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.
Rabbis Message: Ki Tisa and Purim and Uncertainty
This week in the Torah, Moses has ascended the mountain. The people have witnessed revelation unlike anything in human history. And then: silence. For forty days. No update. No reassurance. No visible leader descending the mountain with clarity. The Torah notes: “The people saw that Moses was delayed…” (Exodus 32:1). The Hebrew word in this verse, boshesh, means to tarry or to wait, but it also carries shades of shame and disorientation. The people do not simply grow impatient. They grew unregulated. Their faith, their nervous systems begin to unravel. And so they do something deeply human. They attempted to build certainty during an uncertain time. They gathered gold. They convinced Aaron to do something that they knew was wrong. They declare: “This is your god.” and created the Golden Calf. However, in this instance, I would argue that the Golden Calf is not idolatry. It is anxiety management in the face of trauma and profound uncertainty.
Modern psychology has a term for what the Israelites experience: intolerance of uncertainty. Research consistently shows that it is not necessarily negative outcomes that distress us most — it is the “not knowing”. When our world seems scary, when the future is unclear, the brain’s alarm system activates. We scan for threat. We seek closure. We grasp for something, anything that could be solid. Studies on anxiety disorders have found that people often prefer even a bad answer to no answer at all, because ambiguity keeps the stress response activated.
Silence stretches. The body floods. We reach for relief.
In that light, the Golden Calf becomes tragically recognizable in our modern world. How often, when timelines shift or leaders are absent or outcomes are unclear, do we rush to build our own calves? We doomscroll; we make premature decisions; we fill silence with speculation; we cling to conspiracy or anything that resembles clarity.
The Torah’s ancient wilderness this week, the deep uncertainty that the Israelites felt, suddenly seems contemporary.
Ki Tisa sits in the middle of the wilderness journey. Egypt is behind them. The Promised Land is not yet in view. The beginning of revelation has happened, but the relationship is still forming. It is a profoundly liminal moment. And if we widen the lens from the Torah portion to the holiday we are celebrating this week (and join us for Shabbat ShaPurim and Purim in the Powder!), we see that the Book of Esther is also a story of liminality. God’s name never appears in Esther. The divine presence is hidden. The people live under decree and uncertainty. And yet Mordechai says to Esther, “Mi yodea — Who knows?” (Esther 4:14). Not: “This is the plan.” Not: “Everything will work out.” But simply: “Who knows?”
In both Ki Tisa and the Book of Esther, the people are asked to live without visible reassurance. The question is not whether uncertainty will come. The question is what we will build in response.
When we feel powerless, we crave control. When we feel afraid, we crave something tangible or something that helps us detatch from the challenging liminality of this moment, moving our minds back to something familiar. In moments of communal anxiety — political instability, collective grief, health fears, or war — our bodies crave what feels immediate and solid. The emotional equivalent of that Golden Calf glitters. Psychologically, building a metaphorical calf often gives short-term relief but long-term damage. False certainty may calm the nervous system briefly, but it fractures trust, weakens resilience, and distances us from deeper sources of strength. In place of this choice, our Torah portion of the week Ki Tisa asks us to pause and ask: What calves am I tempted to build right now?
Psychologists who study resilience and anxiety consistently point to a key capacity: the ability to tolerate uncertainty. This does not mean liking it. It means remaining steady enough to avoid impulsive reaction. Fortunately, in moments like this, Judaism has been training us in this for millennia.
Shabbat teaches us to stop producing and solving, even when the world is incomplete. The Omer – the spiritual season between Passover and Shavuot – teaches us to count patiently toward revelation, day by day. The wilderness that we read about in the Torah during this season teaches us to live on manna, even if we are only able to collect enough for just today. Building this spiritual endurance in the face of uncertainty is a skill we can acquire.
So, what else do we do in order to cultivate this spiritual endurance in the face of uncertainty?
Purim adds something essential to this conversation: joy. Not as denial. Not as a distraction. But intentional joy as resistance to fear. Research in positive psychology suggests that positive emotions broaden our thinking and increase cognitive flexibility. Joy does not eliminate uncertainty, but it increases our capacity to hold it. Purim asks us to engage in all of the ways that we can bring joy into our lives: Feast. Give gifts. Care for the poor. Wear costumes. Laugh.
It is as if this season in Jewish practice is reminding us that when destruction and uncertainty hang in the air, strengthen your nervous system with connection and delight. Joy is not frivolous. It is psychologically protective; it is the mitzvah of the moment to support our own spirits.
I hope to see you at our Purim celebrations soon.
