President’s message - Knock, knock!
Message for the week of July 28th
Knock, knock!
Who's there?
Shabbat.
Shabbat who?
Shabbat we spend together becomes a memory we carry forever!
Summer has a wonderful way of slowing us down just enough to notice what matters most.
This month I have had the joy of spending time with my two amazing eight-year-old grandchildren. Watching them explore, ask questions, laugh, learn, and simply delight in the world has reminded me how quickly the years pass—and how beautifully our Jewish values are passed along from one generation to the next.
I see kindness in the way they treat others. Curiosity in the questions they ask. Pride in their Jewish identity. Joy in celebrating our traditions. As "Bubbe", there is no greater gift than seeing those timeless values take root in the next generation.
Judaism has always been a story told around family tables, on Shabbat evenings, during holidays, on hikes through nature, and in the simple moments of everyday life. It reminds us that we are connected—not only to our own families, but to a much larger family that stretches across Lake Tahoe, across our country, and throughout the world.
As you enjoy these beautiful summer days, I hope you find time to unplug, breathe the mountain air, paddle a kayak, hike a favorite trail, share a meal with loved ones, or simply watch a Tahoe sunset. These are the moments that become treasured memories.
Wherever your summer adventures take you, remember that our congregation is always here—a place of friendship, belonging, learning, celebration, and caring for one another. We are stronger because we share not only our traditions, but our lives.
May the weeks ahead be filled with laughter, discovery, renewal, and gratitude. May you make memories that your children and grandchildren will one day pass on to theirs.
From our family to yours, have a joyful, safe, and memory-filled summer.
L'dor va-dor — from generation to generation.
Warmly,
Heidi Doyle
President
North Tahoe Hebrew Congregation
Rabbi’s Message: July 21, 2026
For thousands of years, many of our people lived in a land nearby to Israel. According to the Bible, a couple of thousand years ago, we were defeated in battle, uprooted, and forced into exile, settling in the lands between the Tigris and Euphradies. In addition to archeological evidence, we see these forcible exiles all throughout the later parts of the Bible, including verses like 2 Kings 15:29, 1 Chronicles 5:26, 2 Kings 17:5–6, and 2 Kings 18:11–15. Texts like the Books of Daniel and Nehemiah chronicle some of the individual experiences of this series of exiles; the Book of Lamentations, which we traditionally read this week, is based on the grief of these collective experiences. Over the years, this land where many of our people moved went by many names: Sumer, Akkad, Babylon, Assyria, Persia. Throughout the generations, some were given permission to return to Israel, while others stayed where they had been replanted. Indeed, over time and because we are a people who have always done our best to thrive no matter where we are planted, the region became a center for Jewish life for thousands of years, and in many ways, the heart of Jewish scholarship for generations (Note: the Talmud that we most often refer to today is actually the Babylonian Talmud!).
Before the Arabian conquest, one of the most beloved deities throughout Mesopotamia was Ishtar. She embodied striking contradictions: goddess of passionate love and fertility, yet also of war, plague, and destruction. In the Epic of Gilgamesh she woos a hero before unleashing catastrophe, while the hymns of her high priestess, Enheduanna, from 2300 BCE praise her as both compassionate and terrifying. I have always found that combination bewildering. How can love and destruction occupy the same sacred space?
(Rabbi Lauren “Rabbit Hole”: Interestingly, Ishtar’s husband, Dammuzi/Tammuz, is the namesake for the most recent Hebrew month. He was the god of shepherding and agricultural abundance; and if you are interested in us doing a class on this part of the Mesopotamian pantheon and the Deuteronomical Author, please let me know!)
During Tisha B’Av – which begins tomorrow evening – we commemorate events like the destruction of the First and Second Temples, the failure of the Bar Kokhba Revolt against the Romans, the Crusades of 1095, the Expulsion from England (1290), and the Expulsion from Spain (1492). Each of these events wreaked utter devastation on the Jews of their time; so much so that these events also unrooted the Jewish generations that followed, forcing them to replant themselves in exile elsewhere.
