5786 Reflections

She Saw the Child

Monday, 24 August 2026 | 11 Elul 5786

Last evening, I had the privilege of planning and leading Sunday Vespers at Bayview Retirement Community while Rev. Lindsey Eklund was away. I was grateful to be joined in leading the service by Rev. Ann Morgan, a Bayview resident and retired clergy member.

For the service, I drew from the lectionary readings for the Thirteenth Sunday after Pentecost, focusing especially on the reading from the Hebrew Scriptures, Exodus 1:8–2:10. In recent weeks, Rev. Lindsey has been guiding the Bayview community through Faces of Our Faith: Bold and Untold Stories, inviting us to notice some of the people in scripture whose stories are often overshadowed by more familiar names. I chose to continue that theme.

Our reflection centered on Pharaoh’s daughter, the unnamed woman in Exodus who discovers a Hebrew child hidden among the reeds, recognizes his vulnerability, and chooses compassion.

What follows is adapted from the reflection I shared during Sunday Vespers on August 23, 2026.

Most of us know Moses. Or at least we know the highlights.

We know Moses standing before Pharaoh. Moses at the burning bush. Moses leading the Israelites out of Egypt. Moses at the sea. Moses receiving the commandments.

Moses becomes one of the towering figures of the biblical story.

But before Moses was Moses, he was simply a child.

A vulnerable child.

A child whose life depended upon other people being willing to see him, protect him, and act on his behalf.

And some of the most important people in that story are not the people whose names we remember.

As a Jew, I come to this story as one of the foundational stories of my people. It is part of the great narrative of our liberation from slavery in Egypt. But I also come to it simply as a human being, because long before the burning bush, the plagues, the sea, or the commandments, Moses's story depends upon people willing to see another human being and act with compassion.

This evening I want us to notice one of those people.

We don't even know her name.

The text simply calls her Pharaoh's daughter.

And yet, standing beside the Nile, she makes a choice that will change everything.

The story begins in a world shaped by fear. Sound familiar?

Pharaoh becomes afraid of the growing Hebrew population. Today we could use many other groups to replace “Hebrew.” And notice what happens next: fear becomes policy. Policy becomes oppression. Eventually, Pharaoh gives a horrifying command: every Hebrew boy who is born is to be thrown into the Nile.

The labels change across generations—Hebrew, immigrant, refugee, transgender, outsider—but we should recognize the pattern: fear of a group can make it easier to stop seeing the people within it.

It is into that world that Moses is born.

His mother hides him as long as she can. And when she can hide him no longer, she places him in a basket among the reeds along the river. His sister watches from a distance.

Then Pharaoh's daughter comes down to the Nile.

She sees the basket.

She has it brought to her.

She opens it.

And there is a baby crying.

The text tells us that she had compassion for him.

But then comes the detail that I find so remarkable.

She says, “This must be one of the Hebrews' children.”

She knows.

She does not rescue this child because she mistakes him for someone from her own household.

She does not rescue him because his identity is somehow hidden from her.

She knows exactly who he is.

He is Hebrew.

He belongs to the people her father fears.

He belongs to the people Pharaoh has declared a threat.

According to the divisions of her world, this child is one of them.

And still—

she saw the child.

Not merely a Hebrew child.

Not a political problem.

Not a threat.

Not an outsider.

A crying child.

And she had compassion.

I think there is something very important here.

We sometimes speak about compassion by saying things like, “Deep down, we're really all the same.”

There is something beautiful in that sentiment. But I'm not sure this story lets us take the easy way out.

Pharaoh's daughter and this Hebrew child were not the same.

She was Egyptian. He was Hebrew.

She belonged to the household of power. He belonged to an enslaved people.

She was protected by the system. His very life was threatened by it.

Those differences were real.

And she saw them.

The miracle of this story is not that Pharaoh's daughter failed to see the difference.

The miracle is that she saw the difference—and compassion remained.

Perhaps that is one of the questions this ancient story asks of us today:

What happens when we refuse to let the identities and divisions handed to us determine whom we are willing to see as human?

Compassion does not require us to pretend that differences don't exist.

It does not ask us to erase our histories, our identities, our convictions, or even our disagreements.

But it does ask something of us.

It asks us to refuse to let difference become a reason for indifference.

Pharaoh's daughter could have closed the basket.

She could have looked away.

She could have told herself that this child was someone else's problem.

Instead, she allowed what she saw to matter.

She saw the child.

And because she saw him, she could no longer simply look away.

That ancient temptation to turn human beings into categories has never really left us.

We still have words that can become walls.

Immigrant. Refugee. Undocumented. Citizen. Foreigner. Insider. Outsider.

Those words may describe something real. Nations have legitimate questions to wrestle with about borders, laws, resources, security, and responsibility. People of goodwill may disagree about how those questions should be answered.

But disagreement about policy must never become permission to stop seeing people as people. When we allow fear of a group to determine how we see the individuals within it, terrible things can become imaginable—and then permissible.

But Pharaoh's daughter reminds us that there is another question—one that comes before policy and politics:

Can we still see the human being?

Can we look beyond the category long enough to see the person standing before us?

A frightened child is still a frightened child.

A mother trying to protect her family is still a mother.

A person longing for safety, dignity, opportunity, or belonging is still a person.

We may disagree about what should happen next. Compassion does not require agreement.

But compassion does require that we refuse to make another person's humanity conditional upon our agreement with them.

Pharaoh's daughter knew that the child in the basket was Hebrew.

She knew the boundary she was crossing.

And still, she allowed his vulnerability to make a claim upon her.

She saw the child.

Perhaps one of the spiritual challenges of our own time is learning to do the same.

And, of course, this is not only about immigration.

It is much easier to recognize the problem when the categories are large and public. But we create smaller categories every day.

Republican. Democrat.

Christian. Jewish. 

Muslim. Hindu.

Humanist. None of the above.

Gay. Straight.

Young. Old.

Independent Living. Assisted Living. Memory Care. [Note: The three categories at Bayview.]

And sometimes our categories are even more personal:

The neighbor who gets on our nerves.

The relative whose choices we do not understand.

The person whose politics make conversation difficult.

The caregiver who seems rushed.

The person at dinner who tells us a story we have already heard—perhaps more than once. You know this person. 

And, if we're honest, sometimes we may be this person.

Every one of us knows how quickly a person can become, in our minds, a label.

And perhaps every one of us also knows what it feels like to be reduced to nothing more than a label.

But there is always more to a human being than the category we have placed around them.

Every day gives us small opportunities to practice what Pharaoh's daughter practiced beside the Nile:

To stop.

To notice.

To become curious rather than certain.

To listen.

To allow another person's experience to matter.

We may not change our minds.

We may not erase the differences between us.

We may still disagree.

But perhaps we can refuse to let disagreement become indifference.

Perhaps we can look across whatever river separates us and say:

There is a person there.

Someone with a story.

Someone who has known joy and grief.

Someone who has been afraid.

Someone who wants to be seen …. like we all do.

And sometimes, simply seeing another person - fully - is where compassion begins.

There is one more thing about Pharaoh’s daughter that I find deeply hopeful.

Though she did not save everyone.

Though she did not end Pharaoh’s oppression.

Though she did not liberate the Hebrew people.

Though she did not dismantle the system that had placed this child in danger.

She saved one child … Just one child.

And of course, one child was not enough.

There were other children.

Other families.

Other suffering.

But for this child, what she did was everything.

Sometimes the problems around us feel so large that we begin to believe our small acts cannot possibly matter.

What difference can one conversation make?

One meal?

One phone call?

One welcome?

One act of kindness?

One moment of courage?

One person choosing to care?

The story of Pharaoh’s daughter reminds us that we are not always asked to solve everything.

Sometimes we are simply asked to respond to what is in front of us.

She could not know who this child would become.

She did not know about the burning bush.

She did not know that he would one day stand before Pharaoh and demand freedom for his people.

She did not know about the sea or the commandments or the long story that would follow.

She simply knew that … a child was crying.

And she chose not to turn away.

That simple choice opened a future she could not yet imagine.

Perhaps some of our choices do the same.

Most of us will never know the full effect of the compassion we offer.

We may never know what became possible because we listened.

Because we welcomed.

Because we protected.

Because we encouraged.

Because we treated someone with dignity when the world around them did not.

Because, for one moment, we refused to reduce a person to a category.

Behind one of the most famous figures in the biblical story stands an unnamed woman beside a river.

She heard crying.

She opened a basket.

She recognized difference.

And she chose compassion.

So perhaps the question this ancient story leaves with us is not whether we can save the world.

Perhaps it is something simpler.

And perhaps something harder.

When the basket appears before us, will we open it?

When we encounter someone who has been labeled “other,” will we stop long enough to see the person?

When compassion asks something of us, will we allow what we see to matter?

Will we see the child?

May we have the courage to see.

And having seen,

may we have the compassion to care, 

the wisdom to discern, 

and the strength to act.

Amen.

With you through life’s moments,

Rabbi Jerid

We Love You Too, Rabbi

On Sunday, 28 June 2026 | 13 Tamuz 5786, I had the joy of marching with Bayview in the Seattle Pride Parade.

I carried a simple sign that read:

This Rabbi Loves You.

I knew the words mattered. I hoped they would be affirming. I hoped they would offer a small message of care, especially to those who have been wounded by religious communities or told that they had to choose between being fully themselves and being loved.

What I did not fully expect was the response.

Again and again, people read the sign and called out, “We love you too, Rabbi!”

Some smiled broadly. Some cheered. Some reached out for a wave, a laugh, or a brief moment of connection. And some faces changed in a way I will not soon forget. Their expressions softened. Their eyes filled. Some seemed to be holding back tears.

In those moments, the parade became more than celebration. It became pastoral care in motion.

I do not know the stories each person carried. I do not know what words had been spoken over them in the name of religion. I do not know who had been rejected, excluded, shamed, silenced, or made to feel unsafe in sacred spaces. But I know enough to understand that for many LGBTQIA+ people, religious language has not always sounded like love.

So I carried the sign as truthfully as I could.

Not as a performance.

Not as a slogan.

Not as a claim that one sign could undo years of harm.

But as a small, visible offering:

This rabbi loves you.

This rabbi sees you.

This rabbi believes your life is worthy of dignity, joy, safety, and blessing.

As people called back, “We love you too, Rabbi,” I found myself becoming emotional. Their words felt like a blessing returned. I had hoped to offer a glimpse of love and healing, but I also received one. In their faces, their voices, and their tears, I was reminded how powerful it can be when love becomes visible.

Jewish tradition teaches that every human being is created b’tzelem Elohim—in the image of God. From a Humanistic Jewish lens, I understand this teaching as a profound claim about human dignity: every life carries worth, every person deserves honor, and no one’s identity should be used as a reason for rejection or shame.

At Pride, that teaching was not abstract.

It was embodied l’dor v’dor, from generation to generation: in the elders marching, the young people cheering, the chosen families waving, the allies showing up, the drag artists shining, the parents crying, the clergy present, and the thousands of people insisting that joy itself can be a form of resistance.

I am grateful to Bayview for the opportunity to march together. I am grateful for the people who received the sign with such tenderness. I am grateful for every “We love you too, Rabbi,” that came back toward me from the crowd.

I carried a sign with four simple words.

But the people along the parade route reminded me that sometimes simple words, offered with sincerity, can reach places we may never fully know.

May every person who saw that sign know it was meant for them.

You are loved.

You are seen.

You are worthy.

And your life is a blessing.

With you through life’s moments,

Rabbi Jerid

The Light We Carry Together

21 June 2926 | 6 Tamuz 5786

On Sunday evening, 21 June 2026 | 5 Tamuz 5786, Bayview gathered for a Pride Vespers service called RALLY TOGETHER! It was a tender, joyful, and deeply moving evening of music, readings, remembrance, affirmation, and community.

The service was lovingly coordinated by Rev. Barb Flash Laski, a Bayview resident and retired minister, whose leadership helped create a space where people could bring their whole selves into the room. There was laughter. There were tears. There was music. There was memory. There was a deep sense that Pride is not only a parade or a celebration, but also a sacred act of visibility, courage, and belonging.

As part of the service, I was invited to offer a contemporary reading and an adapted Jewish response. Several people asked afterward if I would share the words, so I am including both readings here, as they were offered that evening.

We Do Not Carry This Alone

There are moments in history when we discover that courage is not something we carry alone.

This has been one of those moments.

Many among us know what it means to wonder:
Will I be welcomed?
Will I be understood?
Will I be safe being fully myself?

