Dvar Torah: This Is Our Fire — Faith Without Withdrawal

Many years ago, I visited a village in Brazil where Indigenous people were living. The community’s chief welcomed us on his porch and began speaking about their traditions, culture, and the challenges they faced in modern society. As he spoke, a woman—visibly drunk—appeared. She interrupted him, declaring, “Don’t believe what my brother tells you. He’ll say we are Native Brazilians, but we’re not. Native people are lazy. We’re hard-working people.”

Then she walked away.

That moment has stayed with me ever since. It revealed something profoundly painful: the extent to which prejudice can be internalised. That woman had absorbed the harmful stereotypes directed at her people and turned them inward, believing that the only way to assert her value was by denying who she was. Her self-worth, in her own eyes, could only be affirmed by separating herself from her own identity.

During my time here in Johannesburg—short as it has been—I’ve witnessed a parallel dynamic. I’ve been surprised by how often people are puzzled when they meet someone, like me, whose parents were both born Jewish, and who nonetheless identifies proudly as a Progressive Jew. There is an assumption, often unspoken but sometimes explicitly stated, that Progressive Judaism is a second-rate form of Jewish identity, a refuge for those who "couldn't make it" in Orthodoxy. This idea is not only mistaken—it is deeply damaging.

Let me say it clearly: Progressive Judaism is not a consolation prize. It is not a fallback option for those who found Orthodox conversion too long or too burdensome. It is a bold, ideological choice—a way of living as Jews in honest dialogue with the world we inhabit.

Progressive Judaism affirms the spiritual dignity of women’s voices. It embraces the love between people of all genders as sacred and holy. It welcomes religious leadership without regard to gender. It finds holiness not only in silence, but also in the sound of musical instruments lifting our spirits. It recognises the spiritual value of closeness and intimacy, of celebrating life with those we love.

More than anything else, Progressive Judaism is committed to machloket leshem shamayim—sacred questioning. It sees idolatry not only in golden calves, but also in the rigidity of ideas that are never allowed to be challenged. It honours tradition not through blind repetition, but through studied engagement and conscious choice.

If these are your values, then you belong here. Regardless of your background, your lineage, or your journey—welcome home.

Rabbi Nancy Wiener once wrote about Liberal Judaism in the United States—what we might call Progressive Judaism here in South Africa:

“To be a liberal Jew is to live in a world of choices. To be a liberal Jew is to be held responsible for your actions. To be a liberal Jew is to strive to make every aspect of your life a reflection of your values. To be a liberal Jew is to believe that you are inextricably linked to your ancestors, yet bound to the contemporary Jewish community, responsible for transmitting a meaningful and responsive Judaism to generations to come.”[1]

In this week’s Torah portion, we read of Nadav and Avihu, the sons of Aaron, who bring an eish zarah—a “strange fire”—before ה׳ and are consumed by Divine flame. Their fate is shocking, but not uniformly seen as a condemnation. In Midrash Tanchuma, Moshe responds by telling Aaron: “Now I see that they were greater than you or me.” According to this view, their deaths were not a punishment for wrongdoing, but a sign of their extraordinary closeness to the Divine. Their souls were so drawn to God that they could not remain tethered to this world—an idea echoed in certain mystical traditions as well.

Nadav and Avihu’s path of withdrawal is still followed by many: a religious life of withdrawal, asceticism, and self-denial, in pursuit of spiritual transcendence. But that is not the path of Progressive Judaism.

We believe that holiness is not found only in some lofty realm beyond, but here—in this world. In the words of Abraham Joshua Heschel, to be religious is to live in radical amazement, to stand in awe before the mystery and wonder of existence. We encounter the sacred not by retreating from life, but by engaging with it fully—through the laughter of children, the struggle for justice, the beauty of a sunset, the dignity of the marginalised, and the daily acts of compassion and courage that define human goodness. The task of Progressive Judaism is not to escape the world, but to transform it—to let our amazement lead us to responsibility, and our wonder give rise to ethical action.

Ours is not the path of Nadav and Avihu. Ours is the path of those who walk with open hearts and open minds, who refuse to abandon the world, and who insist that Judaism must speak in the voice of justice, compassion, and relevance.

