Dear TBZ Community,
With the holiday of Passover behind us (yay, chametz!), our calendar invites us into the practice of Sefirat HaOmer, Counting the Omer: the counting of forty-nine days between Pesach and Shavuot, from liberation to revelation, from Egypt to Sinai and the receiving of Torah.
I find the ritual of counting the Omer to be grounding and deeply meaningful, while at times hard to fulfill. Even when rushed or lacking full kavanah, intention, the act of stopping each evening to count carries its own power. It is a practice with only one goal: to count. To mark time. To notice. And in a world where so much is uncertain, the structure of the Omer brings comfort. It is concrete. It begins, it ends. Forty-nine days, not a day more, not a day less. And it carries with it the promise of arrival, of revelation, of the sweet gift of Torah.
Most of life doesn’t work this way. Journeys often unfold without clarity or control. And yet, here we are, invited into a sacred routine that reminds us that the journey is not random. It is purposeful. It is shared.
This week, as we return to the weekly Torah reading cycle, we find ourselves in Parshat Shmini. The portion begins with an extraordinary moment of communal elevation: the inauguration of the Mishkan, the sacred space, and the first offerings brought by Aaron and his sons. The Torah says:
וַיִּקְרְבוּ כָּל־הָעֵדָה
And the whole community came forward (Leviticus 9:5).
Naftali Zvi Yehuda Berlin, in his commentary, Ha’amek Davar, explains, “And the entire congregation approached. Every place that the Torah mentions ‘approaching’ implies becoming closer than usual.”
His interpretation is a vision of community, of people stepping forward not just physically, but spiritually and emotionally, coming closer to one another. An image of shared purpose.
But the joy and closeness of Chapter 9 is quickly shadowed by the pain of Chapter 10, where Nadav and Avihu, Aaron’s sons, bring an unauthorized fire and die before God. One moment: communal joy. The next: personal tragedy. From harmony to rupture.
The Midrash (rabbinic interpretation) offers many explanations for why this happened to them: they acted independently, without command, they separated themselves from the community. And as someone who often identifies with those who challenge norms and carve their own path (sometimes even against the grain!), I wonder if it was their creativity that was wrong? Or something deeper?
Perhaps it was not their desire to draw close, but the way they did it, seeking connection alone, apart from the people, not for the sake of the collective but for their own experience. Nadav and Avihu remind us that our spiritual paths must not disconnect us from community, but deepen our commitment to it.
And this brings us back to the Omer. While each of us counts on our own, the journey is one we share. We move together through the wilderness, toward something larger than ourselves. Our uniqueness matters and it is meant to be offered as part of a collective whole.
Today, as we mark Yom HaShoah, Holocaust Remembrance Day, we stand in reverence before a different kind of fire, one of devastation and loss. Six million Jews who perished in the Shoah, along with ten million other human beings. We remember each name, each life extinguished. This morning as we commemorated Yom Hashoah at our daily Boker Tov morning practice/minyan, those who participated shared names of loved ones. Each person had a name and a story, as beautifully expressed by Israeli Poet Zelda:
Each of us has a name
given by God
and given by our parents
Each of us has a name
given by our stature and our smile
and given by what we wear
Each of us has a name
given by the mountains
and given by our walls
Each of us has a name
given by the stars
and given by our neighbors
Each of us has a name
given by our sins
and given by our longing
Each of us has a name
given by our enemies
and given by our love
Each of us has a name
given by our celebrations
and given by our work
Each of us has a name
given by the seasons
and given by our blindness
Each of us has a name
given by the sea
and given by our death.
You can read the Hebrew original and listen to it sung beautifully by Chava Alberstein.
And today we also remember not only as individuals, but as an eida (group), a community that holds memory in its bones and keeps it alive in its trauma, stories, and hope for the future.
And we do so in the midst of deeply painful times.
Here in our country and around the world, we are witnessing heartbreaking violence, rising hatred, deep polarization, and an erosion of compassion. In Israel and Gaza we continue to witness a painful and never-ending war. As a Jewish people, we are navigating fear, grief, and uncertainty. We are trying to make sense of the senseless, to hold fast to our values, and to stand for justice and dignity, even when it feels fragile.
In such times it is tempting to withdraw, to protect ourselves through distance or detachment. But the Torah this week calls us forward—וַיִּקְרְבוּ כָּל־הָעֵדָה—to approach, to draw near, to show up. To be present for one another. Not with strange fire, not alone, but together. With courage. With care. With community.
May this Shabbat bring us peace, strength, and clarity as we find the courage to forgive, to heal, and to move forward together, knowing we do not walk this journey alone and that God’s presence is in every one of us.
May God grant blessings and comfort to all of us and our loved ones.
May we discover strength, courage, and patience, and may our hearts be open to generosity.
May those who are ill find healing.
May all the remaining hostages soon return to their families and friends.
May peace prevail, and may our leaders prioritize life.
May those working for peace be granted the strength and courage to continue their sacred work.
And may we soon witness peace and dignity for all.
Shabbat Shalom,
Rav Claudia