Some have carried these questions for decades.
Some are discovering them for the first time.
And some have chosen the sacred work of standing beside another person and saying:
You do not have to carry this alone.

Pride was never only a celebration.
It has always been a remembrance,
a promise,
and a call.

We remember those who created paths before us —
those who spoke when silence was expected,
those who loved when love was forbidden,
those who lived honestly when honesty required courage.

We promise that their stories will not disappear.

And we answer the call:
to listen across generations,
to learn from one another,
to protect the dignity of every human being.

Our labels may tell part of our story,
but they never contain the fullness of who we are.

We are more than the names others give us.
We are our memories and hopes,
our struggles and joys,
our questions and dreams.

Tonight we rally together.

Not because we are all the same,
but because our differences create something more beautiful than any of us could create alone.

May our presence become courage.
May our listening become love.
May our love become justice.

And may no one ever wonder if they have to walk the journey alone.

Words of Wisdom – The Light We Carry Together

A teaching from the Jewish tradition says:

Lo alecha ham’lacha ligmor,
v’lo atah ben chorin l’hibatel mimena.

“You are not required to complete the work, but neither are you free to abandon it.”

Tonight, each candle holds a story.

Some candles shine for those whose courage opened doors.

Some shine for those still searching for the courage to walk through them.

Some shine in memory.

Some shine in celebration.

Some shine for voices that filled the streets.

Some shine for quiet lives of dignity, love, and truth.

Every name spoken tonight reminds us that the work of creating a world of belonging is carried by many hands and many hearts.

None of us holds the whole story.

None of us carries the whole work.

But each of us carries a piece of the light.

May these candles remind us:

Every life has meaning.
Every story matters.
Every act of courage, compassion, and love adds light to the world.

The work of creating a world of dignity and belonging is larger than any one of us can complete.

But the light we carry is ours to offer.

The work may not be ours to finish.

The work must never be ours to abandon.

Together, we continue.

And let us say: Amen.

After the readings, the service continued with candle lighting. Names were spoken. Memories were honored. Lives were lifted up. Some candles carried grief. Some carried gratitude. Some carried the long struggle for safety and recognition. Some carried celebration. Together, they became a visible reminder that community is not abstract. It is made of real people, real stories, real losses, real hopes, and real love.

I am grateful to Rev. Barb for her leadership, to Bayview for creating space for this gathering, and to everyone who helped make the evening what it was.

In a world where many people are still told to hide, diminish, explain, or defend who they are, Pride Vespers offered another message:

You belong here.

Your life matters.

Your light is needed.

And we carry it together.

With you through life’s moments,

Rabbi Jerid

A Pause in the Work

14 June 2026 | 29 Sivan 5786

Over the past few weeks, this space has been quieter than usual.

I have missed writing and sharing weekly reflections, but the silence has not come from a lack of desire or commitment. It came from life. The end of the school year arrived with all its fullness. My thesis needed sustained attention. Chaplaincy work continued to open new places in my heart and practice. My family life carried its own questions and transitions. And somewhere in the midst of all of that, I experienced a concussion.

The body has a way of becoming very clear when the mind keeps insisting, “Just one more thing.”

For a few days, and then for a few weeks, I had to listen differently. I had to slow down. I had to sleep more. I had to accept that not everything could be completed in the timeline I had imagined. That is not always easy for me. Like many people in helping professions, I am often more comfortable offering care than receiving the lesson that I, too, am human.

Jewish tradition gives language to this kind of humility through the rhythm of Shabbat. In Exodus, after the work of creation, the text says, vayinafash—often understood as “and was refreshed,” though the word carries the sense of being re-breathed or re-souled. I do not read this as a command to spiritualize injury or exhaustion. A concussion is a real physical event that requires real care. But the wisdom of vayinafash reminded me that rest is not emptiness. Rest can be the place where breath returns, where the self gathers again, and where the work becomes possible once more.

Chaplaincy has been teaching me this in a deeper way.

Spiritual care is not only about showing up for others with wisdom, calm, or the right words. Often, it is about presence. It is about being honest enough to meet another person as a whole human being, not as a role or performance. To offer that kind of care with integrity, we have to remain connected to our own humanity as well.

A concussion is not a metaphor. It is a real physical event that requires real care. Still, like many embodied experiences, it has something to teach. It reminded me that the sacred is not found only in productivity, service, writing, leading, or completing important work. Sometimes it is found in stopping. Sometimes it is found in the humility of limitation. Sometimes it is found in allowing the body to say what the soul has been trying to whisper.

Rest is not failure.

A pause is not abandonment.

Silence is not absence.

During this time, I have still been here. I have been healing. I have been listening. I have been tending to school, family, study, chaplaincy, and the many moving pieces of a life in transition. I have also been reminded that spiritual leadership must be rooted not only in care for others, but in a truthful relationship with one’s own limits.

So this reflection is not an apology for being away.

It is a marker.

It is a small stone placed beside the path, acknowledging that the journey continued even when the weekly posts paused. It is a reminder that Jewish life, spiritual care, and human becoming all happen in real bodies, in real time, amid real fatigue, uncertainty, healing, and hope.

I am grateful to be returning to this space.

And I am returning with a little more tenderness for the pauses that make the work possible.

With you through life’s moments,

Rabbi Jerid

When the Flame Needs Rest

B’ha’alot’cha — בְּהַעֲלֹתְךָ
Numbers 8:1–12:16
Haftarah: Zechariah 2:14–4:7

Last week, I did not write a reflection.

At first, that bothered me.

Writing has become a meaningful part of my weekly rhythm — a moment to pause, enter the wisdom of Jewish tradition, and consider what ancient words might have to say about the lives we are living today.

But last week, there was a lot going on, and I simply did not have it in me.

At first, I experienced that as something missing.

Then this week’s Torah portion arrived.

B’ha’alot’cha begins with a simple but beautiful image:

“Speak to Aaron and say to him: When you raise up the lamps, let the seven lamps give light at the front of the lampstand.” 

— Numbers 8:2

The Hebrew phrase is:

בְּהַעֲלֹתְךָ אֶת־הַנֵּרֹת
B’ha-a-lot-cha et ha-nei-rot
“When you raise up the lamps…”

The Torah does not simply say “when you light the lamps.” The image is one of raising, tending, and nurturing the flame until it is strong enough to rise on its own.

This week, I found myself sitting with a simple reminder:

Even a flame needs tending.

And sometimes, tending the flame means allowing it to rest.

There is a difference between a light that has gone out and a light that is waiting to be renewed.

Jewish tradition understands this deeply. We see it in the image of the shamash, the helper candle. The shamash brings light to the other candles, but it does not disappear in the process. It does not destroy itself to create light for others.

It shares.

It kindles.

It remains.

For those of us who find meaning in caring for others — as parents, educators, caregivers, friends, community members, or simply human beings trying to make the world a little kinder — this distinction matters.

We are not called to burn ourselves away.

We are called to help bring light.

The Haftarah for B’ha’alot’cha offers one of the most powerful images connected to the menorah. In the prophet Zechariah’s vision, we read:

לֹא בְחַיִל וְלֹא בְכֹחַ כִּי אִם־בְּרוּחִי
Lo v’chayil v’lo v’choach, ki im b’ruchi.

“Not by might, and not by power, but by spirit.”
— Zechariah 4:6

From a Humanistic Jewish perspective, I understand this spirit not as something separate from humanity, but as something expressed through humanity.

It is the spirit of compassion.

The spirit of creativity.

The spirit of resilience.

The spirit that allows us to begin again.

This message feels especially important in a time when many Jewish communities continue wrestling with what it means to live visibly and joyfully as Jews in a complicated world. Around the world, I continue to see stories of people choosing not only to protect Jewish life, but to celebrate it — through art, learning, culture, gathering, and community.

That too is a kindling of lamps.

A reminder that Jewish identity is not only about surviving darkness.

It is about creating light.

The late Jewish musician and poet Leonard Cohen often explored brokenness and beauty living side by side. In his song “Anthem,” Cohen wrote, “There is a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in.”

His words remind me that our cracks, imperfections, and tired places are not failures. Sometimes they are the very places where compassion, wisdom, and renewal begin.

Perhaps B’ha’alot’cha invites us to ask:

What keeps our flame alive?

What helps us shine without disappearing?

What allows us to bring warmth into the world while still honoring our own humanity?

There will be weeks when we shine brightly.

There will be weeks when we quietly tend the flame.

And there will be weeks when wisdom means admitting:

The flame needs rest.

That too can be sacred.

May you remember that your worth is not measured only by what you produce or accomplish.

May you nurture the lights around you without forgetting the light within you.

May you find moments of renewal when your flame grows tired.

And may you continue, in your own beautiful and imperfect way, to help bring light into the world.

Shabbat shalom!

With you through life’s moments,

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

In the Wilderness

May 16, 2026 | 29 Iyar 5786

B’Midbar — בְּמִדְבַּר

Torah: Numbers 1:1–4:20
Haftarah: Book of Hosea 2:1–22

There is something honest about the wilderness.

The wilderness does not pretend to be polished.
It is not curated.
It is not controlled.
It is uncertain, shifting, exposed.

And perhaps that is why Torah begins this book there.

B’Midbar.
“In the wilderness.”

Not in a palace.
Not in a sanctuary already completed.
Not in a city with walls and certainty.

The Jewish people are counted while still wandering.

“S’eu et rosh kol adat b’nei Yisrael…”
“Lift up the head of the whole community of the children of Israel…”
— Numbers 1:2

I love the Hebrew phrase: s’eu et rosh — “lift up the head.”
A census is not merely about numbers. Torah could have simply said “count them.” Instead, the language suggests dignity. Visibility. Recognition.

To count a person is to say:
You matter enough to be noticed.

This week, I found myself thinking about how many people move through the world feeling uncounted.

Not unseen in a dramatic sense.
Just… overlooked.

The resident sitting quietly at the edge of the room.
The exhausted teacher nearing the end of the school year.
The teenager trying to figure out whether they belong.
The caregiver who keeps showing up without recognition.
The person questioning whether there is still a place for them in community, in family, in society.

The wilderness can feel like that too.

Jewish tradition often imagines the wilderness not only as a geographic place, but as a spiritual and emotional one. The rabbis taught in the Midrash Rabbah that Torah was given in the wilderness because wilderness belongs to no one. It is open ground. No tribe owned Sinai. No empire controlled it. Revelation came in a place where everyone stood equally exposed beneath the same sky.

There is something profoundly humanistic in that image.

Holiness does not emerge because a place is magically different.
Holiness emerges because human beings choose to meet one another there with openness, responsibility, and courage.

This week, I also found myself thinking about a story much closer to home. The University of Washington recently helped launch a project mapping Seattle’s growing network of Little Free Pantries — neighborhood cupboards where people quietly leave food for strangers who may need it. The project is practical, simple, and profoundly human: ordinary people helping ensure neighbors are not forgotten. 

That struck me as deeply connected to B’Midbar.

In the wilderness, survival depended on mutual responsibility.
People carried pieces of the community together.
No one person carried the entire Mishkan alone.
No tribe survived entirely on its own.

And perhaps modern wilderness looks less like sand dunes and more like isolation, exhaustion, economic stress, loneliness, and disconnection.

The pantries matter because they quietly say:
Someone thought about you.
Someone counted you.
Someone made room for you.

The Haftarah from Hosea offers an unexpected answer. After harsh words and rupture, the prophet imagines renewal not in triumph, but in tenderness:

“V’erastikh li l’olam…”
“And I will betroth you to me forever…”
— Hosea 2:21

The language is intimate. Relational. Hopeful.

Even after fracture, relationship can be rebuilt.

This portion also reminds me of something the late Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel once wrote:
“Some are guilty, but all are responsible.”

A census can become dangerous when people become statistics. History has taught Jews that lesson painfully. But Torah’s vision at its best pushes the other direction: community rooted in mutual responsibility.

To be counted is not merely to exist.
It is to belong within obligation and care.

And perhaps that is the deeper wilderness lesson:
we do not survive deserts alone.

As I reflect on this portion, I also find myself thinking about interreligious echoes. In Christian scripture, the wilderness becomes the place where Jesus confronts identity and temptation. In Buddhism, the forest often becomes the place of awakening. In many Indigenous traditions, land itself becomes teacher and relative rather than backdrop.

Again and again, human beings return to wilderness searching for clarity.

Not because wilderness removes uncertainty,
but because it strips away illusion.

Maybe that is why B’Midbar still matters.