Progressive Judaism is not a diluted tradition—it is a powerful expression of Judaism’s most enduring truths. It is not a fire that consumes, but a flame that illuminates.

May we continue to walk proudly in its light.

Shabbat Shalom!

[1] Wiener, Nancy H. Beyond Breaking the Glass. CCAR Press, 2001. p.1

The Fire That Consumes and the Fire That Iluminates: A Jewish Reflection on Religious Fundamentalism

In Parashat Sh’mini, two young priests, Aharon’s sons, Nadav and Avihu, bring אֵשׁ זָרָה, aish zarah, a “strange fire” before ה׳ and are instantly consumed by Divine flame. The Torah does not tell us exactly what their sin was, only that they acted in a way not commanded by God [1]. Their death is jarring, a moment of tragedy interrupting what was meant to be a day of joy, the inauguration of the Mishkan.

Across generations, our sages struggled to understand this story. Rashi quotes Rabi Ishmael suggesting they entered intoxicated [2]. Kohelet warns: “Do not be overly righteous… why destroy yourself?”[3]. Their sin, it seems, lay not in rebellion but in excess, in zeal untempered by discipline or humility.

In our time, Rabbi Donniel Hartman has written powerfully about what he calls “God-intoxication” – the idea that when religious people become so consumed with serving God that they forget their responsibilities to other human beings, faith turns from a source of goodness into a source of harm. He warns:

“For the God-Intoxicated person, the awareness of living in the presence of the one transcendent God demands an all-consuming attention that can exhaust one's ability to see the needs of other human beings. This religious personality is defined by strict non-indifference to God. The more we walk with God, the less room we have to be aware of the human condition in general, and consequently, our moral sensibilities become attenuated.” [4]

This Shabbat, as we read of Nadav and Avihu, the world also mourns the loss of Pope Francis, a man who spent his papacy challenging the assumption that religious leadership must come wrapped in certainty. Wikipedia+1 His courage lay not only in what he affirmed, but in what he dared to question. He opened space for dialogue where others closed doors. He sought holiness not in doctrinal purism, but in compassion, justice, and service.

In many ways, Francis embodied what Jewish tradition upholds as its ideal religious leader: one who walks humbly with God [5], who fears arrogance more than doubt, who sees every human being as b’tzelem Elohim, created in the image of God.

The death of Nadav and Avihu reminds us that religious zeal and certainty, when not grounded in humility and restraint, can lead to disaster. The life of Pope Francis reminds us that religious leadership, when imbued with empathy and doubt, can lead to healing. Together, they offer a stark moral contrast between the fire that consumes and the fire that illuminates.

As Jews, we do not turn away from passion in our service of God. But we are taught to balance zeal with discernment, certainty with inquiry. We light sacred fire, the fire of Shabbat candles, of Torah study, of protest against injustice, not to burn ourselves or others, but to bring light unto the world.

May the memory of Pope Francis be for a blessing. And may we, in our own traditions, continue to resist the dangers of fundamentalism, not by rejecting God, but by putting love, humility, and human dignity at the centre of our service.

Shabbat Shalom,

[1] Lev. 10:1
[2] Rashi on Lev. 10:2
[3] Ecclesiastes 7:16
[4] Donniel Hartman, Putting God Second: How to Save Religion from Itself, p. 46.
[5] Micah 6:8

Dvar Torah: A Faith Beyond Proof – From First to Second Naïveté

Tonight’s sermon is in dialogue with my column in this week’s AdKan, where I asked what some may find to be a provocative question: What if the Exodus never happened?

In that piece, I summarised what most contemporary archaeologists tell us: that there is no direct evidence of a mass Israelite presence in ancient Egypt, no archaeological trace of hundreds of thousands of people travelling through the wilderness, no record of Pharaoh’s armies drowning in the sea. This is not news in academic circles, but it still challenges many of us who grew up believing that the Exodus was not only sacred, but historically verifiable.

