Beha’alotecha
Numbers 8:1–12:16

by Jen Smith

This week’s Torah portion, Beha’alotecha, opens with a simple but curious instruction. God tells Aaron to kindle the lamps of the menorah, but the Hebrew word God used is not simply “light.” Instead, the Torah says beha’alotecha et ha-neirot, “when you raise up the lamps.”

The sages noticed this unusual phrasing and taught that rather than simply lighting the menorah and moving on, Aaron was required to hold the flame to each individual wick until it could burn independently. He had to remain present long enough for the light to “learn” how to rise on its own.

For me, there is something deeply human in that image. Much of life is spent tending flames: in our children, our friendships, our communities, our dreams, and even within ourselves. Rarely do great things appear fully formed. Most require patience, attention, and a measure of faith before they begin to illuminate the world around them.

Lately, I have been thinking about the popular idea known as the “law of attraction”, the belief that by focusing our thoughts and energy on a desired future, we help bring that future into being. While Judaism would never suggest that thoughts alone create reality, our tradition does recognize something profoundly similar.

The Baal Shem Tov taught that a person is often drawn toward that upon which they consistently focus their attention. The mind, the heart, and the soul move toward the place where our intellectual awareness rests. In other words, what we choose to see shapes who we become.

Jewish mysticism takes this idea even further. The Kabbalists taught that creation itself began with Divine intention. Before there was form, before there were words and commands, there was vision. Before there was light, there was the possibility of light held within the Divine imagination. Human beings created b’tzelem Elohim, in the image of God, participate in this sacred process. We are not passive observers of reality. Through our choices, our words, and our attention, we become partners in shaping it.

The challenge, of course, is that the Israelites in Beha’alotecha struggle with exactly this. Despite experiencing miracles, they become consumed by complaints, disappointments, and fears. They focus on what is missing rather than what is possible. Their attention turns backward toward the devil they know, Egypt, rather than forward toward the Promised Land.

How often do we do the same?

We can become so focused on present frustrations that we lose sight of the future we hope to build. We can become so attached to what is that we forget to imagine what could be.

The menorah offers another way. Its light is directed forward. Not backward, nor inward, but forward.

Perhaps that is the Torah’s quiet invitation: to become people who see possibility before it fully exists. To hold our vision long enough for the flame to catch. To nurture hope until it becomes action. To imagine a better future and then participate in bringing it into being.

This message feels especially meaningful this Shabbat as our community honors Rabbi Emeritus Jack Luxemburg.

For generations, Rabbi Luxemburg has done precisely what Aaron did with the menorah. He has tended flames. Through his scholarship, teaching, mentorship, and friendship, he has helped countless people discover their own capacity to shine. Great teachers do not create followers; they create future teachers. They hold the light steady until others learn to carry it themselves.

Anyone who has had the privilege of learning from Rabbi Luxemburg knows that his brilliance extends far beyond his extraordinary knowledge of Torah. He possesses a rare ability to help others see possibilities within themselves that they may not yet recognize. Like Aaron before the menorah, he has spent a lifetime raising lights.

The mystics taught that every soul is a candle of God, Ner Adonai nishmat adam. Sometimes that candle burns brightly, and sometimes it flickers. The sacred work of Jewish life is to protect that flame, strengthen it, and share its light with others.

This week, as we read Beha’alotecha, may we learn to focus not only on the challenges before us but also on the possibilities waiting to emerge. May we cultivate visions worthy of our highest selves. May we become people who help others discover their own light.

And like Aaron and our teachers, may we hold the flame long enough for it to rise on its own.

Shabbat Shalom.

Parashat Naso
Numbers 4:21–7:89

By Jen Smith

Baseball is a game of patience, resilience, teamwork, and sacred timing. There are long stretches of waiting, moments of failure, flashes of brilliance, and the constant invitation to step up when your turn finally comes. Whether you are the leadoff hitter, the backup catcher, or the closer called in during the final inning, every player matters. Every role matters.

This week’s Torah portion, Naso, is the longest Torah portion in the Torah, and it feels a bit like an entire baseball season packed tightly into one reading. It covers leadership, responsibility, spiritual discipline, communal service, blessings, conflict, generosity, and sacred dedication (the “live long and prosper” hands!)  It reminds us that one superstar does not create holiness alone; we create holiness when our entire community commits to moving and learning together with faith and purpose.

One of the central themes of Naso is that every individual has a unique role to play. The Torah carefully details the responsibilities of the Levite families, each assigned a different task in carrying the Mishkan, the portable sanctuary in the wilderness. The people carried sacred vessels, curtains, and even structural beams. No roll was too small.

