FY 2026 Annual Report

Chukat-Balak
Numbers 19:1-25:9

By Jen Smith

There are weeks when the Torah feels beautifully sophisticated, and then we turn the scroll to Chukat-Balak. One portion begins with a law that makes almost no sense, while the other features a talking donkey.

Our brilliant ancient rabbis were never bothered by this. In fact, they might even argue that if the Torah always made perfect sense, well, it wouldn’t be Torah. It would simply be information (and a lot less fun to read). Instead, Torah invites us into mystery, reminding us that sometimes, holiness can only be understood after it’s experienced.

The opening of Chukat introduces the ritual of the Red Heifer – Parah Adumah, perhaps the most famous chok, or a commandment whose reason remains beyond human understanding. Those who prepare their ashes become ritually impure, while those who are purified through the same ashes become clean. It sounds almost paradoxical.

King Solomon, considered the wisest of all people, famously declared,

I thought I could become wise, but it remained far from me. (Ecclesiastes 7:23)

The Midrash suggests he was speaking specifically about the mystery of the Red Heifer, suggesting that even wisdom has limits. For those of us who like answers this feels unsettling. We want life to make sense, for suffering to have an explanation, to understand why good people struggle while difficult people thrive, and we often yearn for an immediate response to our prayers.

Chukat begins by gently reminding us that faith is not about having all the answers. Faith is learning to move forward without them. And our Jewish mystical tradition offers a beautiful lens through which we might understand this concept better.

The Kabbalists teach that before creation there was only the Infinite, Ein Sof, a boundless Divine light beyond human comprehension. Creation itself required tzimtzum, or God’s self-contraction, making space for a world that could exist independently.

The rabbis explained that if all of this sounds a little trippy, it is because our finite human brains were never meant to fully grasp the Infinite, and thus, every encounter with God is necessarily mysterious. And the Red Heifer becomes a symbol of this truth: there are real things in life that just can’t be explained. Not every blessing arrives wrapped in certainty, and often, holiness requires us to trust the process before we understand.

If Chukat teaches us to live with mystery, then Balak teaches us to look for blessing in the most unexpected places.

Balak, King of Moab, hires a prophet, Balaam, to curse the Israelites. However, instead of raining terror, every curse spoken magically becomes a blessing.  Balaam’s curses become more frantic, lashing viciously at the Israelites, and yet, God transforms them into words of hope.

One of these blessings has echoed through Jewish history for thousands of years:

Mah tovu ohalecha Ya’akov, mishkenotecha Yisrael – How beautiful are your tents, O Jacob, your dwelling places, O Israel.

One of Judaism’s most beloved prayers was created not by Moses, nor Aaron, nor any other Israelite. Instead, it came from someone who tried to curse us!

And I think there is some profound wisdom in this irony: sometimes God speaks through someone we do not outwardly trust, or someone outside of our community. And sometimes, it is our opponents who reveal something beautiful about us that we’ve forgotten to see ourselves.

The Hasidic masters taught that every person carries a nitzotz Eloki, a Divine spark. Our spiritual work is to recognize those sparks wherever they appear, and especially in the most unlikely of places. This isn’t a moment of naïveté in the Torah; Balaam’s intentions were undoubtedly corrupt. Even so, God refused to give Hatred the final word.

What Balaam meant for harm became blessing, and what others intended as fear transformed into praise. We see this pattern throughout Jewish history, as we have discovered that adversity is transformed into resilience, suffering into compassion, and wisdom from questions that once felt unanswerable.

There is another subtle thread connecting these two portions, as both Chukat and Balak ask us to loosen our grip on control.

The Israelites cannot fully understand the Red Heifer; Balaam cannot control his words as he speaks, and Balak cannot dictate the future. Even Moses, nearing the end of his life, learns that leadership doesn’t mean getting everything you want, it means inspiring people to see that they have all that they need. Sigh, Mick Jagger was right.

And maybe that is one of Torah’s deepest lessons: Our task is not to control every outcome; Our task is to become a vessel worthy of blessing.

The Kabbalists describe blessing as shefa, or divine flow. Like water, shefa cannot be forced. But when we cultivate humility, gratitude, compassion, and openness, we widen the channels through which that blessing can flow into and enter our lives.

So maybe that’s why these two portions are paired together sometimes. While one teaches us to accept and live together with the mystery of the Infinite, the other teaches us to recognize blessings wherever they may be hiding. Ultimately, we are reminded that these two concepts are often inseparable.