Many people today feel spiritually homeless. Politically exhausted. Socially fragmented. Communities fracture quickly. Public discourse becomes cruel. People retreat into camps and algorithms and fear.

And yet Torah begins again in the wilderness by insisting on something radical:

Count every person.
Lift every head.
Make space for every tribe.
Carry the sacred together.

Not despite difference.
Because of it.

I do not know if we ever fully leave the wilderness.

But perhaps the goal was never escape.

Perhaps the goal was to learn how to build compassionate community while still wandering.

And perhaps that remains our task now.

May you remember this week that you are counted.
May you help others feel counted too.
May you walk gently through the wildernesses of others.
And may we continue to build communities where every person can lift their head with dignity, belonging, and hope.

Shabbat Shalom.

With you through life’s moments,
Rabbi Jerid

On the Mountain / In My Laws

May 8–9, 2026 | 22 Iyar 5786

B’har–B’chukotai — בְּהַר–בְּחֻקֹּתַי
Torah: Leviticus 25:1–27:34
Haftarah: Jeremiah 16:19–17:14

 This week’s double portion begins with an unusual command. Before laws about people, debts, or property, the Torah speaks about the land itself:

“וְשָׁבְתָה הָאָרֶץ שַׁבָּת לַיהוָה”
V’shav-tah ha-ARETZ sha-BAT…
“The land itself shall observe a sabbath…”
— Leviticus 25:2

Not the people alone.
The land.

For six years the fields may be planted and harvested. But in the seventh year, the earth is told to rest. The soil is not an endless machine. It is not merely a resource to consume. It is part of a living relationship.

I find myself deeply moved by that this year.

We live in a culture that praises constant production. More emails. More meetings. More content. More efficiency. More growth. Even our rest often becomes performative — optimized, scheduled, transformed into another form of productivity.

And yet the Torah quietly insists: if everything is always extracted from, eventually nothing healthy remains.

The medieval commentator Rashi notes that the sabbatical year required trust — emunah — because the people had to believe that enoughness could exist without constant accumulation. That feels startlingly modern.

This week, I have been thinking about how difficult it is to simply stop.

Not because I am uniquely busy. Most people I know are carrying enormous weight right now. Teachers nearing the end of the school year. Families navigating uncertainty. Communities carrying political exhaustion and economic anxiety. People doom-scrolling late into the night because the world feels simultaneously urgent and overwhelming.

Even joy can begin to feel hurried.

And perhaps that is why this Torah portion feels less like an agricultural law and more like a human survival guide.

The Haftarah from Jeremiah echoes this tension. Jeremiah warns against becoming disconnected from the deeper sources that sustain life:

“וְהָיָה כְּעֵץ שָׁתוּל עַל־מַיִם”
V’ha-yah k’ETZ sha-TUL al MA-yim
“They shall be like a tree planted by water.”
— Jeremiah 17:8

A tree survives not because it strains harder, but because its roots remain connected.

That image stays with me.

This week I found myself noticing how often people — myself included — speak about exhaustion almost as a badge of honor. “Busy” has become shorthand for importance. Yet the Torah’s vision of holiness seems to move in the opposite direction. Holiness is not endless output. Holiness may instead be found in restraint, balance, and the courage to pause.

There is a famous teaching in Pirkei Avot:

“לֹא עָלֶיךָ הַמְּלָאכָה לִגְמוֹר”
Lo a-LEKHA ha-m’la-KHA lig-MOR
“You are not obligated to complete the work…”
— Pirkei Avot 2:16

The rabbis understood something essential: human beings are finite. We participate in repair; we do not complete it alone.

This week, I also found myself thinking about a story much closer to home. The Jamestown S’Klallam Tribe is seeking to take fuller stewardship of the Dungeness and Protection Island National Wildlife Refuges on Washington’s Olympic Peninsula — lands the tribe has already been co-managing alongside the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. Tribal Vice Chair Loni Greninger explained:

“We are able to care for the land more deeply… because we are here and we know the land. We’re intimate with it.”

That word — intimate — caught my attention.

B’har imagines precisely that kind of relationship with the land. Not ownership without limits. Not domination. Relationship. Responsibility. Nearness.

The Torah’s sabbatical cycle challenges the illusion that humans stand above creation rather than within it. The land is not merely property to maximize. It is something living that we belong to and depend upon.

As a Humanistic Jew, I do not read these texts as divine commands descending from heaven. I read them as the accumulated moral imagination of a people wrestling with how humans might live responsibly with one another, with the earth, and with power itself.

And honestly, I think our ancestors were wiser than we sometimes admit.

They understood that societies collapse when everything becomes transactional.
They understood that debt without release destroys dignity.
They understood that land without rest becomes barren.
They understood that people without pause eventually break.

There is also an interreligious echo here that I appreciate deeply. In many traditions — Buddhist mindfulness practices, Christian Sabbath theology, Indigenous ecological wisdom, even Thoreau’s reflections at Walden Pond — there is a recurring insight: a meaningful life cannot be built entirely around consumption and speed.

The poet Mary Oliver once asked:

“Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?”

B’har quietly asks a companion question:

What would happen if we stopped treating life as something to exhaust?

Maybe the sabbatical year was never only about farming.

Maybe it was about remembering that worth is not measured solely by productivity.

Maybe it was about creating a society where rest itself becomes sacred — not because a deity commands it, but because human beings and the world around us genuinely need it.

This Shabbat, I am trying to remember that.

To breathe a little slower.
To listen a little more carefully.
To let silence exist without rushing to fill it.

And perhaps that is enough for now.

May you find moments of rest that are not earned, but embraced.
May your roots remain close to what nourishes you.
May you remember that your worth is deeper than your productivity.
And may this Shabbat offer you space to breathe, reconnect, and begin again.

With you through life’s moments,
Rabbi Jerid

Perfection… and the Line That Is Drawn

May 1–2, 2026 | 15 Iyar 5786

Emor — אֱמֹר — “Speak”

Torah: Leviticus 21:1–24:23
Haftarah: Ezekiel 44:15–31

“כָּל־אִישׁ… אֲשֶׁר־בּוֹ מוּם לֹא יִגַּשׁ”
Kol ish… asher bo mum lo yigash
“Any person… in whom there is a blemish shall not approach.” (Leviticus 21:18)

This week’s Torah portion…
wow.

What a wealth of information.

There are so many directions to go.
Undoubtedly, one could write multiple reflections from this one portion alone.

We have calendar laws.
Sacred time.
Priestly rules.
Sacrificial systems—very specific ones.

And somewhere in all of that…
I found myself pulled to one place.

The part about us.
About humans.
About worthiness.

Because here is what the text says—clearly:

If there is a mum—
a blemish, a defect, an injury—

lo yigash.

Do not approach.

Let that sit.

Not “try harder.”
Not “come anyway.”

Do not approach.

And not just that.

When it comes to offerings:

“תָּמִים יִהְיֶה לְרָצוֹן”
Tamim yih’yeh l’ratzon
“It shall be whole, unblemished, to be acceptable.” (Leviticus 22:21)

No defects.
No irregularities.
No imperfection.

Now, historically—we can understand this.

In the ancient world, the priest was a kind of representative of order.

The sacred space symbolized wholeness, stability, control.

And so the logic followed:

If the space must be perfect,
then those who serve within it must reflect that perfection.

Anything less… threatens the system.

That explains it.

But it does not resolve it.

Because I read this—
as a Humanistic Jew—
through a human lens.

And I will be frank:

There are parts of Torah that have profoundly shaped who we are.
There are lessons here that help us understand the human condition.

And there are parts…
we wrestle with.

Parts we question.

And yes—
parts we reject.

Because this idea—

that a human being, through no fault of their own,
because of a visible difference, an injury, a condition—

is told:

You may not approach—

That is not just difficult.

That is deeply uncomfortable.

And if we are honest—
it is not just ancient.

Because lo yigash did not stay in the Temple.

It shows up again and again across history.

There have been times—and places—
where women were told:

You may not approach.

Not the altar.
Not the bimah.
Not the center of religious life.

There have been times—and still are—
where members of the LGBTQIA+ community have been told:

You may not approach.

Not as you are.
Not fully.
Not openly.

There have been systems—religious and otherwise—
that drew lines and said:

You belong here.
You do not.

And if we are paying attention,
we begin to recognize the pattern.

Because once a system defines perfection—
it also defines exclusion.

And the language may change…

But the message echoes:

“If you are not this—
you cannot come near.”

And here is where it becomes even more personal.

Because we do not just hear this from institutions.

We begin to say it to ourselves.

“If I am not perfect…”
“If I am not ready…”
“If I am not enough…”

“Maybe I should not approach either.”

And suddenly, lo yigash is no longer a line in a text.

It becomes a voice inside us.

And that is where I push back.

Strongly.

Because here is the truth the text does not fully say out loud:

None of us are tamim.

Not one.

Some of our imperfections are visible.

Some are not.

Some are physical.
Some are emotional.
Some are the quiet things we carry that no one ever sees.

So what does that mean?

If only the “unblemished” may approach—

then who is left?

And what kind of community does that create?

Because a community built on perfection
will always be a community built on exclusion.

And that is the tension I cannot ignore.

The Torah says:

Be whole.
Be unblemished.
Be perfect.

And I hear that.

But I also see the cost of that message—
when it is taken beyond its ancient context
and applied to human lives.

So I sit with this portion this week
not trying to resolve it too quickly…

but allowing the discomfort to remain.

Because sometimes the most honest response to a text is not agreement.

It is engagement.

It is tension.

It is the willingness to say:

“This shaped us.

And now… we must decide what we carry forward.”

So this week, I sit with this portion
not trying to resolve it too quickly…

but allowing the discomfort to remain.

Because sometimes the most honest response to a text is not agreement.

It is engagement.
It is tension.
It is the willingness to say:

“This shaped us.
And now… we must decide what we carry forward.”

And that leads me to the question I cannot let go of:

If perfection is the requirement to approach…

Who among us is ever truly allowed in?

And if the answer is “very few”—
or worse… “no one”—

then perhaps the deeper question becomes:

What does it mean to approach anyway?

Because if we are honest—
most of us live our lives standing just outside something.

Waiting.

Hesitating.

Telling ourselves:

“I’ll step forward when I’m ready.”
“When I’ve worked this out.”
“When I’m better.”
“When I’m whole.”

When I am tamim.

But that moment never comes.

Because the truth is:

We are never finished.

We are never fully formed.

We are never without blemish.

And that is where a different voice within our tradition begins to speak.

A voice that emerges generations later, after the Temple is gone,
after the sacrificial system is no longer the center of Jewish life.

A voice found in Pirkei Avot:

“לֹא עָלֶיךָ הַמְּלָאכָה לִגְמוֹר, וְלֹא אַתָּה בֶן חוֹרִין לְהִבָּטֵל מִמֶּנָּה”

“It is not upon you to complete the work,
but neither are you free to desist from it.”

This is not a small teaching.

This is a complete reorientation of what it means to live a meaningful life.

The Torah portion says:

Be perfect—then approach.

Pirkei Avot says:

Approach—and begin, knowing you never will be.

That is a radical shift.

From perfection…
to participation.

From being flawless…
to being human.

And suddenly, everything changes.

Because now the question is no longer:

“Am I worthy?”

The question becomes:

“What can I offer—right now, as I am?”

And yes—what we offer will be imperfect.

Our words—imperfect.
Our help—imperfect.
Our love—imperfect.

But it is still offered.

There is a Japanese practice called Kintsugi.

When something breaks, it is not discarded.

It is repaired—with gold.

The cracks are not hidden.
They are illuminated.

Because the break is part of the story.

Imagine that through the lens of this week’s Torah portion.

A cracked vessel?

Lo yigash.

Disqualified.

But through a humanistic lens?

That vessel tells a story of survival.
Of repair.
Of becoming.

And suddenly, the very thing that disqualified it…
becomes the source of its value.

And so it is with us.

Our wounds are not disqualifications.

They are sources of empathy.

Our struggles are not signs of failure.

They are evidence of living.

And yet—we still hesitate.

Because we have internalized the ancient voice.

Lo yigash.

Do not approach.

It shows up in what we now call imposter syndrome.

That quiet voice that says:

“You are not ready.”
“You are not enough.”
“Someone else belongs here—not you.”

It shows up in the curated perfection of social media.

Lives that appear seamless.
Polished.
Unblemished.

A modern illusion of tamim.

And when we measure ourselves against that illusion…

We step back.

We hold back.

We silence ourselves.

But here is the truth:

Perfection creates distance.

But imperfection creates connection.

