Rabbi's Teachings

Preface: I always intended to share the below sermon I gave a few weeks ago as the monthly teaching. Since it’s writing, the world has gotten only more chaotic. Tensions have risen both domestically and globally. Very locally, within the last few weeks, a few members of our Jewish community have been targeted by Jew-hatred. We have been engaging closely with local law enforcement and elected officials to make combatting Jew-hatred a top priority. Needless to say, this sermon is perhaps even more true today than it was a few weeks ago. Let us commit to two things—to live our Jewish lives publically and proudly while we stand up against hatred and bigotry in all of its forms.

Let me begin with honesty: I am exhausted. I am angry. And I am not here to pretend that everything is okay.

Just over a week ago, Jewish lives were targeted — again — in Boulder, Colorado. At a peaceful pro-Israel gathering, a man threw firebombs and used a homemade flamethrower on unarmed civilians. Fifteen people were injured. Among them: elders, children, a Holocaust survivor. Many were members of Congregation Bonai Shalom — a Conservative synagogue, part of our extended Jewish family.

And if you are like me, you’re not just grieving. You’re furious. We’ve been screaming into the void, begging for the world to take our fear seriously — and too often, the response has been silence.

So what do we do?

We resist. We show up. We refuse to disappear.

This isn’t just a Shabbat. This is resistance.

At first glance, Parashat Nasso doesn’t seem to speak to this moment. It’s a long parashah, full of census counts and tribal responsibilities. But within it lies a core teaching that could not be more urgent: the priestly blessing, the Birkat Kohanim:

“Yevarechecha Adonai v’yishmerecha. Ya’er Adonai panav eilecha vichuneka. Yisa Adonai panav eilecha v’yasem lecha shalom.”

“May God bless you and protect you. May God’s face shine upon you and be gracious to you. May God lift God’s face to you and grant you peace.” (Numbers 6:24–26)

These aren’t just words. This is the Torah’s clearest articulation of what a just world looks like. A world where we are seen. A world where we are safe. A world where peace — shalom — isn’t abstract but lived.

When the world refuses us that peace, our response is to insist on it. To demand blessing. To build safety. To protect each other, fiercely.

Our tradition teaches that peace is not the absence of conflict, but the presence of justice. The Midrash (Bamidbar Rabbah 11:7) teaches that “Great is peace, for all blessings are contained within it.” Without peace, there is no security, no dignity, no life.

And yet — this week, peace was torn from our community by fire. So we respond the way our ancestors have always responded: not by retreating, but by carrying each other through the flames.

Nasso literally means “to lift up.” The parashah describes how the Levites carried the Mishkan, the sacred center of the camp. Every person had a role. No one was allowed to say, “This isn’t my responsibility.” That was true in the desert — and it is true now.

Today, we carry one another through fire and fear, through broken glass and burned dreams. We show up for Shabbat because we believe in what the Mishkan stood for — holiness, safety, and presence.

To be Jewish right now — and to stay Jewish in public — is an act of resistance. Showing up is protest.

It is spiritual armor. It is how we survive.

Shabbat is not a luxury — it’s a declaration. When the world tries to scatter us, we come together. When they try to silence us, we sing louder. When they try to make us afraid, we show up anyway.

Rav Kook, the first Chief Rabbi of pre-state Israel, once wrote: “The purely righteous do not complain about evil, but add justice. They do not complain about heresy, but increase faith. They do not complain about ignorance, but increase wisdom.” We are not here only to mourn what’s wrong — we are here to do what is right.

So if your hope feels thin right now, that’s okay. Hope isn’t always the point.

Sometimes what we need isn’t hope — it’s grit. It’s each other. It’s a fire in the belly that says: You will not erase us. You will not burn down our sacred spaces and expect us to disappear.

So we show up. We gather in grief and rage and stubborn joy. We pray because we refuse to let the world take our dignity. We sing because we believe that peace is still worth fighting for.

We prayed Birkat Kohanim early this morning. Let’s speak it like a vow. May God bless you and protect you — from hatred, from violence, from the silence of bystanders. May God’s face shine upon you — and may we reflect that light to others. May God grant you peace — and may we build that peace, hand in hand, no matter how long it takes.

This is what resistance looks like. And we are not going anywhere.