And yet, during Tu B’Av – which begins next week – ancient Jewish women (and single men) celebrated by dancing joyfully in local vineyards under the full moon (Talmud, Ta'anit 30b–31a). This fervent celebration of love and romance and passion under the fullness of the sky, and amongst the buds of the growing harvest, was one of our most beloved holy days.
Whether by influence or by experience, in this month, Judaism developed its own remarkable way of holding grief and love together.
Tisha B'Av reminds us that there are moments in life when we are uprooted. A relationship ends. A loved one dies. A community changes. A dream falls apart. Like our ancestors, we may find ourselves standing in unfamiliar soil, grieving what once was.
But Tu B'Av reminds us that uprooted is not the same as ended.
The Jewish story has never been simply one of exile. It has been a story of replanting. Again and again, our ancestors took root in unfamiliar soil without forgetting where they came from. They carried Torah across deserts and seas. They built homes where none had existed before. They planted vineyards, established schools, raised children, and found reasons to celebrate—even after profound loss.
This month of Av invites us to do the same.
We acknowledge what has been uprooted, and then, with remarkable courage, we plant once more.
We plant acts of kindness where hatred has grown. We plant hope where despair threatens to take hold. We plant relationships, communities, and dreams whose fruit we ourselves may never fully see.
May this season give us the strength to honor our losses without allowing them to define us. And may we, like generations before us, find the courage to take root once again—wherever life has planted us—and to help one another grow.
Rabbi’s Message: Reflection & Vision
Week of July 14th, 2026Shalom,
“In my opinion, it is really important to stick with community by putting time and effort in, while also not losing sight of one’s own personal goals and interests.” These words were part of my son’s, Caleb’s, D’var Torah last summer as he was called to Torah as Bar Mitzvah. This past Shabbat was the one year anniversary in Torah, and I hear this core message echoed this Shabbat as we transition from the Book of Numbers to Deuteronomy in Torah.
Last week, in Mattot-Masei we learned again about the tribes navigating their way preparing to enter the Land. This week, in the opening chapters of Deuteronomy, parashat Devarim, we engage with a reflection on the last 40 years of our people’s sojourn.
In both sections of Torah, our attention is brought to the constant charge to reflect and look ahead. It is a tension between knowing where we’ve been and imagining possibilities. This is essential to our ancestors’ formation as a people, and it remains a charge for us today.
Caleb taught us, both my child and the Biblical character, to live in this tension. To not only feel, but also to engage with, the push and pull of the past and tomorrow. It is not always comfortable to imagine and envision what may be possible while standing firmly on a shared past. Yet, wrestling with this can ensure a strong bond of our shalshelet hakabbalah - our chain of tradition.
As we prepare to transition to the final Book of Torah, and reflect on the journeys of our past, and our own stories, let us be empowered by both our reflection and our opportunity, a blessing, to vision for tomorrow.
Shavua Tov - Toa Good Week Ahead,
Rabbi Evon
PS Thank you to Caleb for teaching me this insight into Torah!
President’s Message: Summer in the Sierra
Our president Heidi Doyle with her homemade challah at this year’s Pride Shabbat
Summer has arrived in the jewel of God’s creation. Here in the Tahoe-Truckee region, we’re blessed each day by sparkling blue waters, towering pines, mountain trails, and the beauty that surrounds us. It’s also a wonderful time to pause and reflect on the many blessings we’ve shared together as a congregation.
Looking back over the past year, my heart is filled with gratitude. Together we’ve celebrated Shabbat, welcomed new families, rejoiced at life cycle events, learned together, comforted one another, laughed, sang, and strengthened the bonds that make North Tahoe Hebrew Congregation such a special community.
Judaism reminds us that community is not simply about gathering in one place. It is about showing up for one another—with kindness, compassion, joy, and respect. It is about meeting people where they are, celebrating together during life’s happiest moments, and offering support when times are more challenging. Those values continue to define who we are.
