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. The most recent will rise to the top. This one will remain here as an open doorway.

I am glad you are here.
— Rabbi Jerid

Sh’mini: The Eighth Day — What Comes After Freedom?

April 10–11, 2026 | 24 Nisan 5786
שְׁמִינִי — Sh’mi-NI — “The Eighth [Day]”
Leviticus 9:1–11:47

“On the eighth day Moses called Aaron and his sons, and the elders of Israel.”
(Leviticus 9:1)

Passover has just ended.

The dishes are put away.
The matzah crumbs are gone.
The story has been told.

And now… what?

Sh’mini begins with a simple but profound moment: “On the eighth day…” After seven days of preparation, ritual, and anticipation, something new begins. The number seven in Jewish tradition often represents completion—creation, the natural cycle. But eight? Eight is what comes after. Eight is what we do next.

Freedom, it turns out, is not the destination. It is the beginning.

In Parashat Sh’mini, the people stand at the threshold of sacred responsibility. The Tabernacle has been built. The rituals are ready. The community is poised. But something unexpected happens. In a moment both confusing and unsettling, Aaron’s sons, Nadav and Avihu, offer what the Torah calls “strange fire”—esh zarah—and the consequences are immediate and severe.

It is one of the most difficult passages in Torah.

And yet, the tradition does not turn away from it.

In the Talmud, the rabbis wrestle with this moment. In Babylonian Talmud Eruvin 63a, one interpretation suggests that Nadav and Avihu acted with spiritual enthusiasm—but without consultation, without grounding, without community. Their mistake was not passion. It was disconnection.

Freedom without responsibility.
Expression without relationship.

That tension feels strikingly familiar.

Earlier this week, I exchanged messages with a lifelong friend—someone I do not remember not knowing. She was in Paris, sharing her joy, sending a photo of herself in front of the Paris Opera. I smiled and sent back a photo of my own visit there years ago, the same place, different moment in time. She wrote about how much she had loved the parks, the beauty, the experience—and how much she was dreading the return home. That feeling lingered with me. Not because home is something to avoid, but because we all know that moment when something meaningful comes to an end, and we are left asking, quietly: what now?

This week, that question is not only personal—it is communal.

Across the country and around the world, conversations continue about what freedom really means once it is attained. In the aftermath of Passover, and in the midst of ongoing debates about identity, expression, and belonging, we are reminded that freedom is not a single moment of release. It is an ongoing practice. It asks something of us.

It asks how we live with one another.
How we listen.
How we take responsibility for the fire we bring into shared spaces.

The Haftarah echoes this complexity. In II Samuel 6, King David brings the Ark to Jerusalem with dancing, music, and joy. It is a moment of celebration—but also one that requires recalibration when things do not go as expected. Sacred moments, even joyful ones, carry weight.

Perhaps that is the point.

From a Humanistic Jewish perspective, holiness is not something bestowed from above, but something created between us—through our actions, our choices, and our care for one another. The “strange fire” is not only a ritual error. It is a reminder that meaning is not made in isolation.

We are not only free from something.

We are free for something.

For responsibility.
For relationship.
For building a world that reflects the values we claim to hold.

So now that Passover is over…

What will we do with our freedom?

This week, may we step into the eighth day with intention.
May we carry forward the story—not as memory alone, but as action.
May we listen before we act, connect before we decide, and build before we burn.

Because the fire we bring into the world matters.

And what we choose to ignite—together—can shape everything that comes next.

May you carry the freedom you have found into the life you are living.
May you meet the eighth day not with uncertainty, but with intention.
And may you choose, again and again, to build something meaningful with the fire you hold.

Shabbat Shalom.

With you through life’s moments,

Rabbi Jerid

Previous reflections can be found here.