A baseball team works the same way. Pitchers, catchers, infielders, outfielders, coaches, and even the utility player coming off the bench all contribute to the greater whole. No one asks the shortstop to pitch every inning or the center fielder to cover the entire field alone.

Jewish wisdom teaches something profoundly similar: holiness emerges through interdependence. Just as Pirkei Avot reminds us that it is not our duty to finish the work, but neither are we free to abandon it. (Pirkei Avot 2:16), each individual soul also has a sacred mission and unique divine gift to contribute to the world.

The Jewish mystics took this idea even further. In Kabbalah, every person possesses a unique nitzotz, a divine spark entrusted only to them. They taught that no two souls come into the world with the exact same spiritual mission. One person’s role may be public and visible, while another person’s role may be quiet and hidden. But every soul carries something essential that no one else can contribute.

There are players who always hit homeruns, and others keep the inning alive with a single. Some players uplift the team in the dugout when morale is low, and others offer a supportive word when a friend strikes out. In the language of Torah, each role is sacred and significant.

Naso also introduces the Nazir, an individual who voluntarily takes on additional spiritual disciplines: abstaining from wine, avoiding impurity, and allowing their hair to grow. The Nazir may seem extreme, but the deeper message is about intentionality and self-mastery.

Great athletes understand this instinctively. Nobody becomes extraordinary accidentally. Behind every smooth swing or diving catch are countless unseen hours in batting cages, early morning workouts, repetition, sacrifice, and discipline.

The same is true spiritually.

Holiness in Judaism is rarely passive; we cultivate it through practice: showing up for prayer even when distracted, studying Torah when tired, offering kindness when it is inconvenient, forgiving when pride wants revenge, and choosing compassion over ego.

The mystics taught that spiritual growth happens through avodah – sacred inner work. Every act of discipline refines the soul a little more, polishing what the Zohar calls the “divine image” within us. Like a player refining their mechanics over an entire season, we spend our lives refining our character.

Then comes one of the most beloved moments in the entire Torah with the Birkat Kohanim, or priestly blessing.

May God bless you and protect you.
May God shine Divine light upon you and be gracious to you.
May God lift His divine countenance to you and grant you peace.
(Numbers 6:24–26)

These words are far more than a blessing for success. In Jewish mysticism, they are understood as channels of Divine energy flowing into the world. The raised hands of the priests become vessels for compassion, protection, light, and peace.

In many ways, this blessing feels like the encouragement a coach gives before a player walks to the plate: You are ready. You belong here. Do not be afraid to swing. Because stepping up to the plate always involves uncertainty.

A batter never fully knows what pitch is coming next: a fastball, a curveball, a slider, or something completely unexpected. Life throws unpredictable pitches, too. Illness. Loss. Joy. Opportunity. Change. We cannot control every pitch, but we can choose whether we stand frozen in fear or remain present enough to respond. Faith through this lens is the courage to keep stepping into the batter’s box even when the outcome isn’t guaranteed.

At the end of Naso, each tribal leader brings an offering to dedicate the Mishkan. Curiously, every offering is the same, and yet the Torah repeats each one individually in painstaking detail. Why repeat identical gifts twelve separate times?

The rabbis explain that while the offerings looked identical externally, each one carried a different heart, intention, and soul behind it. Judaism has always understood that two people can perform the exact same action while bringing entirely different inner worlds to the moment.

A championship baseball team may wear the same uniform, but every player carries a different story, personality, struggle, and gift. Unity does not erase individuality; it elevates it.

That may be one of the deepest teachings of Naso: holiness is the opposite of sameness; holiness is harmony.

The Mishkan was only able to stand because every individual brought their unique offering. The same is true for communities, families, friendships, and Jewish life itself. We each carry different strengths, different wounds, different perspectives, and different sacred assignments. But together, we create something none of us could build alone.

Naso reminds us that life, just like baseball, calls forth the devotion of the Levites, the discipline of the Nazir, the blessings of the Kohanim, and the unity of the tribal leaders. It teaches us that even when we stumble or strike out, we are still part of something sacred, still needed on the field, and still invited to step up to the plate once again. Whether we find ourselves on the field, in the dugout, or cheering from the stands, we are all part of something larger than ourselves.

So maybe the holiest question we can ask is: When it’s your turn at bat, how will you step up to the plate?

Shabbat Shalom.

Bamidbar
Numbers 1:1 – 4:20

By Jen Smith

This week, we turn the page on a new book, Bamidbar (Book of Numbers), which immediately opens with God’s command for the people to take a census.