As we begin a new year of leadership, I’m pleased to welcome our newest Board members, Amy Kaufman and Aaron Pratt, who join Stephanie Kohler, Justine Jacob, and me in serving our congregation. I am grateful for their willingness to lead, to listen, and to help shape the future of Jewish life in our mountain community. I would also like to acknowledge Jon Miller and Alan Werba, who will be serving as Senior Advisors.
Our congregation has accomplished so much this past year. Together we have expanded programs for children and families, celebrated meaningful holidays, strengthened our partnerships across the Tahoe region through our membership with Tahoe Jewish Community, welcomed visitors, supported one another through life’s milestones, and continued building a warm and inclusive Jewish home for everyone seeking connection.
In the coming weeks, you’ll receive your annual membership renewal information. Membership remains the foundation that makes everything we do possible. It supports the care of our synagogue home, brings inspiring rabbis and educators to our community, sustains our religious school, and allows us to celebrate the holidays and traditions that connect us across generations.
This year you’ll notice a new annual security assessment of $180. After thoughtful discussion and with feedback from our congregation, our Board voted to continue providing professional security through the Placer County Sheriff’s Office during our public gatherings. While we wish these measures were unnecessary, our highest priority is ensuring that every person who walks through our doors feels safe, welcomed, and able to participate fully in Jewish life. By sharing this cost equally among our membership, we strengthen our collective commitment to caring for one another.
If you’d like to stay connected, I encourage you to read The Shofar, our weekly Tuesday email newsletter. It’s the best way to learn about upcoming services, programs, volunteer opportunities, and special events happening throughout our vibrant Jewish community.
One of my greatest joys is getting to know our members. If you’d ever like to meet for coffee, take a walk, or simply share your thoughts about the future of our congregation, I’d love to hear from you. Your ideas, your experiences, and your vision help shape the future of North Tahoe Hebrew Congregation.
As our nation celebrates its 250th anniversary this summer, and as we continue our journey through the Jewish year 5786, may we remember that strong communities are built one relationship, one act of kindness, and one shared celebration at a time.
On behalf of our Board of Directors, thank you for your continued support, your generosity, and your commitment to Jewish life in the Tahoe-Truckee region.
Wishing you and your loved ones a joyful, safe, and adventure-filled summer.
L’Shalom,
Heidi Doyle
President, North Tahoe Hebrew Congregation
Pinchas - Leadership, Leaders, & Behavior
Shavua Tov,
As the 250 milestone of our nation approaches, there is much to glean in retrospect of what has been accomplished in our country’s history. The strength of our democracy certainly relies on that ability to celebrate what deserves celebrating, and learning from what could have been better. When we consider the July 4th holiday and recognize that date as a time of declaring a new form of existence, of government and of leadership, it must have been exciting for sure, but also fraught with anxiety and uncertainty. I am also confident it was not too different for our ancestors during the events that transpired in this week’s Torah portion. In parashat Pinchas, this week, we learn about Joshua as the successor to Moses. It comes following significant bouts of Israelite complaining, challenges to leadership and a bit of zealotry with Pinchas. It was the namesake for this week’s portion, who last week took the law into his own hands. Rabbi Lisa Gruschcow teaches that parashat Pinchas, and the weeks preceding, narrate a series of leadership challenges.