You do not connect to perfection.

You admire it.

You observe it.

But you do not connect to it.

You connect to honesty.

To vulnerability.

To someone who says:

“I am still becoming.”

And that is the shift.

From a theology of distance…

to a philosophy of intimacy.

From a system that says:

Only the perfect may approach—

to a way of living that says:

Bring what you have. Bring who you are. Bring it anyway.

Because if we wait to be perfect—

we never show up.

If we wait to be whole—

we never begin.

And the world loses something essential.

Your voice.

Your story.

Your offering.

Not when it is flawless.

But when it is real.

May you release the need to be tamim—perfect and whole.

May you honor the cracks that tell your story.

May you trust that you are still becoming—and that becoming is enough.

May you resist the quiet voice of lo yigash when it tells you to hold back.

May you have the courage to approach—
fully, honestly, and as you are.

May you remember: you are needed—not in spite of your imperfections, but with them.

They are what make you uniquely you.

They are what shape your gifts into something only you can offer.

And the world needs those gifts—exactly as they are.

Shabbat Shalom.

With you through life’s moments,
Rabbi Jerid

The Space Between

April 24–25, 2026 / 8 Iyar 5786

Acharei-K’doshim – אַחֲרֵי מוֹת – קְדֹשִׁים

After the death… You shall be holy

Torah: Leviticus 16:1–20:27
Haftarah: Amos 9:7–15

A student once approached a rabbi, frustrated after a difficult interaction.

“They misunderstood me,” the student said. “I explained myself clearly, and still—they saw something else.”

The rabbi listened and then asked a simple question:

“Did you want to be understood… or did you want to understand?”

The student paused.

Because those are not always the same thing.

This week, the Torah begins in loss.

“אַחֲרֵי מוֹת…”
A-cha-REI MOT… — After the death…

Before instruction.
Before holiness.
Before meaning.

There is grief.

Two sons of Aaron draw too close—and they die.
No clear explanation.
No satisfying resolution.

Just a quiet, unsettling truth:
even in sacred spaces, things can break.

And then—almost abruptly—the Torah turns:

“קְדֹשִׁים תִּהְיוּ…”
K’do-SHEEM TEE-h’YU… — You shall be holy.

It is a jarring shift.

From death… to holiness.
From rupture… to responsibility.

The rabbis asked: what does it mean to be kadosh—holy?

In Torat Kohanim, the answer is grounded, not abstract:

Holiness is found in how we treat one another.

To leave the corners of one’s field.
To act with honesty.
To refuse exploitation.

And most famously:

“וְאָהַבְתָּ לְרֵעֲךָ כָּמוֹךָ”
V’ah-HAV-ta l’REI-a-KHA ka-MO-kha
“Love your neighbor as yourself.” (Leviticus 19:18)

There is a teaching in Pirkei Avot that has been echoing for me this week:

“הֱוֵי מְקַבֵּל אֶת כָּל הָאָדָם בְּסֵבֶר פָּנִים יָפוֹת”
Heh-VEI m’ka-BEL et kol ha-a-DAM b’SE-ver pa-NEEM ya-FOT

“Receive every person with a pleasant countenance.” (Avot 1:15)

It sounds simple.

It is not.

This week, I found myself in a moment of tension.

A conversation that caught me off guard.
A perspective I did not fully agree with.

My first instinct—if I am honest—
was to explain.
To clarify.
To defend my intention.

And yet, something in me paused.

Not to agree.
But to listen.

Not to resolve.
But to remain present.

That pause—that choice—felt like the beginning of something.

Not perfection.
But practice.

Not holiness as an identity—
but holiness as a response.

The Haftarah reminds us:

“הֲלוֹא כִבְנֵי כֻשִׁיִּים אַתֶּם לִי…”
Ha-LO k’v-NEI KHU-shi-YEEM a-TEM lee…
“Are you not like all other peoples to Me?” (Amos 9:7)

It is a humbling message.

No one stands above.

Holiness is not status.

It is how we show up—especially when it is difficult.

This feels especially real in this moment.

Across the world, Jewish communities are navigating both fracture and connection—holding identity in the face of fear, while also choosing moments of dialogue and relationship across difference.

Brokenness and holiness—side by side.

From a Humanistic perspective, this parashah becomes even more powerful:

Holiness is not something we are given.

It is something we create.

Through restraint.
Through dignity.
Through choosing presence over reaction.

Through seeing another person—even when it is hard—and responding with humanity.

Perhaps that is why the Torah places these two ideas together:

אַחֲרֵי מוֹת — A-cha-REI MOT — After loss
קְדֹשִׁים תִּהְיוּ — K’do-SHEEM TEE-h’YU — You shall be holy

Because holiness does not come before the hard moments.

It comes after.

It is what we choose next.

So this week, the question is not:

“Am I holy?”

But rather:

In the moment of tension—
in the space where I could react—

Can I pause?

Can I listen?

Can I respond in a way that reflects the kind of world
I hope we are still capable of building?

May you find holiness not in certainty,
but in the courage to remain present.

May you meet moments of tension
with curiosity rather than defensiveness.

May you see each person before you
as worthy of dignity and care.

And may you help create a world
where holiness lives not above us—
but between us.

With you through life’s moments,

Rabbi Jerid

A Reflection from the Tension

April 17–18, 2026 / 1 Iyar 5786

Tazria–M’tzora — תַזְרִיעַ–מְצֹרָע

Leviticus 12:1–15:33
Haftarah: Second Book of Kings 7:3–20

This week, I found myself stuck.

Not busy.
Not distracted.
Stuck.

I read Parashat Tazria–M’tzora—and I did not immediately see the meaning.

This is not one of those portions that gently opens itself.
It resists.

This text brings us into a world of skin afflictions, bodily emissions, quarantine, and priestly diagnosis. After childbirth, a person waits. When a rash appears, they do not go to a physician—they go to a priest. They are examined, isolated, and sometimes declared impure.

Reading this in 2026, everything in me wants to ask:

Where is the science in this?
Where is the medicine?
What are we meant to do with this today?

And perhaps more importantly:

How do we find meaning in a text that feels so distant from what we now understand about the human body?

From a modern perspective, some elements here are not entirely without logic.

Isolation of those with visible skin conditions—what the Torah calls tzara’at—may have functioned as an early form of public health.

Not scientific as we understand it today, but not entirely arbitrary either.
Communities observed patterns: illness spreads, proximity matters, time can heal.

And yet, much of this system is not medical—it is symbolic.

The priest is not diagnosing eczema or psoriasis. The priest is interpreting meaning.

The body becomes a canvas on which a community projects fear, morality, and the unknown.

In the Talmud, the rabbis wrestle with tzara’at and suggest that it is not merely physical, but ethical—sometimes linked metaphorically to lashon hara, harmful speech (see Arachin 15b).

Now, whether or not one accepts that connection literally, something profound is happening:

Our tradition is already trying to move
from surface to meaning
from symptom to human behavior

And even then, there was an instinct to reinterpret.

While walking the sidewalks of Lower Queen Anne, I was reminded how quickly we still make assumptions about bodies.

A person with a visible condition—something on the skin, something that draws the eye—often receives different kinds of attention. Sometimes more care. Sometimes more distance. Sometimes unspoken discomfort.

Nothing is said aloud.
But something is felt.

And in that moment, I thought:

We are not so far removed from Leviticus as we might like to believe.

We no longer send someone to a priest.

But we still look.
We still judge.
We still create distance—sometimes subtly, sometimes without even realizing it.

This week, across the United States, conversations continue about public health, about who belongs in shared spaces, about how communities respond to visible and invisible difference.

Whether it is illness, identity, or fear of the unknown, the question remains:

Who is “inside?”
Who is “outside?”
Who gets welcomed—and who gets quietly set apart?

The four lepers in the Haftarah (II Kings 7) sit at the edge of the camp—excluded, unseen—yet they become the very ones who discover abundance and bring news of hope.

The ones pushed to the margins
become the ones who save the community.

For me, this is where the text becomes meaningful.

Not as medicine.
Not as science.
But as a record of how human beings, long ago, tried to make sense of fear, illness, and difference—using the tools and understanding available to them.

And more importantly—

how we are still doing that work today.

A Humanistic lens does not ask us to defend the system of purity and impurity.

It asks us to learn from it.

To recognize:

• how quickly fear becomes separation

• how easily difference becomes stigma

• how often the unknown becomes something we judge

And then—to choose differently.

If ancient communities responded to fear
by creating distance…

What do we choose to create?

Distance?

Or connection?

Perhaps the enduring lesson of Tazria–M’tzora is not about the body at all.

It is about how we respond
to what we do not understand.

And perhaps the question it leaves us with is this:
not what they believed then—
but how we choose to respond now.

May you meet what is unfamiliar
not with fear, but with curiosity.

May you notice where distance quietly forms
and choose, when you can, to close the gap.

May you see beyond the surface of every person
and honor the full humanity within them.

And may we continue—together—
to build a world where no one is left outside the camp.

Shabbat Shalom.

With you through life’s moments,

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

Chol HaMo-ed Pesach: When Presence Is the Practice

April 3-4, 2026 | 17 Nisan 5786
חוֹל הַמֹּעֵד פֶּסַח

Torah: Exodus 33:12–34:26
Haftarah: Ezekiel 37:1–14 

“See, You say to me, ‘Lead this people forward,’ but You have not made known to me whom You will send with me…”
—Exodus 33:12

There is a quiet vulnerability in this moment of Torah.

Moses—leader, liberator, voice of courage—pauses.
Not to declare.
Not to command.
But to question.

Who will go with me?
How do I lead when I do not know what comes next?

It is a deeply human moment.

And perhaps that is what makes it sacred.

This week, during Passover, I found myself thinking about presence—what it means to show up, visibly, even when it feels uncertain.

I do not often wear a kippah in my daily routine.
But this week, I did.

And in that small, intentional act, something happened.

Walking down a hallway, someone passed by and said,
“Your religion kills babies. How does that make you feel?"

It was abrupt.
Jarring.
Uninvited.

For a moment, I felt the weight of it—not just the words themselves, but the history behind them, the assumptions, the pain, the misunderstanding.

I responded, but later, I found myself reflecting.

Not on how to defend.
Not on how to debate.
But on how to be.

There is a teaching in the Talmud:

“In a place where there are no menschen, strive to be a mensch.”
(Pirkei Avot 2:5, adapted)

Not a hero.
Not a perfect responder.
Just a person of dignity, integrity, and humanity.

In that moment, wearing a kippah was not just about identity.
It was about visibility.

And visibility can be vulnerable.

Passover is a story of liberation, yes—but also of being seen.

The Israelites move from invisibility to presence.
From being unnamed laborers to a people with a story, a voice, a future.

And yet, even in freedom, the journey is not simple.

There is fear.
There is resistance.
There are moments when others project their own narratives onto you.

Sound familiar?

In our current world, we are witnessing a rise in polarized narratives—about Jews, about Israel, about identity itself.

Across campuses, in cities, in conversations both public and private, people are being reduced to symbols rather than seen as human beings.

And in response, many are asking:

How do we show up?
How do we respond?
How do we remain grounded in who we are without becoming hardened by the world around us?

For me, this week offered a quiet answer.

Not a perfect answer.
But a beginning.

To wear the kippah was not to make a statement of certainty.
It was to accept a posture of presence.

To say:
This is who I am.
I am here.
And I will meet the world not with fear, but with humanity.

From a Humanistic Jewish perspective, holiness does not descend from above.

It is created—in moments like these.

In the choice to respond with dignity rather than defensiveness.
In the willingness to reflect rather than react.
In the courage to remain open, even when misunderstood.

That is sacred work.

The Song of Songs, also read during Passover, reminds us:

“Many waters cannot quench love…” (Song of Songs 8:7)

Not even harsh words.
Not even misunderstanding.
Not even fear.

Love—understood here as deep human connection, empathy, and dignity—endures.

So this week, perhaps the question is not:

What would I have said?
What is the perfect response?

But something quieter:

How do I choose to show up?
What does it mean for me to be visible, with integrity?
Where can I embody the kind of presence I hope to see in the world?

This Shabbat, during these sacred intermediate days of Passover, may we each find the courage to show up as ourselves—fully, honestly, and with compassion.

May we remember that liberation is not only about leaving something behind, but about stepping into who we are.

And may we choose, again and again, to meet the world not as categories or assumptions—

—but as human beings,
walking forward together.

Shabbat Shalom.