I mentioned how, in 2001, a prominent rabbi in Los Angeles gave a Pesach sermon in which he openly raised that question. He told his congregation that the Exodus, in the way it is described in the Torah, probably did not happen. And the reaction was intense—some were deeply appreciative of his intellectual honesty, while others were shaken. The discussion went so far as to land on the front page of the Los Angeles Times.

And I also mentioned the work of Richard Elliott Friedman, whose book The Exodus offers a nuanced and respectful suggestion: that while the large-scale Exodus may not have occurred, a smaller group—perhaps the Levites—did leave Egypt, and brought with them a memory of slavery and divine liberation. Over time, that memory was adopted by the wider Israelite community, becoming the foundational story we now tell each year.

But as I wrote in the column, and as I want to explore more deeply tonight, the question that really matters is not about historical certainty. It’s about how we understand truth.

Elie Wiesel once wrote, “Some events do take place but are not true; others are, although they never occurred.” It’s a striking sentence—and one that I believe every religious person should sit with for a while.

Wiesel’s words remind us that there are different kinds of truth. Some truths can be weighed, measured, confirmed by excavation or DNA. But others live in stories, in rituals, in values that shape our lives. The Exodus, whether it happened as written or not, is one of those stories. It has shaped Jewish identity, Jewish ethics, and Jewish theology for more than three thousand years.

But how do we hold onto a story like that—lovingly, meaningfully—once we know that it may not have happened in the way we were first taught?

Here I want to turn to the French philosopher Paul Ricoeur, and his idea of the second naïveté.

Ricoeur describes three stages in our relationship with sacred stories. The first is what he calls first naïveté—a stage of uncritical belief. As children, or even as adults entering a religious tradition, we accept the stories at face value. The sea split. The manna fell. The bush burned. No questions asked.

Then comes the critical stage. We grow older. We study. We ask hard questions. We read biblical scholarship. We encounter contradictions. We learn that many cultures have flood stories. We discover that the Torah may have been written by multiple hands across generations. For many, this critical stage is painful. Some try to retreat to the certainty of literalism. Others walk away from religion altogether, believing that if the stories aren’t factually true, they must be meaningless.

But Ricoeur offers a third possibility: the second naïveté. This is not a return to innocence, but a movement forward. After the struggle, after the questions, we learn to read the stories again—not as newspaper reports, but as carriers of profound symbolic and ethical truth. We are no longer asking, Did this happen? We are asking, What does this mean? What does it teach me?

This is a religious maturity that does not ask us to lie to ourselves about history, but neither does it allow cynicism to rule. It invites us to re-enter the story with open eyes and full hearts.

This is what allowed us to sit at the Seder table with integrity. We could say, as the Haggadah does, “In every generation, each person must see themselves as if they came out of Egypt”—not because we were pretending, but because we were participating. The “as if” is not a disclaimer; it is the point. Pesach is, essentially, about re-commitment.

The Exodus story becomes a lens through which we see the world. It teaches us to stand with the vulnerable. It teaches us to remember where we came from. It teaches us that redemption is possible, but never easy. These are truths that do not need to be excavated. They need to be lived.

And that brings us to our current religious moment. I believe that Judaism today must be built not on first naïveté—not on insisting that every word of the Torah is literal truth—but on the kind of faith that has walked through the desert of doubt and come out the other side. A Judaism that is not afraid of scholarship, but also not paralysed by it. A Judaism that reads critically, but prays with heart. A Judaism that tells its stories not to make us feel superior, but to make us more compassionate.

We are not commanded to prove the Exodus. We are commanded to remember it. Not to win arguments, but to build character. Not to be archaeologists, but to be just.

So tonight, I invite each of us to take that step toward second naïveté. Let the story live in you—not as a fact to be verified, but as a calling to be answered. Even if we were not there, the story is still ours. Even if it did not happen, it can still be true.

Because, as Wiesel taught us, some events do take place but are not true—and others are, although they never occurred.

Shabbat shalom and chag sameach.

What if the Exodus Never Happened?

Each year at Pesach, we gather around the Seder table to retell a story of liberation. We recall our ancestors’ suffering in Egypt, their miraculous escape from bondage, and their journey towards freedom. But what if it never happened?