“Rabbi Lisa Gruschcow points to the reality that our sages and scholars recognized the challenges of leadership. She uses the great teaching of the Kotzker Rebbe: The Kotzker Rebbe (Polish, 19th century) writes: When Moses saw how great Pinchas was, he was afraid that he would be chosen as the leader, but he was not pleased with the prospect of having such a zealot as the leader of the Jewish people. He therefore asked of God that the leader be a tolerant person, and not a zealous one.” (Torah Gems, v.3, Yavneh Publishing, 1998, p.144)”
And it is perhaps with these ideas in mind that Moses described Joshua: Moses spoke to God saying, “Let Adonai, Source of the breath of all flesh, appoint someone over the community who shall go out before them and come in before them, and who shall take them out and bring them in, so that Adonai’s community may not be like sheep that have no shepherd.” (Numbers 25:15-17). Joshua, in Moses’ eyes, was a leader because of his behavior. He demonstrated faith and trust in the process of our people’s story. Joshua, along with Caleb, demonstrated not only resolve in their scouting moment earlier in the Book of Numbers, but Moses’ description here provides a view of him as one among the people too. Pinchas, in contrast, set himself apart, and even above, the people when he took the law into his own hands. He held a position of leadership, he was grandson of Aaron the High Priest, yet his behavior fell short of being a true leader. The foreshadowing this week of the peaceful transition of leadership from Moses to Joshua is integral to our story as it unfolds, and bears lessons for us today.
As the July 4th holiday approaches, a time to celebrate the great transition towards freedom, let us recall the qualities in our people’s leaders…in Moses and in Joshua, and strive to bring them into our world through us. Let us strive to inspire our leaders to be continually living up to the examples of them too. May the leaders in our world today lead with behaviors befitting such positions.
Wishing you a meaningful and pleasant week, a fun and safe Independence Day - Shavua Tov,
Rabbi Evon
Dvar Torah Parashat Beha’alotcha 5786
As Pride Month comes to a close, I would like to share our member, Jason Toups', beautiful d'var Torah from Pride Shabbat in place of the rabbis' message for the next newsletter. We are blessed to be able to highlight the learning and thoughtful reflections of our members.
Beha’alotecha
Last year, my husband Danny and I came up with this idea of doing a Pride Shabbat celebration. With the support of the North Tahoe Hebrew Congregation, Rabbi Lauren, the Tahoe Jewish Community, Church of the Mountains, the Truckee Pride team, and the Town of Truckee, we have been able to make that happen. So thank you to everyone who makes this possible.
Last year, Danny gave the Dvar Torah, and he did an incredible job. Some of you may know I am not actually Jewish…yet. I am still in the process of converting. But when we were planning for this year’s Pride Shabbat, I asked Rabbi Lauren if I could give the Dvar Torah. This week’s portion is Beha’alotecha from the Book of Numbers, and the title translates to “when you step up,” which I thought was fitting.
In the Torah portion, it’s the start of the second year since the Exodus from Egypt, and we are told about the wandering in the wilderness. We learn that God appears as a cloud by day, and as a pillar of fire by night. He guides them on where to go, and where to stop and rest.
We learn how to make camp, how to summon the people, and how to form up a marching order for the next day’s journey. We receive instructions on appropriate offerings, and how to hold the first Passover.
In the midst of all that instruction, one in particular caught my eye:
“God spoke to Moses, saying: Make two trumpets of silver; make them of hammered work. They shall serve you to summon the community [edah] and cause the camps [machanot] to journey.” (Numbers 10:2)
On Monday earlier this week, banners to celebrate Pride went up downtown, hanging from the lamp posts. Similarly, banners were set up at the entrance to Glenshire and at the Train station. For the past many weeks, countless posts have been shared online to promote Truckee Pride. And during this week, many of us wear a Rainbow pin or clothing.
These symbols trigger reactions, and not always good ones. If you’ve ever been on Facebook or Instagram, you probably have seen how the rainbow flag makes certain people feel. On the Sierra Sun’s Instagram posts about the banners downtown and this week’s Pride celebrations, most of the comments are hyper critical and expletive-laden. At the puppy pride event at Donner Lake, pride flags guiding the way to the meeting spot were taken down by an anonymous stranger halfway through the event.
These critics ask: why do we need flags? Why do we need banners? Why do we even need Pride? Why do we have to make such a big deal about it? Can’t we just stop?
And to them, I respond: The Lord said, make two trumpets of hammered silver. And with them, you shall summon the community.