The greatest gifts in our lives are rarely the ones we planned, and often we don’t notice the moments that shape us most profoundly until after we have lived through them. In a strange poetic twist, the Torah reminds us that becoming more interested in asking better questions than uncovering every answer is part of growing up.

This week, Chukat-Balak invites us to hold mystery without fear and to seek blessing without cynicism. It also invites us to remember that the Infinite Divine is always speaking – sometimes through paradox, sometimes through talking donkeys, and sometimes through the very experiences we never would have chosen.

May we have the wisdom to embrace what we cannot fully explain, the humility to recognize blessings whenever they appear, and the openness to become channels through which God’s goodness and eternal blessing continues to flow into the world.

Shabbat Shalom.

Korach
Numbers 16:1–18:32

By Jen Smith

If social media had existed in the ancient wilderness, Korach would have been unstoppable.

He would have started a podcast called The Real Story with Korach. He would have posted lengthy threads accusing Moses and Aaron of being part of an entrenched leadership elite. He would have gathered followers, launched hashtags, and effectively assured everyone that he was only asking “reasonable questions.”

And honestly? Some of what he said wasn’t entirely wrong.

Korach’s argument begins with a statement that sounds remarkably democratic:

The entire community is holy, every one of them, and God is among them.
Why then do you exalt yourselves?
(Numbers 16:3)

At first, it almost appears as if Korach is championing equality. After all, isn’t he right? Isn’t it true that God reveal Himself to the Israelites at Sinai?  Does Judaism not teach us that every human being is created b’tzelem Elohim – in the image of God?

It is then that we realize that Korach’s problem isn’t words. His real problem is the heart behind them.

Jewish tradition teaches that the most dangerous conflicts are not the ones between enemies, but rather, the ones disguised as righteousness. And Korach’s attack on Moses’ leadership was considered so egregious that it became, for our Sages, a paradigm of the worst kind of conflict:

Which is an argument for the sake of Heaven? The argument between Hillel and Shammai. Which is an argument not for the sake of Heaven? The argument of Korach and his company.
(Pirkei Avot 5:15)

The Mishnah does not say “the dispute between Korach and Moses.” Instead, it reads “the dispute of Korach and his followers.”

The rabbis understood that Korach wasn’t really arguing with someone else – he was arguing for and with himself. His fight was about recognition, not justice. It was the pursuit of status rather than holiness, and much less about serving God than it was about serving his own damaged ego.

And, if I’m being honest, that makes Korach (in my book, at least) one of the most relatable characters in the Torah.

Most of us have never challenged a prophet, but I am guessing many of us have wondered why someone else got the promotion, why someone else received the recognition we secretly wanted, or why another person’s voice carries more weight than our own. We have all experienced moments when our desire to contribute became eclipsed by our desire to feel seen and heard. This is exactly Korach’s wilderness, and it is ours as well.

The mystics understood this story as something much deeper than an ancient political rebellion. The Zohar teaches that the universe itself depends on harmony among different (often competing) forces. Not every soul is as humble as Moses, or as capable as Aaron, and yet, the Torah reminds us that every soul has a unique role to play.

In Kabbalah, creation unfolds through the sefirot, different channels through which divine energy flows into the world; and each sefirah expresses a different quality. Kindness is not judgment. Wisdom is not endurance. Beauty is not strength. None of these attributes is superior and each one is necessary. The moment one sefirah attempts to become all the others, imbalance enters creation. Our rabbis taught that every soul has a designated place in the great tapestry of creation. While Envy convinces us that our thread should be someone else’s color, Humility is the voice that allows us to weave our own.

Korach’s mistake was not that he desperately wanted to attain holiness; His mistake was believing that someone else’s role would make him whole.

The mystics teach that every soul arrives in this world carrying a unique spark that no one else can reveal. Our task on earth is not to become Moses; our task is to become our authentic selves.

The Baal Shem Tov famously taught that at the end of our lives, God will not ask: Why were you not Moses?  Instead, God will ask: Why were you not you?

This teaching has always felt especially relevant to me in our modern age obsession with comparison. We compare careers, families, vacations, followers, and numbers of “likes” on social media pages. We compare ourselves so relentlessly that we sometimes forget the simple truth that someone else’s blessing just wasn’t meant to be ours.

Korach looked upward and saw what Moses had, while Moses looked upward and saw God.

