Previous Reflections

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

Septemer 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