With you through life’s moments,
Rabbi Jerid

Tzav: The Fire We Tend

March 27-28, 2026 | 10 Nisan 5786

צַו — “Command”
Leviticus 6:1–8:36

“The burnt offering itself shall remain where it is burned upon the altar all night until morning, while the fire on the altar is kept going on it.”
(Leviticus 6:2)

There is something quietly powerful about a fire that does not go out.

In Tzav, the instruction is not to build the fire—but to tend it.
Not to ignite something new—but to sustain what already burns.

The altar fire is to remain through the night, through darkness, through stillness.
Even when no one is watching.
Even when the world feels quiet or uncertain.

This is not a dramatic moment like Sinai.
It is something steadier.
Something ongoing.

A responsibility.

The rabbis of the Talmud noticed this detail and offered a teaching:
A person should always add to the fire, even when it already burns (Yoma 45b, paraphrased).

The work is never finished.
Presence is not a one-time act.
Care is not a single offering.

We return.
We tend.
We sustain.

This week, I have been thinking, as I reflect on this portion, about reconnecting with a cousin of mine—someone I have known nearly my entire life.

For a long time, we would speak a few times a year.
We would promise to stay in touch.
And then, as we often say, “life would get in the way.”

But perhaps that is not quite true.

Life does not get in the way.
We make space for what we choose to tend.

About two months ago, we spoke and realized how much had changed.
So many persons who once shaped our lives are no longer with us—grandparents, aunts, parents. Time had moved, quietly and steadily, whether we were paying attention or not.

And so we made a simple commitment:

To speak once a week.
To show up for one another—not occasionally, but consistently.

We chose to tend the fire.

And we have.

Then, earlier this week, a tragedy touched her immediate family.

A message came.
And because the fire had already been tended—because the connection was already alive—we were able to be there for one another.

Not scrambling to reconnect.
Not starting from distance.

But already present.

We have spoken most days this week.
Listening.
Holding space.
Simply being there.

And I found myself realizing:

The weekly calls did not just maintain the relationship.
They made this moment possible.

We are living in a world that often celebrates the visible fire—the big moments, the breakthroughs, the transformations.

But Tzav gently redirects our attention.

The sacred work is not only in lighting the fire.
It is in keeping it alive.

In relationships.
In communities.
In the fragile spaces where connection is just beginning to take shape.

The Hasidic tradition offers a story of a student who asked a teacher, “Where does holiness live?”

The teacher replied, “Wherever you let it in.”

Not in the fire itself—but in the tending.
Not in the moment—but in the return.

As we move into Shabbat HaGadol, the “Great Shabbat” before Passover, we stand on the edge of a story filled with dramatic change—plagues, liberation, crossing into the unknown.

But before the great moment comes the quiet work.

Preparation.
Attention.
Care.

The fire does not sustain itself.

This week, I find myself wondering:

What small fires have I been entrusted to tend?

A conversation just beginning.
A relationship not yet fully formed.
A moment that seems ordinary—but is anything but.

And perhaps the deeper question—

Am I willing to return to it?
To sit again.
To listen again.
To care again.

Perhaps the most sacred fires in our lives are not the ones that blaze brightly, but the ones we choose—again and again—to keep alive.

This week, may you find the fires in your life that call for your attention.
May you make space to tend them with care and intention.
And may the quiet, steady work of showing up—again and again—bring warmth, connection, and meaning to your days. 

With you through life's moments,
Rabbi Jerid

Vayikra: When the Call Is Small but Clear

March 20-21, 2026 | 3 Nisan 5786

וַיִּקְרָא — “And [God] Called”

Leviticus 1:1–5:26

“The Eternal One called to Moses and spoke to him from the Tent of Meeting...”

(Leviticus 1:1)

There is something tender about the opening of Vayikra.

Not thunder.

Not spectacle.

Not Sinai with smoke and trembling.

Just a call.

A voice from the Tent of Meeting.

A summons into nearness.

An invitation to pay attention.

The book of Leviticus can feel far away from modern life. Its language is thick with offerings, blood, ash, priests, and altars. Many readers move through it with distance, if not discomfort. Yet Vayikra begins with a truth that still feels close: before there is ritual, there is relationship. Before there is offering, there is a call.

And perhaps that is where this portion still meets us.

Most of us are not bringing cattle or grain to an altar. But many of us know what it is to carry something inwardly that must be brought forward. Regret. Gratitude. Grief. Hope. Love that has not yet been spoken aloud. The ancient system of offerings gave people a way to make the invisible visible. It gave form to remorse, thanks, devotion, and repair.

That part still feels deeply human.

There are moments in life when the heart knows that something must be acknowledged. An apology must be made. A wound must be named. A thank you must be spoken before it is too late. A gift must be shared. A return must be attempted. We may not call these offerings, but in a very real sense, that is what they are.

I think that is part of why Vayikra speaks to me this year.

So much in modern life trains us to live at the surface. To move quickly. To skim. To react. To postpone the deeper conversation for another day. Yet this parashah begins with a call inward and forward at once. It asks: What are you carrying? What needs to be brought near? What would it mean to stop hiding behind busyness, distraction, or fear and to offer something honest?

The Oral Torah makes an important move here. In Menachot 110a, Rabbi Yitzḥak teaches that one who studies the laws of the sin offering is credited as though they had brought a sin offering, and one who studies Torah is considered as though they had offered the sacrifices themselves. The rabbis were already helping Judaism survive the loss of the altar by shifting attention from slaughter to study, from blood to moral consciousness, from ritual performance to inward transformation. That move feels deeply meaningful in Vayikra. We may not bring animals to a sanctuary, but we are still called to bring our attention, our honesty, our remorse, our gratitude, and our willingness to change.

We often imagine that what changes the world must be big, dramatic, undeniable. But this teaching directs our attention elsewhere: to the small act, the quiet turning, the modest beginning. A gentle word. A restrained response. A private act of repair. A gift given without display. A heart softened just enough to hear what had been ignored.

The world does not only change through grand gestures.

It also changes through small obediences to conscience.

There is an old rabbinic instinct here worth holding close: that what is brought matters, but how it is brought matters too. The offering is not magic. The ritual is not a shortcut. What matters is the inward truth that accompanies the outward act. To go through the motions without transformation is emptiness. To bring even something small with sincerity is holy work.

That feels especially urgent now.

This week’s news has been filled once again with human suffering on a staggering scale. In Sudan, civilians continue to be killed amid fighting that is choking off humanitarian routes. In Lebanon, the United Nations says children are being killed or wounded at a horrifying rate as war intensifies. Humanitarian officials are also warning that widening regional conflict could deepen hunger for millions and further disrupt the delivery of food and medicine.

It is easy, when reading such headlines, to feel small in the worst way. Powerless. Numb. Overwhelmed. As though nothing one person does could possibly matter against the scale of sorrow.

But Vayikra offers another possibility.

In Jewish tradition, the opening word Vayikra contains a small aleph, a reminder that a call does not need to be loud to be real.

It may arrive quietly.

And it still asks for an answer.

Not everyone is called to solve the whole crisis.

But everyone is called to bring something.

A donation.

A prayerful act of solidarity, if that is one’s language.

A letter.

An honest conversation.

A refusal to dehumanize.

An act of care for a neighbor nearby.

A commitment to feed, shelter, visit, or accompany someone whose life has grown heavy.

The ancient offerings of Leviticus were not all equal in size, but they all created a path for people to draw near. Perhaps that is part of the wisdom we most need now. We do not wait until our contribution is large enough to be impressive. We begin with what can truly be offered.

A call.

A response.

A bringing near.

And maybe that is the deeper question of this Shabbat:

What is mine to bring?

Not in theory.

Not someday.

Now.

What pain needs tending?

What gratitude needs expression?

What repair needs beginning?

What generosity has been waiting for permission?

What truth has been sitting just outside the door of speech?

Vayikra reminds us that human beings need ways to cross the distance between what is felt and what is done. Between inward conviction and outward action. Between estrangement and return.

The call may be quiet.

The offering may be small.

But a life can be changed by what is finally brought forward.

May this Shabbat help us hear the calls that do not shout.

May it give us courage to bring what is honest.

And may the small, sincere offerings of our lives become part of the healing of a wounded world.

With you through life’s moments, 

 Rabbi Jerid

Holiness in the Spaces Between Us: The Architecture of Human Connection

March 14, 2026 | 25 Adar 5786

Vayakhel–Pekudei

וַיַּקְהֵל — “And Moses Assembled”

Exodus 35:1–40:38

A well-known teaching from the Talmud says that when the Temple in Jerusalem was destroyed, the Divine Presence did not disappear from the world. Instead, the sages said it now rests wherever persons gather to study, to learn, and to act with intention (Pirkei Avot 3:6). One person studying with care can create such a moment. Two persons learning together can deepen it. Ten persons gathered in a minyan can make it flourish.

The message is simple and radical: holiness does not live in buildings.

It lives wherever human beings bring their deepest values into the world.

The Torah portion this week, Vayakhel–Pekudei, closes the Book of Exodus with the construction of the Mishkan, the portable sanctuary that accompanied the Israelites through the wilderness. Unlike the Temple that would later stand in Jerusalem, the Mishkan was designed to move. When the camp moved, the sanctuary moved with it.

The Torah emphasizes something remarkable about its construction. The Mishkan was not built by miracle. It was built because individuals whose hearts were moved brought their gifts forward—fabric, metal, wood, skill, artistry, leadership, and labor.

Holiness emerged through participation.

From a humanistic perspective, the word holy does not describe something supernatural descending from the heavens. Instead, holiness describes those moments when human beings bring their highest values—compassion, responsibility, creativity, and care—into the shared work of living together.

Holiness appears whenever persons gather with intention.

Holiness is what happens when human beings choose to treat one another as sacred.

The Mishkan was simply the architectural expression of that truth.

Earlier this week, while walking the dogs through the quiet morning streets, I found myself thinking about this idea. The Torah’s portable sanctuary was never meant to confine holiness to one place. It was meant to remind a wandering community that sacred moments could appear wherever they paused long enough to gather with purpose.

That insight feels especially meaningful in our own moment. We live in a time when many institutions feel fragile and many persons feel divided. Political disagreements can harden into suspicion. Communities sometimes struggle to remember that cooperation is even possible.

Yet the Torah quietly offers a different vision.

The Mishkan was built by former slaves still learning how to live together, still discovering what freedom meant. They did not agree on everything. They were imperfect, anxious, and uncertain about the future.

And yet—they built something together.

Every act of generosity became a beam in that sanctuary. Every skill offered became a thread in its fabric. Every person who chose to participate helped transform a wandering camp into a community.

The sages later preserved this wisdom in the Oral Torah: holiness does not depend on sacred geography. It appears wherever human beings gather to learn, to celebrate, to mourn, to question, or simply to care for one another.

The Mishkan still rises in those moments.

Not in wood and gold.

But in the living architecture of human connection.

And perhaps that is the enduring lesson of Vayakhel–Pekudei.

Sacred spaces do not begin with buildings.

They begin when we gather with intention.

When we listen deeply to one another’s stories.

When a community welcomes someone who feels alone.

When we bring our talents, our creativity, and our compassion into the shared work of repairing the world.

In those moments, the sanctuary travels with us.

And wherever that happens—in a synagogue, a living room, a classroom, a hospital room, or a quiet conversation between two persons—holiness moves through the world again.

Shabbat Shalom.

With you through life’s moments,

Rabbi Jerid

Many Voices, One Humanity: Reflecting on Considering Matthew Shepard

March 6-7, 2026 | 18 Adar 5786

Ki Tisa: Every Life Counted

כִּי תִשָּׂא — “When You Take a Census”
Exodus 30:11–34:35

“When you take a census of the Israelites according to their enrollment, each shall pay the Eternal a ransom for themselves on being enrolled…”
(Exodus 30:12)

This past Tuesday evening, my husband and I attended a performance of Considering Matthew Shepard, Craig Hella Johnson’s powerful oratorio reflecting on the life and legacy of Matthew Shepard. The concert hall was packed. The stage was filled with risers and stools arranged for the combined choirs of the University of Washington and Seattle University. Throughout the performance, images were projected across the back wall of the stage—photographs, landscapes, fragments of story—quietly expanding the music beyond sound and into memory.

Before the first note was sung, a thought had already taken hold in my mind. Matthew Shepard was only nine years younger than I am. I found myself wondering how differently two lives might unfold depending on the moment in history into which one is born. Had Matthew grown up in a different time, perhaps his story would have taken another path. Had I been born just a few years earlier, perhaps mine would have been different as well.