Rabbi's Message Feb. 24, 2026 - Psalm 22 for Purim
Shalom,
The Hebrew month of Adar is here, we’re supposed to be joyous! As we learn from Talmud, “Mishenichnas Adar marbim b'simcha - When [the month of] Adar enters, we increase in joy.” (Ta’anit 29a). It is with the arrival of Spring, its rebirth, and the coming festival of Purim that inspires such joy.
The Book of Esther describes a reality of a world upside down, about reversals of fortune. From Haman’s (booo!) fall from power, King Ahasheurus’ pivot to actually lead, and of course Esther’s transformation to own her Jewish identity, twists and turns of fate and destiny fill the Scroll of Esther.
We are experiencing twists and turns as well. The tragedies in Truckee in recent weeks, the weather whiplash, the headlines in the news all echo these feelings of uncertainty. The world feels upside down. In our Jewish tradition, there is a Psalm connected to the celebration of Purim, Psalm 22>>>. According to Rabbinic lore, Esther recited this Psalm as she approached the King seeking salvation for her people, our people. The Psalm depicts a feeling of despair, of loss and tragedy. Yet, it rises from these depths with a growing confidence in a feeling of redemption, a recognition that better is possible.
This was Esther’s way of gaining comfort, even confidence. Where do we turn today? Each of us must find our own Psalm 22 in our moment. That individual search is for each of us. Yet, collectively, as a community, we turn to each other. We know that relationships, family, community, friends, perhaps even the natural world have the potential to strengthen. The network of connection, wherever and everywhere we can notice it, is the supportive and connective tissue of being human.
The story of Purim reminds us that we are connected and not only particularly as the Jewish people. The celebration of Purim encourages us to share, to offer gifts to those in need (matanot l’evyonim). It is a time that we can discover again the beauty and joy of life, along with the severity it also brings, when we cherish the human connection.
As Rabbi Lauren shared in community this past Shabbat:
“We cannot undo what has happened.
We cannot guarantee safety.
But we can choose what we build in response.
We can build spaces where fear is named rather than denied.
Where children are protected not only by rules, but by community.
Where joy is not postponed until the world feels safe enough.
Where remembrance and resilience stand side by side.”
May this week inspire us to build beauty in our world and the coming festival of Purim bring us together to celebrate the joy!
Shavua Tov,
Rabbi Evon
Protecting Our Sacred Community: A Shared Responsibility
Those of us who call Lake Tahoe home know how special this place is. We live, work, and play here because of the natural beauty that surrounds us — the mountains, the lake, the quiet moments that remind us to breathe a little deeper. Tahoe often feels like a refuge from the noise and challenges of larger cities. It’s easy to believe that by living here, we’ve stepped away from many of the world’s troubles.
And yet, the reality is that uncertainty exists everywhere. Even in a place as peaceful as Tahoe, we never truly know when danger might strike.
Our tradition teaches, “V’nishmartem me’od l’nafshoteichem” — “You shall guard your souls carefully” (Deuteronomy 4:15). Protecting life is not optional; it is a sacred obligation.
As President of North Tahoe Hebrew Congregation, my highest priority is — and always will be — the safety of our community. This year, our congregation contracted directly with Placer County Sherrif Office for on-site security following the recommendations of security professionals. Most recently, our Board approved an additional $4,100 to ensure deputies from the Placer County Sheriff’s Department are present on site whenever we gather for worship and community events through the end of June. This was not a difficult decision. When we come together for Shabbat, holidays, and special gatherings, everyone deserves to feel safe, welcomed, and at peace.
At the same time, we are a small congregation with limited resources. These necessary expenses place real strain on our operating budget. Looking ahead to our new fiscal year beginning July 1, we anticipate approximately $6,000 more in security costs to maintain a consistent law enforcement presence.
Pirkei Avot reminds us, “Kol Yisrael arevim zeh bazeh” — all of Israel is responsible for one another (Talmud Shevuot 39a). Safety is not the responsibility of one person or one board; it is a communal mitzvah.
Your generosity has always been the foundation of our congregation’s strength. Every gift — large or small — directly supports the safety of our community and helps ensure that our doors remain open, welcoming, and protected. By contributing to our Security Fund, you are helping provide peace of mind for families, seniors, children, and visitors who come to North Tahoe Hebrew Congregation seeking connection, comfort, and spiritual renewal. Your support today also helps us prepare for the year ahead, allowing us to meet anticipated security needs without compromising our programs or services.
If you are able, I invite you to help support our Security Fund by visiting www.tahoetemple.org and noting “Security Fund” with your donation.
