Shabbat Message Archives

I have the privilege of serving as a liaison to the Jewish Chaplains Council, advocating for Jewish chaplains in the United States Armed Forces. In our last two meetings, we have wrestled with a contentious and deeply concerning issue: the use of Jewish chaplain insignia by messianic “clergy.”

Currently, a messianic chaplain—who refers to himself as a ‘rabbi’—has chosen to wear the same insignia as ordained Jewish chaplains. Because the tablet insignia is universally recognized as a Jewish symbol, this has led to confusion among soldiers seeking spiritual guidance from a rabbi. Some have unknowingly turned to this individual, believing him to be a legitimate Jewish chaplain. The issue extends beyond personal counseling—when a commanding officer requests a Jewish chaplain to lead a Shabbat service or a Jewish ritual, mistakes have been made, resulting in a messianic chaplain being assigned to a role meant for a Jewish clergy member.

Symbols matter.

This lesson is reinforced in this week's Torah portion, Parashat Tetzaveh. God commands that the sacred vestments of the High Priest include two shoulder pieces adorned with lazuli stones, upon which are engraved the names of the twelve tribes of Israel (Exodus 28). Commentators teach that these names were not merely decorative—they symbolized the High Priest’s sacred duty to carry the people of Israel upon his shoulders. He was not just an individual; he was a representative of all Israel, standing before God on their behalf, praying for them, and atoning for their sins.

The symbols we wear convey responsibility, identity, and purpose. When a Jewish chaplain wears the insignia of the tablets, it signifies a sacred trust—that this individual stands as a recognized and ordained representative of the Jewish people, providing authentic Jewish leadership and pastoral care. When this symbol is misappropriated, it creates confusion, misrepresentation, and the potential for spiritual harm.

Just as the High Priest’s vestments reflected his holy mission, so too must the insignia of Jewish chaplains remain a clear and unmistakable mark of Jewish leadership and service.

Parshat Terumah is filled with measurements—cubits of wood, loops of fabric, exact placements of gold and silver. At first glance, it can feel dry, even technical. If every word of the Torah is sacred, why does God devote so much space to building instructions? But when we step back, something deeper emerges: this is not just about construction—it’s about relationship.

God and Israel are at the beginning of their covenantal journey, learning to trust one another, testing boundaries. By delivering the Israelites from slavery, God has upheld the divine side of the covenant, acting as protector and redeemer. But will Israel fulfill their part? Will they follow, even when there are no miracles, no plagues, no parting seas—only instructions for building something sacred? The Mishkan is their first test. God asks them not just to build a physical structure, but to build holiness, not only in the wilderness but within their hearts.

Why does God care about every detail? Because creating a sacred space isn’t just about the finished product—it’s about the love, care, and intention we bring to it. The Mishkan is the first time the Israelites aren’t simply receiving divine gifts; they are creating something for God. Each person brings what they can—gold, silver, colorful yarn, or the labor of their own hands. This isn’t about perfection; it’s about participation.

The details of the Mishkan remind us that holiness isn’t random. We don’t stumble into meaning; we build it. Brick by brick, act by act, we shape the sacred in our lives. When we bring intention to the spaces we create—our homes, our communities, our relationships—we make room for something greater than ourselves.

Maybe that’s why God cares about every cubit. Not because God needs a perfect house, but because we need to learn how to bring holiness into our world, one careful, loving step at a time.

This Shabbat, we join thousands of synagogues throughout the world in celebrating Repro Shabbat, sponsored by the National Council of Jewish Women. We commit to teaching our communities about the Jewish halakhah (law) of abortion access and reproductive health access. This week, we read Parshat Mishpatim, a portion filled with laws that shape the ethical foundation of Jewish society. Among them, we find a verse that speaks directly to the Jewish view on reproductive rights.