That is the difference: One focused on position, while the other focused on purpose.

And maybe that’s why Moses remains one of humanity’s great leaders. The Torah describes him as the humblest person on earth not because he thought less of himself, but because he thought of himself less often.

Humility in Judaism is not about self-deprecation as much as it is about clarity. It is knowing that the world does not revolve around us and remembering that our gifts are entrusted to us in service of something larger. Humility is what allows us to celebrate another person’s success without experiencing it as our failure. It inspires us to ask: How can I contribute? Instead of why wasn’t I chosen? It allows us to build community rather than competition.

In a world that often rewards the loudest voice, Korach reminds us that volume is not wisdom. Sometimes holiness looks less like standing on a cliff shouting and demanding attention and more like quietly carrying a piece of the Mishkan. Its less about claiming credit than it is about creating blessings.

The spiritual challenge of Korach is not simply avoiding rebellion; it is about learning to trust that the unique spark entrusted to each of us is enough. When we stop reaching for someone else’s crown, we finally discover our own sacred purpose. And that is where true holiness begins.

Shabbat Shalom.

Shelach
Numbers 13:1–15:41 

By Jen Smith 

There are some Torah portions that inspire me immediately. Shelach is not one of them. 

I love Torah, and I love Judaism. I have devoted much of my life to serving the Jewish people and helping others find meaning in our ancient traditions and rich culture. Yet, every year when I arrive at the story of the man who is stoned to death for gathering firewood on Shabbat, I find myself wrestling with the text. 

The truth is that I have “broken” Shabbat in ways far more obvious than gathering sticks. I have driven a car, turned on lights, answered texts, watched television, attended sports events, and spent countless Saturdays doing things that traditional Jewish law would prohibit. And even so, in my innermost core, I don’t believe that God frowns on me with anger or wishes me punished. In fact, I believe quite the opposite. I believe in a compassionate, relationship-driven, loving God. 

So, what are we supposed to do with this story? How do we reconcile the image of a loving God with a punishment that feels harsh and cruel to modern readers? 

Rather than avoiding the question, I think Shelach invites us to sit with it. And maybe, if we are willing to wrestle with the text just as our ancestors wrestled with God, we might discover that this story isn’t really about firewood at all. 

Shelach is remembered primarily for the story of the spies. Twelve leaders are sent into the Promised Land. They return carrying magnificent fruit, evidence that the land truly is flowing with milk and honey. Yet ten of them see only obstacles: Giants, fortified cities, and impossible odds. Fear spreads through the camp, and an entire generation loses the opportunity to enter the land. 

It is a story about vision, courage, and the consequences of seeing the world through a lens of fear rather than faith. 

But nestled near the end of the portion is the passage that has always captured my attention: 

A man is discovered gathering wood on Shabbat, and he is brought before Moses. Moses consults with God, and God instructs the community to stone the man to death. And then, the sentence is executed. 

This story raises uncomfortable questions for me. Every. Single. Year. 

What kind of loving God would demand such a punishment? 

The rabbis of the Talmud wrestled with questions like these as well, which inspired such a  myriad of legal barriers around capital punishment that it became almost impossible for executions to happen. They understood that preserving life was among Judaism’s highest values. More importantly, they recognized that Torah is not merely a legal code, but a sacred conversation that transcends generations. 

The question isn’t about whether we should stone someone for gathering wood. 

The question is: why does the Torah tells us this story at all. 

The medieval Torah scholar, Rashi, notes that this event occurs immediately after God reassures the Israelites that the covenant still stands, regardless of the utter failure of the grumpy spies. In fact, the Israelites have just learned that they will wander in the wilderness for forty years.  

An entire generation is notified that they will never enter the Promised Land. Imagine the disappointment. The grief. The maddening frustration. 

And then, immediately following God’s discussion of intentional and defiant wrongdoing, we encounter the man gathering wood on Shabbat. Given the jarring change of tone, I have come to think that maybe the story isn’t about firewood – maybe it’s about the Sin of Cynicism. 

The spies looked at a land filled with possibility and saw only obstacles. They saw giants instead of opportunity, and danger instead of promise. Their failure was not only in succumbing to fear; it was an inability to trust that God can make the vision of Peoplehood a reality. 

The wood-gatherer may represent a similar spiritual condition. Not rebellion for rebellion’s sake, and not just simple disobedience. But the voice that can emerge after disappointment and says, “None of this matters anyway.” 