Together, we can ensure that North Tahoe Hebrew Congregation remains what it has always been: a sacred, welcoming, and safe home for Jewish life in our beautiful mountain community.
With gratitude and resolve,
Heidi Doyle
President, North Tahoe Hebrew Congregation
Rabbi’s Message: February 17, 2026
A Gentle Note Before You Read
Before we begin, I want to offer a moment of pastoral care and transparency.
In this week’s message, we engage with Parashat Mishpatim (and Mishnah Ohalot from our Talmud) which includes discussion of miscarriage, pregnancy loss, violence against women, and abortion. These are not abstract topics in Torah and our tradition, and they are not abstract in our lives.
If you are in a tender place right now, please know that it is entirely okay to pause, to skip this message, or to return to it at another time. Listening to ourselves is also a sacred act; and there are resources available to help. Some of these resources are:
If you are navigating infertility, miscarriage, or stillbirth, compassionate support can be found here: I Was Supposed to Have a Baby — https://iwassupposedtohaveababy.org/
If you are experiencing domestic or dating violence, confidential Jewish-centered support in Northern California is available through Shalom Bayit: https://shalom-bayit.org/ and Nevada through Jewish Nevada: https://www.jfsalv.org/copy-of-counseling-program
If you are processing medical trauma, fear, or lingering distress connected to healthcare experiences, Jewish-grounded resources and guidance are available through the Jewish Trauma Network: https://jewishtrauma.com/
If you are seeking support related to abortion and reproductive health care, including practical, emotional, and spiritual support rooted in Jewish values, resources are available through the Jewish Abortion Access Coalition and its S.A.F.E. Plan (Support, Advocacy, Funding, Education): https://www.jewsforabortionaccess.org/ and https://www.jewsforabortionaccess.org/resources-for-repro-care
May this community always be a place where care comes before certainty, and where no one has to carry difficult experiences alone.
Now, let’s get into what the Torah has to say:
This past Shabbat, we read Parashat Mishpatim. It is a Torah portion dense with law, case studies, and moral nuance. It is not romantic. And yet this year, Mishpatim arrived on Valentine’s Day, a day culturally devoted to love, commitment, and care. That coincidence invites a deeper reflection: what happens when relationships turn messy or even dangerous? What does the Torah have to say about the real, embodied complexity of human life? The non-Hallmark parts?
Mishpatim is Torah at its most practical. It does not imagine human beings as perfect abstractions, but as people who live in bodies, in families, in moments of vulnerability and challenge and risk. Among its laws is a brief but powerful case: a pregnant person injured during a struggle, resulting in miscarriage. The Torah’s response is not rhetorical or theological. It is a practical, usable law. And it’s a law that distinguishes clearly between harm to the pregnant person and harm to the pregnancy itself (Exodus 21:22–23).
For generations, Jewish tradition has understood this distinction as meaningful. It is one of the textual foundations for Judaism’s insistence on moral complexity, rather than absolutism, when it comes to pregnancy. Mishpatim teaches that the Torah recognizes gradations of life, responsibility, and harm — and that legal and ethical reasoning must respond to real human situations, not slogans.
This is deeply connected to the core Jewish idea of b’tzelem Elohim, that every human being is created in the image of God. To be made in God’s image is not merely to exist, but to be entrusted with wisdom, agency, and moral responsibility. Jewish tradition has long affirmed that women are full bearers of that divine image, capable of ethical discernment and deserving of trust.
Trust is not a small thing in Judaism. It is the foundation of covenant. To say that women deserve bodily autonomy is not to dismiss the sanctity of life; it is to affirm that those who carry life are already standing on holy ground. Decisions about pregnancy, health, and continuation of life belong first and foremost to the person whose body and soul are most directly involved, guided by medical professionals, Jewish values, and conscience – not by those removed from the intimate realities of sometimes messy but always necessary care.
This understanding is made explicit in later Jewish law. The Mishnah teaches:
“If a woman is in hard labor, the fetus may be dismembered in her womb and removed limb by limb, because her life takes precedence over its life. But once its head has emerged, it may not be touched, for one life may not be set aside for another.”
(Mishnah Ohalot 7:6)
This text is not casual. It is careful, restrained, and morally serious. It affirms that life is sacred — and that there is a fundamental difference between the potential for a life and an existing life itself. The life, health, and dignity of the pregnant person come first. Jewish law does not erase tragedy or heart-breaking difficulty; it responds to it with humility and compassion.
