Rabbi’s Message: June 17, 2025

From Rabbi Lauren Ben-Shoshan

There’s a well-loved teaching in Jewish tradition — one that comes not from the Torah, but from the deep well of Mussar, our tradition of ethical self-refinement. It’s often attributed to the 18th-century Chassidic master Rabbi Simcha Bunim of Peshischa. He said:

A person should carry two slips of paper in their pockets at all times. On one, write: “Bishvili nivra ha’olam” — “The world was created for me.” And on the other: “Anochi afar v’efer” — “I am but dust and ashes.”

The first reminds us of our inherent worth. That each life – including ours – contains infinite value, and that our actions matter. The second reminds us to stay humble — that we are finite, fallible, and fleeting.

The genius of the teaching lies not in either message alone, but in the balancing act between the two. Knowing when to reach for each pocket — when to speak up and when to listen, when to act and when to reflect; that’s the sacred art of living within Judaism. It is a practice that insists that strength must be tempered with humility, and humility must not collapse into passivity.

But today, in light of the news from the past week, I’ve been imagining an update — a version for those of us navigating the emotional weather of today’s world, where headlines clash with heartbreak and urgency confronts hope.

In one pocket: the Talmudic imperative for self-defense from Sanhedrin 72a, “Haba lehorgekha, hashkem lehorgo” — “If someone comes to kill you, rise up and kill them first.” And in the other: the final line of the Kaddish, “Oseh shalom bimromav, hu ya’aseh shalom aleinu…” — “May the One who makes peace on high, make peace upon us.”

These two teachings also represent a kind of spiritual duality. One is fierce, pragmatic, a moral claim that self-defense is sacred. The other is aspirational, poetic, a prayer for a world we don’t yet have. And like the two slips of paper from Rabbi Simcha Bunim, we need both — and we need the wisdom to know when to pull out each one.

But which values should we use when we need to begin to cultivate this kind of wisdom? During the past Shabbat’s Torah portion, Beha’alotecha, Moses and the Israelites are faced with a series of ethical leadership challenges. The parasha is filled with transition and tension. The Israelites are mid-journey, navigating both literal wilderness and spiritual uncertainty. In the midst of this chaos, we see two moments that remind us what ethical leadership and community really look like.

First, the story of Pesach Sheni, the “Second Passover.” A group of individuals, having been rendered ritually impure through no fault of their own, approach Moses and ask, “Why should we be left out?” (Numbers 9:7)

Moses doesn’t scold them. He doesn’t tell them that rules are rules. Instead, he brings their concern to God — and astonishingly, God creates a new opportunity. A second chance. Pesach Sheni is born.

This isn’t just good policy; it’s holy responsiveness. A signal that inclusion and compassion towards those in tough situations is not an afterthought in our tradition — it’s the divine impulse.

Then, later in the parashah, we see another moment of vulnerability: Miriam is struck with tzara’at after questioning Moses’ leadership. Moses has every reason to harden his heart against her. But instead, he responds with one of the most vulnerable and heartfelt prayers in the entire Torah: “El na, refa na la” — “God, please, heal her now.” (Numbers 12:13)

This is not the voice of someone reaching for the sword. This is someone pulling out the second slip of paper — the one that says: choose compassion. Choose love and healing and peace. Even in pain, even when wronged.

These two stories — the Second Passover and the prayer for Miriam — remind us that real leadership isn’t about being right or being strong. It’s about being human. It’s about hearing the cry of those left out, and about choosing healing over humiliation.

So where does that leave us — especially now, in a time where many of us feel as though we’re constantly switching between pockets?

There are days when the threats feel urgent, when we reach instinctively for Sanhedrin 72a, for the reminder that we must act decisively in defense of ourselves, our people, our values.

And then there are moments when we are called — or maybe summoned — to pull out the other slip of paper: “Oseh Shalom.” To imagine that peace is possible. That despite the wounds of the world, we can still pray for healing — and not just pray for it, but work toward it with empathy, listening, and courageous love.

In Mussar, this act of switching between impulses is not a weakness. It is strength, refined. The greatness of the Jewish soul is not found in always knowing the answer — but in cultivating the humility to ask which part of ourselves is needed in this moment: the fighter, or the peace maker.

So let us walk into the world with two slips of paper in our pockets.

One that affirms: “If someone rises to kill you…” because protecting life is sacred, and we do not shy away from hard truths. And one that whispers: “Oseh Shalom…” because peace is not naïve — it is holy.

As we hold each of these in our pockets, let us remember the lessons of this parashah: that second chances matter, that prayers for healing are never out of place, and that the truest strength is not domination, but compassion.

We may live in tension between pockets — but we live with one heart. And if we’re lucky, and if we’re wise, that heart will beat for justice and for peace.

Wishing you a Shavuah Tov, a good week, 

Rabbi Lauren Ben-Shoshan