It’s a voice that invokes a shame spiral of biblical proportions: 

After all, if we are going to wander for forty years, why keep the covenant at all?  

If the promise feels far away, why observe Shabbat? 

If the future is uncertain, why bother? 

Every community eventually confronts this question. Not because of any inherent human evil, but because of cynicism. 

The Hasidic masters often taught that one of the greatest obstacles to holiness is not wickedness, but rather, spiritual numbness or indifference. Evil can at least acknowledge that something matters; while Cynicism shrugs its shoulders and disengages. Cynicism convinces us that our choices make no difference, that our commitments have no meaning, that holiness is a waste of time, and that the divisions that exist between the sacred and profane are meaningless. 

Through this lens the story shifts, and the focus on the trials of one individual begins to be about the fragile community being formed in the wilderness. The Israelites are learning that freedom is not simply the absence of slavery. Freedom requires responsibility, shared commitments, and faith. It requires a willingness to believe that what we are doing, and what we are building together, matters. 

A covenantal community cannot survive if individuals decide for themselves that the covenant is optional.  Social contracts only work when broadly accepted.  

No, I’m afraid it isn’t about the wood. The issue is whether the Israelites still believe in the project of becoming a holy nation. 

The rabbis would eventually reject the practical application of such severe punishment, making capital cases nearly impossible to carry out. Yet the story remains in our Torah because the underlying question remains. 

What happens when cynicism replaces commitment? And, what happens when we stop believing that our actions matter? 

The mystical rabbis offer another layer: Maybe the spies and the wood-gatherer may be struggling with the same spiritual blindness. 

While the spies could not see the holiness of tomorrow, the wood-gatherer could not see the holiness of today. 

The spies looked toward the future and saw only obstacles, and the wood-gatherer behaved as if the present moment was just another ordinary day. In doing so, both failed to perceive the Divine Presence hidden within reality. In the language of Kabbalah, both stories reveal a failure to recognize the Shekhinah, the Divine Presence of God that accompanied the people through the wilderness. 

The spies could not imagine that God was already waiting for them in the Promised Land. The wood-gatherer could not imagine that God was already present in the sacred gift of Shabbat. 

Both stories ask the same enduring questions: 

Can we trust that holiness exists beyond what we can immediately see? 

Can we trust that our choices matter even when the future is uncertain? 

Can we trust that God remains present even when the promise feels distant? 

Shabbat itself is a radical answer to those questions. The world tells us that our value comes from what we produce, and Shabbat insists that our value comes from who we are. 

The Zohar teaches that Shabbat is a tiny, beautiful taste of the World to Come. During the week, we engage with the fragmented world of striving and achievement. On Shabbat, we are invited to experience wholeness as the Shekhinah draws especially close. 

In Kabbalah, Shabbat is associated with Malchut, the vessel that receives and reveals Divine light. It is a day when we stop trying to control reality and instead allow ourselves to receive its blessings. Seen through this lens, gathering wood is not merely physical labor – it is an outright refusal to enter sacred time.  

It is choosing endless doing over holy being. 

And if we’re being honest, I suspect I am not the only one who knows a thing or two (or more) about facing this temptation. We answer one more email; Finish one more project; Scroll one more news feed; Watch one more episode; read one more chapter; paint one more line… 

The danger isn’t really that God will punish us; The danger is that we never stop restlessly striving long enough to notice that holiness is all around us.  

I do not believe God is waiting to condemn me for turning on a television or checking my phone. Instead, I believe the Torah is asking a deeper question:  

What am I gathering that prevents me from resting? What bundles of anxiety, obligation, fear, distraction, or cynicism am I carrying through the day that is meant to remind me that I am more than my labor? 

The mitzvah of tzitzit that comes at the conclusion of the portion offers the final word. The Israelites are instructed to place fringes on our garments so that when we look at them, we remember who we are and what matters most. 

The goal of Judaism has never been punishment, it is memory: We are instructed to remember that we are part of something larger, and to remember that fear must not define our choices. We are commanded to remember that cynicism must never be mistaken for wisdom, and that even in a world of ceaseless demands on our time and attention, there remains a sacred invitation to stop, breathe, and notice the Divine Presence dwelling among us. 

Maybe that is the real lesson of Shelach. Not that God is searching for reasons to punish us, but that God is continually offering us new opportunities to choose trust over fear, commitment over cynicism, presence over distraction, love over hate, and holiness over habit. 

Shabbat Shalom.