We cannot build community in silence or in darkness.
In the Torah portion, the People have just escaped Egypt at great risk, fleeing into the desert, and now there is a pillar of fire over their heads by night, and a column of cloud during the day, and they’re blasting trumpets. They aren’t hiding. They aren’t silent.
That’s why we do Pride. That’s why we wear the rainbow clothing, and wave the flag, and festoon banners everywhere. That’s why we post on Instagram, tell our friends and neighbors, and make our voices heard. Every public act builds community.
Going back to the passage, it talks about using the trumpets to summon both the community and the camps (sometimes translated as tribes). And then the next section in the Torah lists some of those camps, and tells us a little about them.
We are told about the Gershonites and Merarites: they carry the Tabernacle. The Kohathites: they carry the sacred objects. And the Camp of Dan: They bring up the rear.
And it got me thinking about this duality of camp and community.
In the queer community, we have many camps or tribes. Even our acronym: LGBTQ+, suggests this. We’ve got lesbian, gay, bisexual, trans, queer, intersex, asexual, and many many more. And even within each of those, we have more camps and tribes.
Take the gay scene for example: When I lived in the big city, you had your kickball gays and your dodgeball gays. We’ve got DJ gays and stay-at-home-and-sip-tea gays.
I’ve personally been accused of being a transit gay, which is a gay man who’s a little too into public transit solutions.
Camp and Community. There is a tension there. Throughout the year, we often find ourselves in our camps: amongst the people that we are most akin to. Because it’s easy and it’s comfortable.
But let Pride be a call to bring our camps together, to come together as one community. Whether gay or straight, lesbian or bisexual, trans or cis. Let Pride be our silver trumpets, our pillar of fire, and our column of cloud. Let it remind us to be heard and to be seen and to be together.
Shabbat Shalom. And Happy Pride.
Rabbi's Message: Korach & Plagues
Shalom,
Reading ancient texts often feels, well, ancient, and distant from our lived experience. Just ask most B Mitzvah students, because when they struggle to discover meaningful ways to teach about their portion, this is often their first response. Yet, this has been our people’s way for millenia, as we read and read again our Torah, we strive to discover kernels of wisdom and insights from our commentators that can support us navigate our moment in history.
Recently, I listened to a student’s D’var Torah, and witnessed an amazing thing happening. This young person wrote a draft in which each paragraph provided a different perspective on the same story. It was as if this young person was channeling the ancient rabbinic wisdom that there are more than “seventy faces of Torah”, by which they meant we can read, study, and debate the same text and discover a new meaning each time. This student’s work was a beautiful display of exactly this, that we can see so many lessons, and ask so many questions, and struggle with so many parts of the same story.
This coming Shabbat, we will read from parashat Korach in the Book of Numbers. In reading this portion again this year, I am feeling a new understanding. We see in this story a rebellion against Moses and Aaron’s leadership. It is followed by what our Torah calls plagues that cost many Israelite lives. While the story claims their consequence was about their lack of commitment to the common call of becoming a people, I am noticing a new connection.
The story begins as Korach “betook” himself along with 250 other Israelites to confront Moses and his leadership. It is this “way” of confrontation that appears to continue to plague the community. When striving together, when trusting one another’s efforts, we can and will debate and have arguments, yet it is so affected by the “way” we engage with one another. Speaking kindly, approaching challenges with curiosity rather than critique, and sharing purpose and vision are necessary ingredients towards success.
The Israelites struggle in this moment because they fail to trust one another and engage for the sake of their own situation, not for the sake of a higher purpose. The plague that befalls our ancestors might be less a Divine action, and more a natural outcome of a loss of shared purpose and connection.
As we wrestle with parashat Korach this year and strive to see multiple perspectives, may we know we share a vision as community - striving to build an ecosystem of Jewish joy and engagement. May we know that we must approach with curiosity rather than critique. And may we choose kindness with our words.
Shavua Tov,
Rabbi Evon
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.