with it. They acknowledge the fear. They tolerate the mystery. And slowly, within that uncertainty, they begin to notice something else: Blessing.
The cloud that first looks terrifying becomes guidance. The wilderness that first looks empty becomes a place where a people learn who they are. Job learns how to repair and heal, even in the face of unimaginable uncertainty within the world. Perhaps that is the real spiritual work of moments like these:
Not pretending we are unafraid.
But learning to say:
Yes, I feel fear.
Yes, I feel grief.
Yes, I feel uncertainty.
And then asking:
What might this moment still have to teach me?
Because even in the wilderness, even under a cloud we do not fully understand, the possibility of blessing remains.
Footnotes
Matthew D. Lieberman et al., “Putting Feelings Into Words: Affect Labeling Disrupts Amygdala Activity,” Psychological Science 18, no. 5 (2007): 421–428.
Lisa Feldman Barrett, How Emotions Are Made: The Secret Life of the Brain (Boston: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2017).
Marsha M. Linehan, DBT Skills Training Manual, 2nd ed. (New York: Guilford Press, 2015).
Susan David, Emotional Agility (New York: Avery, 2016).
Moshe Chaim Luzzatto, Mesillat Yesharim (The Path of the Just), trans. Rabbi Shraga Silverstein (Jerusalem: Feldheim, 1966).
Rabbi’s Message: March 17, 2026
By Rabbi Lauren Ben-Shoshan
I thought to myself that I have, possibly, been watching too much of Dr. Orna Guralnik’s television show, Couple’s Therapy. Then, as I read the Haftarah for this week, drawn from Book of Isaiah 43, I realized that it reads like a conversation between partners who have lost their way with one another. On one side, God speaks with longing and frustration:
“You have not called upon Me, Jacob…
you have burdened Me with your sins,
you have wearied Me with your iniquities.” (Isaiah 43:22–24)
The language is strikingly relational. In this case, God sounds like a life partner who feels ignored and taken for granted.
The rabbis noticed this tone as well. In the ancient commentary Pesikta de‑Rav Kahana, the relationship between God and Israel is compared explicitly to a marriage strained by distance — a covenant that carries both love and disappointment, and as we read forward, the hope and possibility of repair. Similarly, Song of Songs Rabbah frequently reads the relationship between God and Israel through the metaphor of lovers who sometimes miss one another but remain bound together by deep longing.
In other words, Isaiah is not describing a broken relationship so much as a relationship in conflict. And yet, what is remarkable is what happens next. Instead of giving up on the relationship, God names hope:
“Do not remember the former things…
I am about to do a new thing;
now it springs forth — do you not perceive it?” (Isaiah 43:18–19)
The prophet Isaiah reframes the conflict not as an ending, but as an opportunity for renewal.
Modern therapists often observe that arguments rarely begin with anger. They begin with unspoken longing, with unmet desire. Underneath conflict are usually questions like:
What do I really want from this relationship?
What would feeling loved look like to me?
What do I hope is still possible here?
When we cannot name those desires, we often fall into patterns of blame, withdrawal, or silence. The rabbis understood this dynamic long before modern methodologies around couple’s therapy. In Babylonian Talmud, Berakhot 32b, the sages describe prayer itself as a form of courageous relationship: “A person should always arrange praise before prayer.” In other words, before we ask for what we need, we must remember that the relationship itself is still alive. That wrapping that relationship in gratitude is a starting point. And that prayer, like healthy conversation, is an act of hope.
As the prophetic conversation continues, Isaiah’s vision invites us to consider a powerful question: What happens when we learn to say what we truly desire out loud? The Haftarah suggests that renewal begins when we are ready to move beyond rehearsing past disappointments and begin speaking honestly about what we hope for.
“I am about to do a new thing,” God says.
Not: I am returning things to the way they were. Andnot: I am pretending nothing happened. But rather: I am ready for something new, that can grow from here.
Rabbinic tradition echoes this idea in Midrash Tehillim, which teaches that God continually renews the world “each day as if it were being created anew.” Renewal is not accidental; it is a rhythm of relationship that we have the power to try to establish for connections with both ourselves and others.
For us, this week’s Haftarah offers an invitation. It begins with naming what is wanted, what is desired. It acknowledges what what frustrates us, but it also then moves into the meaningful work of questioning:
What do I truly long for here?
What kind of connection am I hoping to build?
What would repair or renewal actually look like?
These questions require vulnerability. But they also restore something powerful: agency.
When we name our hopes, we become participants in shaping what comes next.
Isaiah reminds us that conflict does not necessarily mean a relationship has failed. Sometimes it simply means the relationship is asking us to speak more honestly about what matters to us in this new season. The covenant between God and Israel endures not because it avoids tension, but because it continues to make space for longing, for forgiveness, and for new beginnings.
This requires vulnerability and courage to try something new in a new season. And yet, in this Haftarah we see God model this: “I am about to do a new thing,” the Divine tells us.
As we approach the new season of spring and the holiday of Passover that celebrates it, what new possibility might emerge if we learned to speak — to ourselves, to one another, to our communities, and to the Divine — about what we truly desire? Because hope often begins in a simple place: the courage to say what we are still longing for.