“When men fight, and one of them pushes a pregnant woman, and a miscarriage results, but no other harm ensues, the one responsible shall be fined (monetarily)...” (Exodus 21:22-23)

The Torah is making a striking distinction: the loss of a pregnancy, while serious, is not considered murder. Instead, it carries financial restitution. This understanding of the fetus reflects the designation that an unborn fetus does not hold the same status as a living person.

The Mishnah (Ohalot 7:6) goes even further, stating that if a pregnancy endangers the mother’s life, it must be terminated because her life comes first. This is not just a legal ruling – it is a moral imperative. Judaism demands that we uphold life, dignity, and well-being above all.

Judaism acknowledges the pain and complexity that enters decision making of reproductive health and commands that we act with compassion. Our tradition does not judge those who make these choices – it supports them.

As we read Parshat Mishpatim, we are reminded that Jewish tradition has always valued justice (Tzedek), mercy (rachamim), and the dignity of those making difficult choices. May we continue to create a world where these values guide us, where those in need of care find support, and where we uphold the sacred principle of life, especially the life of the person already here.

This past week, we celebrated Tu B’Shvat, the birthday of the trees—a time to reflect on nature’s gifts and our role in sustaining them.

In Peri Etz Hadar (1:4), we learn that every fruit has an angel assigned to it. When we offer a blessing before eating, we activate shefa—a Divine flow—ensuring that new fruit replaces the old. But if we consume without gratitude, we disrupt this flow and diminish the Divine presence in the world. In a sense, this absence of blessing is an act of taking without giving back.

This teaching invites us to consider: How often do we take life’s simple gifts for granted? Do we pause to appreciate the abundance around us, from the food we eat to the breath we take? Trees, like the Jewish people, are deeply rooted yet ever-growing. We endure, adapt, and blossom, even in difficult conditions.

This Shabbat, may you feel the presence of shefa in your life. May you cultivate gratitude and nurture the Divine flow all around you.

What is your red line—the moment that forces you to reconsider your choices, your community, or the company you keep?

Our parsha begins in the aftermath of the tenth plague, with Egypt devastated but still unwilling to surrender. Pharaoh finally releases the Israelites, only to reverse his decision three days later. He rallies his army, sending every chariot in Egypt to pursue them and bring them back to enslavement. As they close in, they witness a miraculous sight—the sea splitting before the Israelites, forming walls of water on either side. And yet, they charge forward.

It is only when God locks the wheels of their chariots, throwing them into chaos, that they finally recognize the truth: God is fighting against Egypt.

Why did it take this moment, after ten plagues and the miracle of the sea, for them to realize they were on the wrong side?

Until now, Egypt’s suffering had been communal—widespread but impersonal. The plagues struck their land, their water, and even their firstborn sons, but the Egyptian army had not yet faced a direct and immediate consequence. Only when their own chariots became stuck, rendering them powerless, did the crisis become personal. At that moment, they understood—too late—that they had chosen the wrong path.

This pattern repeats throughout history. People often ignore global challenges—climate change, political instability, economic inequality—until the consequences reach their doorstep. It’s easy to dismiss disasters as distant problems affecting others, but when wildfires destroy homes, floods displace families, or supply chain disruptions leave shelves empty, reality sets in. Like the Egyptians, many don’t take action until they are personally trapped by the very crisis they ignored.

The Egyptians waited until escape was impossible. The question for us is: Do we recognize our red lines before it’s too late?

Parshat Bo (Exodus 10:1–13:16) tells the story of the final plagues, the Exodus from Egypt, and the transition from darkness to redemption. While it is easy to focus on the death and despair of both the Israelites and the Egyptians, we must be mindful that this is not the end of the story – it is a semicolon, not a period. The next chapter includes the movement from suffering to hope, from despair to unity and resilience.