This is why Jewish communities mark Reproductive Shabbat each year: not as a political gesture, but as a religious one. “Repro Shabbat” is a moment to study our own texts, reclaim our moral voice, and remember that Judaism has never reduced pregnancy to a single legal or theological claim. Instead, our tradition asks us to weigh life, suffering, risk, and responsibility with care.
Much of this work in the United States has been stewarded by the National Council of Jewish Women, one of the oldest and most enduring Jewish organizations in American history. Founded in 1893, NCJW reflects a classic strand of American Jewish culture: women translating Jewish values into civic responsibility, education, and advocacy. Across generations, NCJW has championed immigrant aid, child welfare, voting rights, reproductive health, and moral agency — not as a departure from our rooting in the theology of b’tzelem Elohim, but as an expression of it. Indeed, as we approach Purim — a holiday that celebrates how a single woman saved her entire people — we are reminded how deeply Judaism values the full humanity and moral agency of women. Honoring Repro Shabbat is one way American Jewish communities affirm that tradition today.
This week, you are invited to learn more: to study these texts, to ask hard questions, to listen deeply. You are also invited to act in ways that reflect your values—through education, conversation, or support for organizations that uphold dignity and care.
May we continue to approach these sacred questions with humility, courage, and compassion.
May we honor the divine image in every person.
And may our Torah guide us to lift up justice that is rooted in compassion for each and every one of us.
Rabbi's Message - Tu B'Shevat & Yitro - Feb. 3, 2026
Shalom,
“A threefold chord is not readily broken,” wrote Kohelet in the Scroll of Ecclesiastes (4:12). The bond of community, the network of relationships, and the way we are woven together in life are ever more apparent today. From the ways in which current events ripple through our lives to the awareness of our interconnectivity learned in the recent pandemic and more, we know being human means not being alone.
In parashat Yitro this week, Moses’ father-in-law, Yitro (Jethro) pays a visit to our ancestors on their wilderness sojourn. He provides unsolicited advice to his son-in-law (a precarious thing we know!) that Moses should not do this all alone. Yitro was referring to the adjudicating and decision making he was bearing for all of the community. Working together, sharing the burden and responsibility is a lesson Yitro teaches us all. It is echoed by Kohelet’s words, about the strength and resilience when we work together.
Yesterday marked the New Year for the trees - Tu B’Shevat. As we celebrate today at NTHC and Thursday at TBY, I am reminded about the lesson of the Great Sequoia Trees. It is an interesting fact which enables these trees to grow so tall and that fact is that they grow in groves. The tall trees grow rather close together. In this way, they protect each other from the violent winds and storms. One does not find singular Sequoia trees because without the protection of their brother and sister trees, the harsh winds would blow a singular tree over.
May we strive to be a chord of many threads, may we share our responsibilities with building community, and may we grow close enough together to be strong and tall like Sequoia Trees.
Shavua Tov & Chag HaIlanot Sameach,
Rabbi Evon
Song of the Sea: Which God is This? Jan. 27, 2026
Shalom,
That greeting alone, “Shalom—Peace”, is so integral to our Jewish tradition. We have a middah (soul trait) about pursuing peace (rodef shalom), we have a one about peace in the home (shalom bayit), and striving for a sense of wholeness bears the same root as Shalom (Shleimut). Multiple times of day, we recite the Oseh Shalom (and other versions like Shalom Rav and Sim Shalom as examples) in our liturgy. So, Shalom—Peace is integral to our tradition, our Jewish world view, and, hopefully, our way of being in this world.
We see the strife throughout the world, in our beloved Land of Israel and the Middle East, and even in our own nation and we are naturally troubled by the lack of Shalom in our moment. And, as we approach this Shabbat, the Sabbath of Song—Shabbat Shira, as our Jewish world has developed the custom of a music filled Shabbat a question arises for me. In the text of the Song of the Sea (Exodus 15) verse three reads, “Adonai, the warrior, Adonai is his name,” and another translation reads, “The Lord is a man of war: the Lord is his name.” (Koren Bible) In our flight from Egypt, seeking a new reality, and just after experiencing a miraculous escape through the parted sea, we sing out God exclaiming God as a warrior, a God of war, as a Divine judge.
Our textual tradition, while Shalom is pervasive throughout, holds many…many examples of God as violent, warrior-like, and judging. Look at Psalm 82, the Psalm recited every Tuesday morning in our tradition depicts God as declaring judgment. It is hard to move through life seeking peace, when our tradition leans also on a seemingly vindictive and judgemental, even violent, God.