As the singers prepared to begin, I realized that the evening would not simply be a concert. It would be a meditation on memory, humanity, and the slow, unfinished journey toward a world where every life is allowed to flourish.

Matthew Shepard was murdered in October of 1998, a crime that shocked the nation and became a painful symbol of the hatred that LGBTQIA+ people have faced for generations. For many of us who were young adults at the time, the story felt both distant and deeply personal. Matthew was not an abstract figure. He was a college student. A son. A friend. An ordinary young man whose life should have unfolded with the same hopes and possibilities that any of us carry into adulthood.

In 1998, I had not yet fully accepted who I was. Somewhere deep inside, I knew. But like many people growing up in that era, I was still wrestling with what it meant and what it might cost. When news of Matthew Shepard’s murder spread across the country, it weighed heavily on me. Even then, I sensed that something larger than a single tragedy had occurred. It revealed a painful truth about how dangerous the world could be for someone simply for being who they are.

Sitting in the concert hall that evening, I found my thoughts returning again and again to that simple realization: Matthew Shepard was only nine years younger than I am. The difference between our lives—between the paths we were allowed to walk—felt suddenly very small and very profound. It reminded me how easily the course of a life can be shaped by the moment in history into which one is born.

Much has changed since 1998. In many places, LGBTQIA+ people experience greater visibility, acceptance, and legal protection than seemed imaginable a generation ago. Yet progress is rarely a straight line. Even now, we see a resurgence of legislation and public rhetoric that targets LGBTQ people—particularly transgender youth—reminding us how fragile that progress can be.

The story of Matthew Shepard belongs not only to the past, but also to the unfinished work of the present.

Craig Hella Johnson’s Considering Matthew Shepard is not simply a musical work. It is an act of remembrance. Through poetry, scripture, and music, the oratorio invites listeners to sit with Matthew Shepard’s story—not as distant observers, but as witnesses.

As the choirs sang, I was reminded of something I have experienced many times in my life as a musician. There are rare moments when music moves beyond performance and becomes transcendence. In those moments, the boundaries between individuals begin to dissolve. Voices blend, breath aligns, and a room full of people begins to feel connected in a way that is difficult to explain.

One thing that struck me immediately was the diversity of the singers themselves. The choir reflected the world we live in—people of different backgrounds, identities, and traditions standing side by side to tell this story together. I found myself thinking that surely among those voices were LGBTQIA+ people singing unapologetically as their authentic selves. One singer wore a hijab. The stage itself became a quiet testimony to the possibility of a more inclusive world.

At one point in the work, a prayer emerged that drew from multiple religious traditions. Among the voices was the opening line of the Jewish Mourner’s Kaddish:

Yitgadal v’yitkadash sh’mei rabba
“May the great name be exalted and sanctified.”

Hearing that ancient prayer woven into a contemporary lament for Matthew Shepard was deeply moving. It reminded me that across cultures and traditions, humanity has long searched for ways to mourn, to remember, and to affirm the sacredness of life.

In music, we sometimes glimpse what humanity could be when we listen to one another and move together with shared purpose. That evening, the choir did more than perform. They became a living community holding Matthew Shepard’s story with care.

In the Jewish calendar, this week’s Torah portion—Ki Tisa—opens with an unusual command: Moses is instructed to take a census of the people. Each person is counted individually, each life acknowledged as part of the community. The message beneath the numbers is simple but profound: every human being matters. Sitting in that concert hall, listening to hundreds of voices singing together, I was reminded of that ancient idea. A just and compassionate world is built when every person is recognized, every voice is counted, and every life is treated as worthy of dignity.

One of the most haunting moments in Considering Matthew Shepard recalls the protests that followed Matthew’s murder. Members of the Westboro Baptist Church appeared outside his funeral holding signs and shouting scripture—using the language of religion as a weapon against the very humanity it claims to honor.

For many LGBTQIA+ people, moments like that are not distant memories. They are part of a broader history of religious trauma. I remember sitting in church as a teenager, listening to sermons that condemned homosexuality, quietly wondering if the words being spoken from the pulpit were somehow directed at me. At that time, I had not yet fully accepted who I was, but somewhere deep inside, I knew. The message I often heard was clear: something about me was broken.

Over the years, I came to a different understanding. The scriptures themselves are not a single voice speaking with perfect clarity. They are a collection of human stories—our ancestors wrestling with life, morality, fear, hope, and the mystery of existence. Like all human traditions, they contain wisdom and they contain limitations.

What matters is how we choose to engage them.

Within Jewish tradition itself, there are voices that insist on the dignity of every human being. The rabbinic sages taught that every person is created b’tzelem Elohim, in the image of the divine. In Pirkei Avot we read: “Beloved is the human being, for they were created in the image.” Another teaching, kavod habriyot—human dignity—reminds us that protecting the dignity of people is so important that it can even override certain religious rules.

Those teachings helped me realize something important: religion can be used to harm, but it can also be used to heal.

Rather than abandoning religious tradition entirely, I chose to engage it honestly—to acknowledge the places where it falls short while also drawing from the many voices within it that affirm human dignity, compassion, and justice.

The same scriptures that have been used to condemn can also become tools for understanding and healing when read through the lens of our shared humanity.

Over time, I came to understand something that once felt impossible to say: I was never broken.

Like many LGBTQIA+ people who grew up hearing messages of condemnation, part of my early life was shaped by the quiet hope that something inside me might change—that somehow I could become the person others expected me to be. But the deeper I moved into adulthood, the more I began to recognize that what needed transformation was not my identity, but the narratives that had taught me to fear it.

Music played a quiet but important role in that journey. Throughout my life as a singer, conductor, and teacher, there were moments when music created a sense of belonging that transcended the boundaries people so often place around one another. In those moments—voices breathing together, harmonies forming out of many different parts—I experienced a glimpse of what community can be when each person is allowed to bring their authentic voice.

Those experiences helped shape the way I understand both humanity and religion today. The scriptures are not perfect. They are part of humanity’s long attempt to understand itself. Yet within that ongoing conversation, we can still discover wisdom that affirms the dignity and worth of every person.

And sometimes, it is through music—through many voices singing together—that we remember this truth most clearly.

As the final notes of Considering Matthew Shepard faded into silence, the audience remained still for a long moment. It felt as though no one wanted to break the space that the music had created. In that quiet, I found myself thinking again about Matthew Shepard—not only as the victim of a terrible act of violence, but as a young man whose story continues to challenge our collective conscience.

In Jewish tradition, the Mourner’s Kaddish does not speak about death. Instead, it magnifies life. It is a prayer that insists, even in moments of grief, that the world can still be made more whole.

Perhaps that is part of what works like this invite us to do.

They remind us that the arc of history bends slowly, and not always in a straight line. Progress requires human beings who are willing to choose empathy over fear, dignity over division, and compassion over cruelty.

For those who have ever felt alone, misunderstood, or told that something about them was broken, Matthew Shepard’s story—and the music that now carries it—offers a quiet reminder that you are not alone.

And for all of us, it offers a responsibility as well: to keep building a world where every voice is welcomed, every life is honored, and every person is free to live authentically and without fear.

May we keep listening—until every voice is welcomed and every life is allowed to flourish.

With you through life’s moments,
Rabbi Jerid

T’Tzaveh: Clear Oil in an Age of Decrees

February 28, 2026 | 11 Adar 5786

תְּצַוֶּה — “You Shall Further Instruct”
Exodus 27:20–30:10

“You shall further instruct the Israelites to bring you clear oil of beaten olives for lighting, for kindling lamps regularly.” (Exodus 27:20)

There is something striking about this command.

Before priestly garments.
Before incense.
Before sacred choreography.

There is oil.

Clear oil.
Beaten oil.
Oil that produces steady light.

T’Tzaveh is not a dramatic portion. No plagues. No sea splitting. No thunder. It is about maintenance. About tending. About structure. About light that must not flicker when the world grows uncertain.

And perhaps most quietly powerful of all — Moses’ name does not appear in this portion. Leadership is present. Authority is exercised. But the leader’s name is absent.

The system matters more than the personality.

Next week we enter Purim.

In the Book of Esther, God’s name never appears. Power rests in a single ruler who can issue decrees with the stroke of a pen. Those decrees cannot be revoked. An entire people can be endangered by the impulse, fear, or manipulation of one court official.

Purim is comedic and carnivalesque, but underneath the masks is something serious: what happens when power is concentrated? What happens when fear shapes policy? What happens when decrees move faster than deliberation?

The Persian empire in Esther is not guided by covenantal structure. It is governed by royal edict.

T’Tzaveh offers a different vision.

Light is not the responsibility of one ruler. The people must bring the oil. The priests must tend the flame. The garments must be crafted with intention. Leadership is structured, shared, regulated.

Sacred power is bounded by process.

We are living in days when the language of war has reentered our headlines. Conflict escalates quickly. Decisions feel immediate. Emotions rise.

It is important to say clearly: governments are not the same as people. The Iranian people are not reducible to their regime. They are human beings — parents, children, artists, students — whose lives are shaped by forces beyond their control. Jewish history teaches us the danger of confusing a people with the policies of those who govern them.

It is also important to remember something else: in a democracy, decisions of war are not meant to rest in one set of hands. The Constitution distributes power intentionally. Deliberation matters. Accountability matters. Shared responsibility matters.

That is not partisan.
It is structural.

And Torah cares deeply about structure.

T’Tzaveh insists that even something as small as oil must be prepared carefully — beaten, clarified, made fit for light. Sacred leadership is never impulsive. It is sustained, communal, regulated.

Purim warns us what happens when decrees move without such boundaries.

There is another layer here.

The oil must be beaten.

Pressure produces clarity.

Olives are crushed before they give light.

Jewish history knows pressure. We know what it is to live in empires. We know what it is to navigate power structures that are not entirely our own. Purim is not a story of domination. It is a story of survival, courage, timing, and moral clarity inside empire.

So what is our work now?

Not panic.
Not rage.
Not apathy.

Our work is to bring clear oil.

Clear thinking.
Clear ethics.
Clear distinctions between people and regimes.
Clear insistence that power must remain accountable.

We do not control empires.
But we do control the quality of oil we bring into the public square.

Will it be clouded by fear?
Or clarified by conscience?

The ner tamid — the eternal light — does not shout. It does not flash like lightning. It simply burns, regularly.

In anxious times, steadiness is revolutionary.

And perhaps that is the quiet connection between T’Tzaveh and Purim:
When leadership names are hidden,
When God’s name is absent,
When decrees feel frightening,

We still tend the light.
We still act.

A small musical echo comes to mind — Oseh Shalom, asking that the One who makes peace in the heavens help us make peace here on earth. However one understands that language, the responsibility remains ours. Peace is not declared from above; it is practiced below.

This week, may we refuse to confuse people with governments.
May we insist that power remain accountable.
May we resist fear-based decrees.
May we bring clear oil into complicated days.

With you through life’s moments,
Rabbi Jerid

To Build a Sanctuary in the Open

Friday, February 20, 2026 | 3 Adar 5786

Shalom and welcome.

This website launches not as a monument, but as a Mishkan.

In Parashat T’rumah we read:

וְעָשׂוּ לִי מִקְדָּשׁ וְשָׁכַנְתִּי בְּתוֹכָם
“Let them build for Me a sanctuary, and I will dwell among them.” (Exodus 25:8)

The Torah does not say “I will dwell in it.”
It says “among them.”

The sanctuary was never about architecture.
It was about relationship.

As a rabbi rooted in Humanistic Judaism, I do not understand sacredness as descending from beyond the universe. I understand it as emerging between human beings who choose responsibility, dignity, and shared story.

This website is an offering — a t’rumah.

Not gold or acacia wood, but words.
Not curtains and clasps, but commitments.
Not a fixed building, but a portable space of connection.

Rabbi Sherwin Wine taught that Judaism is the evolving civilization of the Jewish people. He insisted that honesty about belief need not sever us from ritual, community, or meaning. If anything, clarity strengthens it.

In that spirit, this platform exists to serve.

To accompany couples under the chuppah.
To guide families through grief.
To prepare young people for Cultural B Mitzvah.
To wrestle with Torah in ways that are intellectually honest and spiritually alive.
To hold joy and sorrow without theological coercion.

The Mishnah in Avot teaches:

“Al shloshah devarim ha’olam omed” —
“The world stands on three things.”

Ethical action.
Sacred study.
And community responsibility.

This website stands on those same pillars.

It is Jewish.
It is humanistic.
It is committed to tradition without surrendering intellectual integrity.

