Reflections

Reflections for living, grieving, celebrating, and becoming

— with Rabbi Jerid

Welcome.

This space is a place for reflection—on living and grieving, on celebration and change, on becoming who we are over time.

Some reflections here will draw from Jewish tradition: Torah portions, holidays, and cultural wisdom. Others will arise from pastoral moments, chaplaincy work, or the quiet questions that surface when life slows us down. All of them are offered not as answers, but as companions—words to walk with rather than conclusions to arrive at.

This is not a space for belief statements or certainty. It is a space for meaning-making, honesty, and presence. Wherever you come from—religiously, culturally, or personally—you are welcome here.

New reflections will appear over time, sometimes in writing, sometimes in video. This one will remain here as an open doorway. The newest reflections will unfold just below this welcome—moments along the path.

I am glad you are here.
Rabbi Jerid

What We Carry Together

May 22-23, 2026 | 7 Sivan 5786

NASO I — I נָשֹׂא

Torah: Book of Numbers 4:21–5:31
Haftarah: Book of Judges 13:2–25

“Naso et rosh b’nei Gershon…”
“Take a census of the Gershonites…”
— Numbers 4:22

There is something deeply human about wanting to be counted.

Not merely counted as a number in a census or as a statistic in a report, but counted as a person. Seen. Remembered. Valued. Needed.

This week’s Torah portion, Naso, continues the census of the Israelites in the wilderness. At first glance, it can feel administrative and dry—lists of names, clans, responsibilities, duties. Yet beneath all of it is a profound truth: every person mattered enough to be named. Every family had a role. Every individual carried something essential for the community’s journey forward.

The Gershonites carried the fabric of the Mishkan—the curtains, coverings, and sacred textiles of the Tabernacle. Others carried poles, vessels, or structural pieces. No one carried everything. No one carried nothing.

I find myself thinking about that this week.

In ordinary conversations this week—with people moving through grief, aging, joy, uncertainty, exhaustion, or hope—I kept noticing how often people quietly wonder whether they still matter. Whether what they carry is meaningful anymore.

One care seeker shared with me recently, “I want to be a human being, not a human doing.”

That sentence has stayed with me all week.

In a culture obsessed with productivity, achievement, and visibility, many people begin to fear that if they are no longer producing, achieving, or leading, they somehow disappear. Yet Naso reminds us that human worth is not rooted in status. The sacred community in the wilderness depended on many forms of carrying.”

Some carried structure.
Some carried beauty.
Some carried memory.
Some simply carried presence.

The Talmud offers a brief but powerful teaching:

“Kol Yisrael arevim zeh bazeh.”
“All Israel is responsible for one another.”
— Shevuot 39a

I love the layered meaning of that phrase. Responsibility here is more than obligation or duty. It is mutual belonging. It is the recognition that our lives are bound together.

In the wilderness, no one carried the entire Mishkan alone. One family carried fabric. Another carried sacred vessels. Another carried the structure itself. The community survived because people carried different things, together.

Perhaps that is still true now.

None of us can carry everything.
But each of us can help carry something.

This week’s Haftarah tells the story of Samson’s mother, a woman who receives unexpected news that she will bear a child who will change history. What strikes me is that the story begins not with power, but with vulnerability. Before strength comes uncertainty. Before greatness comes fear, hope, and the quiet courage to say yes to what life places before us.

I think there is a connection there to this moment in our world.

This week, Seattle and communities across the country continue mourning the death of Juniper Blessing, a young trans woman remembered by friends and family as “pure love.” She was a musician, linguist, student, and singer whose life touched many people before it was taken violently. 

I have been thinking about how often marginalized people must fight simply to be counted fully as human beings. To have their lives treated as sacred. To be seen beyond politics, fear, or ideology.

The Torah’s census reminds us that communities become holy not when everyone is identical, but when every person is recognized as carrying something worthy.

In Jewish history, this question of human dignity appears again and again. One story tells of Rabbi Zusya, the great Hasidic teacher, who said:

“When I die, God will not ask me, ‘Why were you not Moses?’
God will ask me, ‘Why were you not Zusya?’”

Whether theistic or humanistic, the wisdom still lands powerfully for me.

The task of life is not to become someone else.

The task is to become fully ourselves—and to help others do the same.

As a Humanistic Jew, I do not experience holiness as descending from somewhere beyond humanity. I experience holiness arising between people—in compassion, courage, dignity, memory, and responsibility. The wilderness Tabernacle itself was built not by magic, but by human hands offering what they could.

Wood. Cloth. Metal. Skill. Time. Care.

Community.

Perhaps Naso asks a similar question.

What are you carrying?
What has life entrusted to your hands?
And do you know that it matters?

Not because you are famous.
Not because you are powerful.
Not because you are perfect.

But because you are part of the human caravan moving through the wilderness together.

As Shavuot approaches and we stand again near Sinai, perhaps the deeper revelation is this:

No one is invisible.
No one carries nothing.
And communities survive not because a few people do everything, but because many people carry something with love.

May you remember this week that your presence matters.
May you carry what is yours with courage and tenderness.
May you recognize the hidden things others carry beside you.
And may we continue to build communities where every person is counted, every voice matters, and every human being is treated with dignity.

Shabbat Shalom.

With you through life’s moments,

Rabbi Jerid

Previous reflections can be found here.