At first glance, it feels strange that our sacred text would include something so overwhelmingly…well, administrative. Detailed lists of names, tribes, numbers, assignments, and encampments seem too logistical for the Torah’s sacred poetry. But our ancient rabbis insist that nothing in the Torah is merely administrative.

The Hebrew word, Bamidbar, means “in the wilderness.” Not simply a desert of sand, but a spiritual landscape of uncertainty, like the liminal space in between where human transformation happens. The Israelites are no longer enslaved in Egypt, but they haven’t yet arrived in the Promised Land. They exist in the uncomfortable terrain between two realities: who they were, and who they are becoming.

And so, God counts them.

Not because God needs numbers to justify a balance sheet, but because every soul matters.

The Baal Shem Tov taught that when the Torah counts something, it becomes immediately elevated. To count something is to declare that it is an individual, precious, irreplaceable, and worthy of attention. In a world that often reduces human beings into categories, measures of productivity, or utility, Bamidbar reminds us that above all else, Judaism begins with radical human dignity. Every person has a place in the camp, because every soul carries a spark of the Divine.

Far from a simple demographic study, the census in Bamidbar is spiritual cartography.

Each tribe camped in a different direction around the Mishkan, the portable sanctuary at the center of the camp. Judah settled to the east, and Reuben to the south. Ephraim to the west, and Dan to the north. Though each group is celebrated for their distinct identities, banners, and callings, all are surrounding the one sacred center. So, while all the tribes, and every person living therein, dwell in unique locations both physically and spiritually, they all face the same direction forward; it feels like the Torah is reminding us that the vision of Jewish Peoplehood is built on harmony, not homogeny.

Jewish mysticism teaches that creation itself depends upon this kind of sacred diversity. The Kabbalists describe the world as a great tapestry woven with the infinite divine sparks that are scattered across existence. The vastness alone ensures that no one person can possibly gather them all. We need the gifts of each person in our community; we need fresh perspectives and unique souls to make the world whole.

And maybe that is one reason Bamidbar (almost) always arrives near Yom Yerushalayim, Jerusalem Day.

Jerusalem is, in many ways, the opposite of the wilderness. While the desert signifies emptiness and chaos, Yerushalayim represents fullness and order; when the wilderness becomes wandering, Jerusalem symbolizes deep roots, collective memory, and spiritual gravity. And though they seem so opposite one another, the Torah suggests that the desert and Jerusalem are deeply connected.

The Torah reminds us in every chapter since the beginning of Genesis: there must be rain to before a rainbow; there must be bondage and despair before freedom and redemption; there must first be a wilderness before a Jerusalem. Before the people can inherit a holy city, they must first learn how to become a holy community.

The ancient mystics often describe Jerusalem not merely as a geographical location, but as a spiritual state of consciousness. Earthly Jerusalem mirrors Yerushalayim shel ma’alah, a heavenly Jerusalem. In Kabbalah, Jerusalem represents the meeting place between heaven and earth; the sacred point where the Divine Presence and human longing can come together.

But, this moment of union around a sacred center is only possible when we all understand that we belong to one another: kol Yisrael arevim zeh bazeh (Shevuot 39a).

That is precisely the lesson of Bamidbar.

The tribes camp and travel differently, and they have different responsibilities. Yet, every formation faces inward toward the Mishkan, reminding us that holiness emerges when our differences are organized around a shared Divine purpose. And maybe that is the enduring challenge of Jerusalem itself.

Jerusalem has always embodied contradictions: grief and hope, destruction and rebuilding, longing and belonging, ancient wounds and modern conflict. It is both earthly and transcendent; Political and mystical; Broken and holy. The Psalms call it “a city bound firmly together” (Psalm 122:3), and our rabbis understood this not only architecturally, but also spiritually: Jerusalem is the place that binds our souls together.

And maybe that is why the Torah places us in the wilderness before bringing us home.

Because the real Promised Land is not simply geographic territory. It is the ability to build communities rooted in dignity, humility, and sacred responsibility. The wilderness teaches us how to carry the Divine Presence together; and Jerusalem reminds us why it matters.

This week, may we learn, like our ancestors in Bamidbar, to see every human being as valued, sacred, and worthy of being counted. May we remember that the truest Jerusalem is not only a city built of stone, but a way of living that makes room for God in this world. And may the Jerusalem we carry within inspire us to build a world infused with dignity, holiness, and the quiet presence of the Divine.

Shabbat Shalom.

Parashat Behar–Bechukotai
Leviticus 25:1 – 27:34 

By Jen Smith 

This week’s double portion, Behar–Bechukotai, arrives just as we count the 37th day of the Omer, which names our intention this week: Gevurah sheb’Yesod – Might within Foundation. In the mystical tradition of the Omer1, this day asks us to examine the strength of our roots. Not strength as domination or force, but the sacred, sometimes rigorous, discipline required to sustain connection, covenant, and continuity. 