It is moments like this that I turn back to a view I hold about our text and our tradition, even our Jewish memory (read: history). The material, the content, of our beloved Jewish tradition is our people’s expression of our lived experience perhaps more so than a detailed account of history, in other words it is our memory. The Song of the Sea holds, in lyrical presentation, our teacher Moses’ expression of jubilation following a narrow escape. It is our people’s exclamation what they experienced: Pharaoh's chariots engulfed in the waters. The Psalmist in Tuesday’s Psalm is yearning for judgment to reflect a higher justice, one that serves all.
So, back to my question. With Shalom so integral to us, how do we hold depictions of Divinity as violent, warrior-like, and of war? I do not have an answer except to attempt to hold both. I respond to this apparent contradiction by knowing that our lived experience, our Jewish memory motivates us to seek and pursue peace knowing there is conflict, injustice, and violence still in our world and so our task remains: Seek and pursue peace.
As we welcome this coming Shabbat, the Sabbath of Song, and notice a violent moment to others born out of our pursuit of freedom replete with a miracle of miracles, may we know gratitude for our freedom and discern ways to alleviate suffering for others, resolve conflict, right injustice, and subdue violence in our world.
Shavua Tov—To a Good, Whole, and More Peaceful Week,
Rabbi Evon
Remembering the Holocaust: Lessons for our time
A Note from the President for International Holocaust Day
By Heidi Doyle, President, North Tahoe Hebrew Congregation
The Holocaust began in 1933, with state-sponsored persecution that steadily intensified. What followed was a horrifying chain of events—pogroms, deportations, death camps, and the systematic murder of six million Jews and millions of others, targeted simply for who they were. Today, we remember not only the magnitude of this atrocity, but the individual souls behind the numbers. For many in our community, this history is deeply personal. Parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles—lives disrupted or erased. It is our sacred duty never to forget, because memory is the first line of defense against repetition.
Our Torah speaks directly to moments like these. In Leviticus 19:16, we are commanded, “Do not stand idly by while your neighbor’s blood is shed.” This is not a passive teaching. It calls us to action when violence, injustice, and suffering unfold around us. The Torah further reminds us, “You shall love your neighbor as yourself” (Leviticus 19:18)—a mandate to protect the vulnerable and to extend compassion beyond our own immediate circles. These teachings demand that we respond, especially when lives are being lost and the less fortunate are in peril.
As we reflect on events unfolding in our nation and around the world today, North Tahoe Hebrew Congregation stands as the spiritual home of the Tahoe-Truckee Jewish community—a place where Jewish values are lived, taught, and nurtured. Here, we gather not only to pray, but to support one another, to ask hard questions, and to recommit ourselves to justice, dignity, and human decency.
May remembrance move us to responsibility. I look forward to hearing your thoughts at one of the many opportunities we have to gather and be community. May our community continue to be a source of light, moral clarity, and hope—now and for generations to come.
Rabbi's Message - Tuesday's Call for Justice - Psalm 82
Shalom,
Balance as we wade through the tumult of life, our tradition guides, can often be found in the Psalms. In recent months, I have taken to exploring this part of our sacred text with a renewed interest. Of the many rhythms of our Jewish tradition is the recitation of a daily Psalm, the same 7 Psalms for each of the 7 days of the week taught to be recited in the ancient Temple in Jerusalem. As Professor Miriyam Glazer writes in Psalms of the Jewish Liturgy, “We may no longer have the Temple, or the ancient melodies of the Levites or their instrumental scores. But we do have the words to the Psalms themselves, the very same words the Levites sang. If we take the time to enter into them, to mull them over, chant them for ourselves, make them our own, reciting this ancient sequence of seven psalms, one per day, can become a powerful - even a life-changing - experience.” (page 15)
On this 3rd day of the week, for our Jewish weeks begin with Sunday, it is our tradition to recite Psalm 82. You can read it by clicking here>>>. In exploring its depth, we can discover a yearning for balance, one not yet realized. The Psalm depicts a juxtaposition between Divine judgement and our own. It is a call to strive for more, for better. As we see the injustice in the world, we must, our tradition is guiding us, feel and be called to work towards a justice on par with that of the Creator.
Rabbi Sandra Lawson, the Executive Director of Carolina Jews for Justice, wrote about this Psalm, “—a powerful reminder of our sacred responsibility to pursue justice and care for those in need. This psalm challenges us to align our actions with divine values, creating a world rooted in compassion and fairness. As you engage with this psalm, may it inspire you to take meaningful steps toward justice in your daily life. Let’s begin.”
As we move through this week, may we be aware of this sacred charge and may we discover ways big and small that we have the power to create a world full of justice and compassion.
Shavua Tov,
Rabbi Evon