As we watched the news on Wednesday night and learned of the tragic mid-air collision over the Potomac River, I immediately reached out to my colleague, who is the rabbi at the Conservative synagogue in Wichita, Kansas. While Rabbi Pepperstone shared with me that as far as he knows, no one from the Jewish community was on the plane, a darkness has overtaken the medium-sized Midwestern city of Wichita. Everyone knows someone who has been directly affected by this disaster and the loss seems monumental.

But, with hardship and suffering, also comes community and hope. Yesterday, there was a prayer vigil at City Council chambers, which was filled to capacity and then some. Everyone is coming together to support those impacted by the disaster.

This message of unity echoes the experience of the Israelites, who, even in their darkest moments, found strength in their shared identity and faith. Just as they emerged from Egypt as a nation bound by resilience, so too do modern communities come together to support one another in times of loss. The lessons of Parshat Bo remind us that even in tragedy, we can find strength, solidarity, and hope when we support one another.

How bad does a situation have to get before we cry out to God or ask for help? Though we are social creatures, we often resist reaching out when we’re in need. Fear of vulnerability, pride, or the value we place on independence can make us reluctant to seek support, even though our ancestors understood the necessity of community. We need one another to survive and thrive.

In this week’s parsha, the Israelites, enslaved for generations, cry out to God for help. But why didn’t they ask sooner? Why didn’t God intervene earlier? Perhaps their oppression had become so ingrained that they couldn’t see beyond their suffering, and their silence wasn’t lack of faith but despair. When suffering is constant, we forget that liberation is even possible.

But there’s also a deeper lesson in God's timing. The Israelites’ cry came not just when they were physically desperate, but when they were spiritually ready. Liberation wasn’t just about escaping slavery—it was about a transformation in how they saw themselves and their relationship with God. Sometimes we don’t cry out for help because we’re not yet ready to receive it, or we need to reach a point of spiritual openness.

This is a reminder that asking for help is not a sign of weakness but of strength. Like the Israelites, we are called to cry out—to God and to each other. Healing begins when we let go of the myth of self-sufficiency and embrace vulnerability. Only then can transformation begin, both within us and in our communities.

This past week, I was privileged to attend the Rabbinic Training Institute. For five days, I sat among colleagues learning Torah and living Torah. We prayed, sang, talked and listened to one another as we shared our rabbinic experiences and struggles. On Wednesday afternoon, as we finished davening mincha, the afternoon prayer, a silence settled over the group. The hostage deal had been confirmed by the US, Israel, and Hamas. Some in tears, others experiencing feelings of jubilation and some concerned and confused about what was to come. We looked one another in the eye, and we began to sing.

אַחֵינוּ כָּל בֵּית יִשְׂרָאֵל, הַנְּתוּנִים בְּצָרָה וּבַשִּׁבְיָה, הָעוֹמְדִים בֵּין בַּיָּם וּבֵין בַּיַּבָּשָׁה, הַמָּקוֹם יְרַחֵם עֲלֵיהֶם, וְיוֹצִיאֵם מִצָּרָה לִרְוָחָה, וּמֵאֲפֵלָה לְאוֹרָה, וּמִשִּׁעְבּוּד לִגְאֻלָּה, הַשְׁתָּא בַּעֲגָלָא וּבִזְמַן קָרִיב. וְנֹאמַר 

Translation:

As for our brothers and sisters, the whole house of Israel, who are given over to trouble or captivity, whether they abide on the sea or on the dry land:

May the All-present have mercy upon them, and bring them forth from trouble to enlargement, from darkness to light, and from subjection to redemption, now speedily and at a near time. Now let us say, Amen.

Based on The Standard Prayer book by Simeon Singer (1915)

We sang with our hearts and souls. We sang with all our brokenness. We sang with hope.

While we do not know what is to come and we have divisive views about Israel, we can all agree in the significance and necessity of bringing our brothers and sister’s home. As God willing the hostages begin to return home in the coming days and weeks, I pray that we are all committed to Derekh

Eretz, the commitment to do what is right and decent in the eyes of God and humanity. May they be returned to the land, the home where they belong.