And perhaps no Torah portion could embody this energy more perfectly. 

Behar introduces the radical idea of Shmita, the sabbatical year for the land (and the people). Every seventh year, the Israelites are commanded to stop farming, release all debts (including indentured servants), and make space for the earth to rest. The Torah insists that the land does not truly belong to us: 

The land is Mine; you are but strangers and settlers with Me. (Leviticus 25:23) 

The concept that we are not the owners, but the instead the caretakers, of this beautiful earth is one of the Torah’s most revolutionary spiritual ideas. In a culture obsessed with consuming, control, and endless productivity, Judaism outlines a cycle of restraint as a sacred practice. And restraint requires gevurah. 

In Kabbalah, gevurah is often misunderstood as severity or harshness. But the ancient mystics describe it more precisely as a balance of boundary, discipline, and containment. It is the ability to say enough is enough, to hold power responsibly, and the courage to create limits on your own, even when it isn’t mandated. Without gevurah, love spills everywhere without shape. Ambition becomes consumption. Freedom becomes chaos. 

But this week’s Omer combination adds another layer: Yesod, foundation. 

Yesod, in Jewish mysticism, is the sefirah2 associated with connection, intimacy, trust, and transmission. It is the bridge between our spiritual ideals and our earthly reality. The Zohar describes Yesod as the channel through which divine energy flows into the world. The mystics teach that Yesod is like the root system beneath a giant tree: though unseen, it is absolutely essential. It is a grounding, deeply rooted, force; It is sacred continuity.  And suddenly, Behar’s laws begin to feel less agricultural and more existential. 

The sabbatical year outlined in the Torah is not only about farming cycles and environmental preservation. It is about protecting the spiritual foundation of society itself. It is here that we begin to learn more about community, bringing to light a sobering truth: a civilization that never pauses to reflect will eventually forget why it exists. A community without boundaries cannot sustain holiness. 

Gevurah within Yesod means creating structures strong enough to preserve what matters most. Relationships need boundaries to survive, just as communities need shared values to thrive. Even the earth itself requires limits to make space for life to continue. 

Then comes Bechukotai, with its blessings and curses, its soaring promises and terrifying warnings. At first glance, the portion feels unsettling. If the people walk in God’s ways, abundance follows; if they choose not to, society will collapse in painful detail. 

The ancient mystical rabbis often read these passages as lessons in choices and consequences, rather than as punishment. Through this lens, the Torah is describing what can happen when we detach ourselves from the foundation of cycles and rhythms that sustain life. When we sever this critical connection to the earth, we create an environment where exploitation replaces stewardship, fear replaces covenant, and disconnection replaces responsibility.  

The Hebrew word bechukotai comes from chok, an engraved statute, to describe something etched deeply into the soul. The Hasidic tradition teaches that Torah is not intended to remain external to us, like words written on a page, but to become etched into the soul itself. Just like etchings on a stone are permanent, so too are the etchings of Torah on our hearts.

Behar-Bechukotai is a reminder to pause and reflect on the foundations upon which we build our lives. 

Are they strong enough to hold us when the world becomes uncertain? 

Are they rooted in wisdom, or merely convenience? 

Do our habits nourish our souls, or do they make it easier to detach? 

The 37th day of the Omer reminds us that holiness is not sustained by inspiration alone, but that spiritual life requires structure and boundaries. The Jewish people have survived not only because of faith, but because of the cycles and rhythms inherent in creation: Shabbat, prayer, ethical obligations, shared memory, and sacred time. 

Behar–Bechukotai whispers an ancient antidote: Slow down. Release control. Build wisely. Protect what is sacred. Because the deepest strength is not always found in conquest. Sometimes the holiest gevurah is the strength to remain rooted. 

Though foundations are not glamorous, and roots are hidden underground, without either one of them, nothing blooms nor grows. There is a strange irony in our modern world: we are more connected than ever, yet often spiritually untethered. We scroll endlessly but struggle to rest; we consume information but hunger for meaning; we chase freedom while quietly longing for deep roots. On this day of Gevurah sheb’Yesod, we are invited to strengthen the hidden architecture of our souls: our commitments, our rituals, our integrity, our sacred relationships. May we look beyond the visible to glimpse the true spirit of the foundations that sustain our lives. They are the deep roots of a weekly Shabbat table, a whispered prayer, a quiet act of kindness, and a community that shows up for one another.  

Shabbat Shalom!