In the coming weeks, I will gradually add earlier reflections and writings here, dating them according to when they were first composed, so that this space reflects continuity as well as growth. Like any living Jewish conversation, it will evolve.

A launch is not a declaration of completion.

It is an act of covenant.

If holiness dwells anywhere, it dwells where people gather with intention — whether in a sanctuary, a living room, a hospital room, or across digital space.

May this site become such a gathering place.

May it reflect Torah that is alive.
May it honor our past without being trapped by it.
May it help us build sanctuaries — not of wood and gold — but of compassion, courage, and shared purpose.

Bruchim ha’ba’im. Welcome.

With you through life’s moments,
Rabbi Jerid

T’rumah: Building Sacred Space

Erev Shabbat, February 20, 2026 | 4 Adar 5786
(Parashat T’rumah – Exodus 25:1–27:19)

Shabbat Shalom.

This week’s Torah portion, T’rumah — תְּרוּמָה — begins with an invitation:

דַּבֵּר אֶל־בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל וְיִקְחוּ־לִי תְּרוּמָה
“Tell the Israelites to bring Me gifts.”

Gold. Silver. Copper. Blue and purple yarn. Fine linen. Acacia wood. Oil for light.

The people are asked to give — not as tax, not as coercion, but as offering. The Hebrew root רוּם (rum) suggests lifting up. A t’rumah is something elevated, something raised.

Traditionally, these gifts are brought to build the Mishkan — the Tabernacle — a portable sanctuary in the wilderness.

And then comes the line that echoes across centuries:

וְעָשׂוּ לִי מִקְדָּשׁ וְשָׁכַנְתִּי בְּתוֹכָם
V’asu li mikdash v’shachanti b’tocham
“Let them make for Me a sanctuary, and I will dwell among them.”

Notice: not “in it.”

Among them.

As a Jew from the branch of Humanistic Judaism, this distinction matters deeply.

Sacredness is not contained in architecture.
It is not trapped in wood or fabric or gold.

It dwells — if it dwells at all — between people.

The Mishkan was portable because the people were portable. The sanctuary moved as they moved. Holiness was not fixed to geography; it traveled with the community.

That idea feels especially resonant in our time.

Jewish life today is not confined to one kind of space. It unfolds in homes, in parks, in hospital rooms, in community centers, online, and in borrowed sanctuaries. The structure matters less than the intention.

T’rumah teaches something subtle: before the sanctuary is built, the people must first choose to give.

“From every person whose heart moves them” — אֲשֶׁר יִדְּבֶנּוּ לִבּוֹ.

The sanctuary begins in the heart.

The boards and curtains come later.

We often think sacred space creates sacred community.

T’rumah reverses it.

Sacred community creates sacred space.

When two people stand beneath a chuppah, the holiness does not descend from the fabric overhead. It rises from their commitment.

When a young person becomes a Cultural B Mitzvah, the sacredness does not reside in the lectern. It emerges from courage and preparation.

When mourners gather, it is not the room that carries memory. It is the stories spoken aloud.

The Mishkan is, in many ways, a metaphor for what we are always building: spaces of meaning, intention, belonging.

And Shabbat is our weekly reminder that we can construct such space anywhere.

We light candles.
We say Shabbat Shalom.
We pause the week’s striving.

In that pause, something shifts.

Not because heaven opens —
but because we do.

On this Erev Shabbat, may we ask:

What are we building?
What are we lifting up?
Where does sacredness dwell among us?

May our offerings be generous.
May our structures be humane.
May our communities be portable and strong.

And may we continue to build — together — sanctuaries not of gold, but of dignity, compassion, and shared purpose.

Shabbat Shalom.

With you through life’s moments,
Rabbi Jerid

Rosh Hashanah 5786

September 22, 2025 | 1 Tishrei 5786
Seattle, Washington

Shanah Tovah.

Rosh Hashanah marks more than the turning of a calendar. It invites us into reflection, accountability, and hope. Jewish tradition teaches that there are four “new years,” but the one we begin tonight is the most intimate. It asks not only when the world was born—but how we are living within it.

The Mishnah describes this day as a moment of measure. What are we doing with the gift of our days? What do we wish to create in the year ahead?

Some imagine God as judge, opening the Book of Life. Through a Humanistic Jewish lens, the metaphor shifts. The book is written by human hands. It is inscribed through our choices, our values, and the impact we leave on one another.

Our liturgy offers three anchors: Malchuyot, Zichronot, Shofarot.

Malchuyot—sovereignty. Traditionally this affirms divine kingship. For us, it calls attention to human responsibility. Who holds power? How do we use it? How do we govern ourselves with wisdom and compassion?

Zichronot—remembrance. We are asked to recall covenant and ancestors. Memory is sacred not because heaven commands it, but because it binds us—to those who came before us, to those we have lost, and to one another.

Shofarot—the ram’s horn. Its sound has long been described as awakening us to God’s presence. Yet even without theology, the shofar still pierces the air. It is a human cry that calls us to urgency: listen for justice, rise with courage, act with love.

As we look back on 5785, we see both fracture and resilience. Rising antisemitism on campuses and in public life. Conflict and violence across the globe. Climate disruption that reshaped landscapes and lives.

And yet we also witnessed solidarity. Neighbors protecting neighbors. Communities opening homes. Scientists advancing knowledge. Spiritual spaces growing more inclusive. In the face of rupture, the human will to care for one another endured.

The traditional liturgy imagines God deciding “who shall live and who shall die.” We know differently. Poverty, war, racism, and hatred are human creations. So too are healing, peace, justice, and compassion.

The question is not, “What will God decree?”
The question is, “Who will we choose to be?”

Teshuvah—often translated as a return to God—becomes a return to our best selves. A return to our values. A return to one another.

We do not know what 5786 will bring. History rarely asks permission before unfolding. But we can choose what we bring to history.

The Torah’s call is direct:

וּבָחַרְתָּ בַּחַיִּים
U’vacharta ba’chayim — Choose life.
(Deuteronomy 30:19)

Choose life in policy and in protest.
Choose life in how we speak to one another.
Choose life in how we protect the vulnerable.
Choose life in how we repair what is broken.

The Book of Life is not written in heaven. It is written in us—inscribed by our deeds, preserved in memory, read by those who will remember us.

May this be a year of justice.
A year of compassion.
A year of belonging.
A year of peace.

Shanah Tovah.

With you through life’s moments,
Rabbi Jerid

“They Showed Up”

A Memorial for Two Lives
June 20, 2025 | 24 Sivan 5785
Seattle, Washington

(Names and identifying details have been omitted to honor the family’s privacy.)

Some memorial services carry grief.

Some carry gratitude.

This one carried both — in equal measure.

It was for two parents. One had died the year before. The other had followed. Their lives had been intertwined for more than sixty years. It felt right to lay them to rest together.

We began at the graveside.

The family gathered close. Not stiffly. Not formally. Just close.

I spoke gently about partnership — about dancing, about showing up, about a life built not on spectacle but on steady devotion. And then came the moment that matters most at a burial.

Each member of the immediate family stepped forward and scooped earth over the urns.

In Jewish tradition, placing earth is considered chesed shel emet — a true act of lovingkindness. It is called “true” because it cannot be repaid. We accompany our loved ones to the very end. We do not turn away.

There is something grounding about hearing the earth fall.

It is final. And it is intimate.

When the family scooped the soil, they were not only saying goodbye. They were participating. They were completing something together. Burial is not performed for us. It is performed by us.

That act transforms grief from something observed into something embodied.

Later, inside the chapel, the tone shifted — not away from grief, but into fullness.

There were brief tears.

There was laughter.

There were stories that made the room lean forward.

A son remembered kitchen singing that was intentionally off-key.
A grandchild recalled card games and fireworks.
A story surfaced that made everyone smile because it was so unmistakably them.

At one point, a son-in-law used language that would have delighted his mother-in-law precisely because she would have pretended to disapprove. The room laughed — not irreverently, but knowingly. That moment said more about their family culture than any formal tribute could.

We were not polishing memory.
We were holding it honestly.

And that is what made the service meaningful.

The candle lighting.
The music.
The shared breathing.
The communal response: “They will be there.”

Not as a promise of geography.

But as recognition of imprint.

They will be there in the jokes.
They will be there in the dance steps.
They will be there in the way grandchildren are held.
They will be there in how this family continues to show up.

What struck me most that day was this:

Nothing needed to be added in order for the service to carry weight.

No metaphysical certainty.

No cosmic assurances.

Just love remembered.
Stories told aloud.
Hands on shoulders.
Earth returned to earth.

The room was full.

Full of memory.
Full of connection.
Full of legacy.

Memorial services are sometimes misunderstood as exercises in sadness. At their best, they are acts of continuity. They gather a community and ask: What will we carry forward?

That day, the answer was clear.

We will carry their joy.
We will carry their loyalty.
We will carry their habit of saying yes to family.
We will carry their insistence on dancing — even if one partner had to teach the other.

When the final candle was extinguished, it did not feel like darkness.

It felt like transfer.

Their light now lived in the people standing in that room.

And that is enough.

With you through life’s moments,
Rabbi Jerid

Torah, Justice, and Joy

Shabbat, June 28, 2025 | 2 Tammuz 5785
Seattle, Washington
Parashat Chukat (Numbers 19:1–22:1)

This evening, my feet are tired.

I have been walking alongside the Seattle Pride parade—rainbow flags rising like banners in the wilderness, music pulsing through downtown streets, strangers smiling at one another as if joy itself were an act of resistance.

This morning we opened the scroll to Parashat Chukat.

A portion that begins with mystery. The ritual of the red heifer—parah adumah—a practice whose meaning even the sages could not fully explain. Why preserve a ritual we do not completely understand? Perhaps because communities need language for the unknown. Some things become holy not through magic, but through the effort to restore one another to wholeness.

And then the losses come. Miriam dies. Aaron dies. Moses faces rebellion and heartbreak. The wilderness feels uncertain. Leadership shifts. The ground trembles.

But the people do not give up.

They thirst.
They argue.
They grieve.
And then—they dig.

Near the end of the portion, the Israelites arrive at a well and sing:

עֲלִי בְאֵר עֱנוּ־לָהּ
Alee v’er enu lah
“Spring up, O well—sing to it.”
(Numbers 21:17)

The well does not descend from heaven. It is uncovered. Sustained. Protected. It becomes life because people gather around it.

Today, Pride feels like a well.

It is carved from resilience.
It is sustained by courage.
It is widened by allies who understand that dignity is not negotiable.

And yet this Pride is not weightless.

Across the United States, harmful legislation continues to target transgender youth and adults—restricting healthcare, policing identity, and attempting to narrow the definition of who is allowed to belong. These laws shape real lives. They create fear. They attempt erasure.

Walking beside the parade route this morning, wearing a rainbow kippah and a purple shirt that reads, “This RABBI Loves You,” I felt the tension between celebration and urgency.

Joy is present.
So is defiance.

To laugh when others try to shame you.
To dance when others try to silence you.
To love openly when others call that love wrong—
that is not frivolous. It is powerful.

The red heifer ritual reminds us that healing sometimes begins in places we do not fully understand. The deaths of Miriam and Aaron remind us that communities must endure loss and change. The well reminds us that survival requires work.

We do not wait passively in the wilderness.

We dig.

We create spaces where those who thirst for belonging can drink deeply.
We refuse narratives that diminish human worth.
We choose solidarity over silence.

To affirm LGBTQ+ lives—especially transgender lives—is not a departure from Jewish values. It is a living expression of them. Every human being carries inherent dignity. Every person deserves safety. Every identity deserves to flourish.

Tonight, as the music fades and the streets grow quieter, Parashat Chukat lingers in my mind.

Mystery.
Loss.
Water drawn from dry ground.

Pride does not replace Torah.
It reveals it.

May our communities be wells of renewal.
May our joy be an act of justice.
May our belonging be wide enough for all.

Shabbat Shalom.

With you through life’s moments,
Rabbi Jerid

A Father’s Love: A Light That Guides

Shabbat, June 13–14, 2025 | 18 Sivan 5785
Parashat Behaalotecha (Numbers 8:1–12:16)

This Father’s Day weekend, I find myself returning to a song.

Craig Hella Johnson’s arrangement of Hush has lingered with me in a way I did not expect. In it, a father keeps promising comfort:

“If that mockingbird won’t sing…
Oh, everything will be alright.”

Those who wish to hear the full arrangement may search for “Craig Hella Johnson – Hush (Conspirare)” on their preferred streaming platform. I encourage you to pause and listen before reading further.

The melody is gentle, but it carries weight. The piano is slightly out of tune. The cello hums beneath it. The voice holds space for something deeper than a lullaby.

For most of my life, I heard Hush, Little Baby as indulgence—a child asking for more, and a father offering gift after gift. But the first time I heard Johnson’s version, something shifted. I truly listened. And I wept… uncontrollably.

Because suddenly it was not about extravagance. It was about devotion. If one promise fails, he makes another. If that falls apart, he keeps searching. Not because the child demands—but because he loves. Because he cannot bear the thought of his child feeling alone. Because he will not stop trying.

How many of us have known such love from a father? How many have felt that steady assurance—that we were safe, seen, and valued?

For some, a father’s love is foundation. For others, it is ache. And for many, fatherhood has appeared in unexpected forms—a stepfather, a mentor, a coach, a teacher, a friend who stepped forward when someone else stepped away. Love, after all, is not confined to biology.

This week’s Torah portion, Behaalotecha, opens with a command to Aaron:

“Beha’alotecha et ha’nerot—When you mount the lamps, let the seven lamps give light at the front of the lampstand.” (Numbers 8:2)

The Menorah is not decorative. It must shine. It must cast light forward.

A father, like a menorah, does not merely exist—he gives light. Even in uncertainty, even in his own darkness, he is called to illuminate the path for those who follow.

But carrying light is not easy.

Later in this parasha, the Israelites grow restless in the desert. They complain. They yearn for what they left behind. Moses, exhausted and overwhelmed, cries out:

“Did I conceive all this people? Did I engender them… that You should say to me, ‘Carry them in your bosom as a caregiver carries an infant’?” (Numbers 11:12)

It is a moment of raw vulnerability. A leader asking how one person is supposed to carry so much.

How many fathers have felt this same weight? The expectation to provide, to protect, to steady others—often without space to lay down their own burdens.

And yet Moses is not left alone. He is told to gather seventy elders—others who will share the responsibility.

Fatherhood—whether biological or chosen—was never meant to be solitary. We parent together. We mentor together. We lean on one another. Strength is not isolation. It is shared light.

To the fathers who feel overwhelmed, who wonder if they are enough, who carry responsibility quietly—this, too, is part of the story. There is wisdom in asking for help. There is courage in admitting the weight is heavy.

Like the menorah, light spreads outward.
But it does not burn alone.

Jewish tradition speaks directly about honoring parents:

“Honor your father and mother, that you may long endure on the land…” (Exodus 20:12)

It stands among the Ten Commandments—placed beside commandments of justice and ethical responsibility. The obligation to honor a father is clear.

But what happens when that relationship is complicated?

The rabbis wrestled with this tension as well. The Talmud makes a careful distinction: a child is commanded to honor a father, but not commanded to love him. Love is an emotion—it cannot be legislated. Honor, however, can take many forms. It does not require denying harm or rewriting memory. Sometimes honor means carrying forward what was good. Sometimes it means learning from what was not.

I have known both.

I have known the ache of absence.
And I have known the steadiness of unconditional love.

My biological father was not present in the ways I needed. But the man others would call my stepfather—my Heart Father—chose me.

He did not have to love me. But he did.
He did not have to show up. But he did.
He did not have to step in where someone else had stepped away. But he did.

That choice—that daily, persistent decision—is what fatherhood can be at its best.

Many adult children carry wounds from their fathers. Some wrestle with anger, others with grief, and many with both. Some spent years trying to earn approval that never came. Others have made peace with the father they had, even if he could not be what they needed.

And for some, the wounds run deeper still. Abuse, cruelty, neglect—these are not erased by time, nor should anyone be asked to endure harm in the name of honor.

To those who have been hurt by a father, hear this clearly: Judaism does not demand self-sacrifice in the name of respect. Protecting yourself is not dishonor. Distance can be sacred. Breaking a cycle of harm can be an act of strength.

There is no single path to healing. Some find peace in reconciliation. Others find peace in release. Both can be faithful responses.

And to fathers who look back with regret—who wonder if they were present enough, patient enough, steady enough—know this: growth is always possible. Even if fatherhood did not begin as you hoped, even if silence or distance has settled in, there is still room for light.

It is never too late to say, I love you.
It is never too late to say, I am sorry.
It is never too late to say, I am here now.

But if the healthiest path is stepping away, that choice, too, can be holy.

Honor does not mean carrying pain forever. It means acknowledging what was—and then choosing how to move forward.

Whether through forgiveness, boundary, or quiet release, healing is possible. The light we carry does not depend on perfection. It depends on intention.

The Talmud teaches:

“There are three partners in the forming of a person: The Holy One, Blessed be He, and their father and their mother. When a person honors their father and mother, the Holy One says: I ascribe credit to them as if I dwelt between them.”
(Kiddushin 30b)

However one understands that language, the teaching is clear: fatherhood shapes the world. Not only through biology, but through presence. Through the lessons carried forward. Through the light that continues beyond a single lifetime.

Some of those lessons are gifts we cherish.
Others are wounds we learn to heal from.
But both shape the way we live, the way we love, the light we choose to pass on.

To the fathers raising children, guiding them, mentoring them—your presence matters. The small, unseen efforts matter. No father is perfect. But every father has the opportunity to shape the world through patience, strength, kindness, and steadiness.

And to those who were fathered imperfectly—or painfully—you are not defined by what you did not receive. You are not bound to repeat what harmed you. You carry the power to build differently, to love differently, to shine differently.

A father, like a flame, is at his best not when he burns alone, but when he ignites others to light the way.

So on this Father’s Day weekend, we honor the fathers who raised us, the ones who tried, and the ones who stepped in when others could not.

We hold space for the fathers who were present—and those who were absent.
For the fathers we miss—and the fathers we are still learning to understand.
For the mentors, stepfathers, grandfathers, teachers, and friends who became fathers in their own way.

And we remember the quiet refrain that lingers beneath it all:

“Oh… everything will be alright.”

Not because life is simple.
Not because pain disappears.
But because love—persistent, chosen, imperfect love—creates light that outlasts the dark.

May we carry that light forward.

Shabbat Shalom.

With you through life’s moments,
Rabbi Jerid

In a Creek Bed Sanctuary

September 3, 2023 | 17 Elul 5783
Snoqualmie National Forest

Some sanctuaries have stained glass.

Some have vaulted ceilings.

Gabriel and Amy chose a creek bed.

Guests gathered on smooth stones. Water moved quietly beside us. A large rock became our bimah. The forest formed a kind of open chuppah — sky above, earth beneath, community encircling.

The rehearsal had been drenched in rain. The forecast remained uncertain. Umbrellas were nearby, just in case.

And then, during the ceremony — as Gabriel and Amy stood facing one another — something simple and unforgettable happened.

As we read from Shir HaShirim — the Song of Songs:

“Arise, my beloved, my beautiful one, and come away…
For now the winter is past,
The rains are over and gone.
The blossoms appear in the land;
The time of singing has come.
The song of the turtledove
Is heard in our land.” (2:10–12)

The rain stopped.
And instead of a turtledove, a hawk cried overhead.

Nothing supernatural occurred.
Meteorology held. The hawk followed its instincts. Coincidence remained coincidence.

And yet — everyone noticed.

The moment did not prove anything.
It deepened everything.

Jewish tradition teaches that something becomes kadosh — holy — when it is set apart. Not because it contains mystical force, but because we mark it as meaningful.

On that September afternoon, the creek bed became holy.

Not permanently.
Not magically.
Not because heaven descended.

It became holy because two people stood before their community and chose one another.

Because vows were spoken with clarity and courage.

Because family and friends bore witness.

Because intention — kavannah — was abundant.

The month of Elul invites reflection. It is a season of turning inward, of preparing the heart, of asking what truly matters before the High Holidays arrive.

In that spirit, Gabriel and Amy stood on a wooden bridge after the ceremony, walking forward together — rain still glistening on the boards beneath their feet. Behind them stood a diverse and loving community, representing different backgrounds, beliefs, and stories.

That image lingers with me.

A bridge is not a destination.

It is a passage.

Marriage, too, is not a static structure. It is a crossing — from individual narrative into shared life, from separate histories into woven future.

The forest did not make the moment sacred.

The people did.

The hawk’s cry became part of the story not because it was sent, but because it was noticed.

And noticing is a profoundly human act.

We do not require mysticism to experience transcendence.

We require presence.

We require attention.

We require the courage to say: this matters.

Gabriel and Amy set apart an ordinary stretch of earth and declared it meaningful. They transformed a creek bed into a sanctuary without walls. They built something enduring in a place that itself will continue to change with seasons and rain.

That is no small thing.

May their life together continue to be what that bridge symbolized: steady, open, resilient, and carried by community.

Mazel Tov, Gabriel and Amy.

With you through life’s moments,
Rabbi Jerid

Mars’ Cultural B Mitzvah

A Cultural B Mitzvah by the Sea
Saturday, May 6, 2023 | 15 Iyar 5783
Half Moon Bay, California

Some ceremonies feel beautiful.

Some feel meaningful.

And some feel like history unfolding in real time.

Mars’ Cultural B Mitzvah was the third kind.

Held at Sam’s Chowder House overlooking the Pacific Ocean, the sanctuary that morning had no walls. The cliffs held us. The sea breathed behind us. Wind tugged gently at tallit fringes. The sky stretched wide enough to hold memory.

Mars elected to read an extended passage from Ki Tavo (Deuteronomy 26:1–19). It was optional. They chose it anyway.

With limited formal Jewish schooling before embarking on the B Mitzvah journey, they stood before community and read with fluency, steadiness, and unmistakable ownership.

The portion begins with first fruits — bringing a basket and declaring: “Arami oved avi” — “My father was a wandering Aramean.” It is one of Judaism’s earliest identity statements. We are a people who remember movement. We are a people who tell our story aloud.

Mars chose to focus on Deuteronomy 26:7:

“We cried… and we were heard.”

In their D’var Torah, they did something deeply Jewish.

They did not pretend that every theological phrase made sense to them. They named what felt distant. They questioned honestly. And then — instead of discarding the text — they rooted it in family history, Jewish resilience, and generational memory.

They reframed divine hearing as human solidarity.
They reframed redemption as collective action.
They reframed inheritance as responsibility.

Pirkei Avot teaches:
“Lo ha-midrash hu ha-ikar, ela ha-ma’aseh.”
“It is not study that is essential, but action.”

Mars embodied that teaching.

They were not simply reading Torah. They were entering it.

The Talmud tells us:
“Eilu v’eilu divrei chayim.”
“These and those are the words of the living tradition.” (Eruvin 13b)

Tradition remains alive not because we agree — but because we wrestle.

Mars wrestled with dignity.

After the service, we walked down to the shoreline for Havdalah. As the crew transformed the outdoor sanctuary into a reception space, the Pacific sky ignited in gold and crimson. The braided candle flickered against the horizon. Wine, spices, ocean air — the most sensory of Jewish rituals unfolding beneath a sky that seemed to bless us simply by existing.

Havdalah marks distinction. But that evening, it felt like expansion.

Mars had asked for lobster and clams at the reception.

Early in the preparation process, their mother gently sought rabbinic approval.

My first answer was simple: “If this is what Mars wants, it is their B Mitzvah. I approve.”

My second answer was more historical.

In 1883, at the first ordination banquet of Hebrew Union College, shellfish was served at what became known as the “Trefa Banquet.” It marked a moment in American Judaism when tradition and evolution collided publicly. Whether one approved or not, it demonstrated something essential: Judaism is lived in the present.

Mars was not rebelling.

Mars was participating in a long Jewish conversation.

Judaism has always evolved around tables — and around courage.

What followed was pure joy.

The chair lifted high.
Teenagers dancing under string lights.
The Pacific wind mixing with music.
The kippah still resting on Mars’ head.

In Ta’anit 26b, the sages describe days of great joy when young people danced. Torah and celebration have never been opposites.

Mars claimed Jewish identity not through blind acceptance, but through thoughtful embrace.

They read a theistic text through a humanistic lens.
They honored ancestors.
They named complexity.
They chose belonging.

And that is what adulthood in Jewish tradition has always meant.

Not certainty.
Commitment.

Not perfection.
Participation.

As the sun disappeared beyond the water and Havdalah marked the transition into a new week, it was clear:

Mars did not simply become a B Mitzvah.

Mars stepped consciously into Jewish peoplehood.

And we lifted them high.

Mazel Tov, Mars.

With you through life’s moments,
Rabbi Jerid