The question may seem unsettling, even sacrilegious. Yet it is one that many contemporary Jews—especially those engaged in historical scholarship—cannot avoid. The overwhelming consensus among archaeologists today is that there is no clear material evidence to support the biblical account of the Exodus: no signs of mass migration through the Sinai, no evidence of Israelites dwelling in Egypt in the numbers or under the conditions described in the Torah.

This tension between tradition and archaeology was dramatically brought to light over twenty years ago when a prominent rabbi in Los Angeles raised the issue in a Pesach sermon. He asked his congregation whether it would matter if the Exodus were not historically true. The reaction was so intense that it landed on the front page of the Los Angeles Times. [1] Clearly, the question touches a deep nerve.

Scholar Richard Elliott Friedman, in his book The Exodus, offers an intriguing possibility. While acknowledging the lack of large-scale archaeological evidence, he suggests that a smaller group of people—possibly Levites with Egyptian connections—might indeed have left Egypt and brought with them a memory of slavery and divine liberation. This memory, over generations, became the Exodus narrative we know today.

Whether or not such a proto-Exodus occurred, Friedman’s point is crucial: the power of the story lies not in its provability, but in the moral and spiritual truths it conveys.

At its heart, Pesach is not only a celebration of freedom, but a call to responsibility. “You shall not oppress a stranger, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.” This commandment appears over and over in the Torah, and it is grounded in the Exodus experience—not as a historical report, but as a foundational narrative that shapes Jewish ethics.

The enduring power of Pesach is not in whether archaeologists can confirm it, but in its demand that we identify with the vulnerable and refuse to become Pharaohs when we are in positions of strength.

This year, may our storytelling renew our commitment to justice.

Chag haCherut sameach. Happy Festival of Freedom!

[1] https://www.latimes.com/archives/la-xpm-2001-apr-13-mn-50481-story.html

Dvar Torah: Work in Progress! Why Our Seder Plate Was Never Meant to Be Frozen in Time

Yesterday we held our Junior Seder for families with children and it was great — tell the families with young children you know, so they can take advantage of it, next year! That said, when, right at the beginning of the Seder, I began presenting elements that have been added to Seder plates in the past 50 or 60 years, the parents looked at me as if I were speaking gibberish.

New elements? On the Seder plate?! Their eyes seemed to say. “This is a tradition our ancestors have practised without any change since we left Egypt!”

Well… not quite. The Seder is a work in progress, and many of its most recognisable elements were added slowly over the centuries. Until the destruction of the Temple in the year 70 CE, Pesach was significantly different, centred around animal sacrifices — specifically the sacrifice of a perfect yearling lamb, reminiscent of the first celebration of Passover, still in Egypt.

After the destruction, rabbinic sages had to forge new practices. The Seder that developed was partly inspired by the Greco-Roman symposium, a social and intellectual gathering centred on wine, conversation, and a festive meal. The symposium involved reclining on couches, asking and answering questions, drinking multiple cups of wine, and engaging in storytelling.

As the Seder evolved, this influence became clearly visible in rabbinic texts, where it takes on many features of a symposium. The table ritual of the Seder, first described in the late 2nd or early 3rd centuries in the Mishnah and the Tosefta, echoed the etiquette and table fellowship of the Greco-Roman symposium.

Not surprisingly, some of the earliest elements of the Seder recorded in rabbinic documents were the four cups of wine. While not explicitly termed "reclining," the Mishnah reflects the influence of the symposium through its emphasis on reclining on couches. The practice of asking questions was also present; the Mishnah describes the parent initiating discussion with four observations — similar but not identical to the later Four Questions (Ma Nishtanah). The Mishnah also outlines the principle that the Passover story should begin with disgrace and end with praise. Furthermore, several ritual foods are mentioned in the Mishnah and in the Tosefta: maror, matzah, karpas, and bitter lettuce dipped in charoset, according to the Tosefta.

The Talmud (compiled in the fifth and sixth centuries) expanded upon these ideas, engaging in scholarly debate over various aspects of the Passover ceremony—such as the number of wine cups and the appropriate blessings. While these discussions elaborated earlier concepts, the first known Haggadah in a more complete written form is part of the Seder of Rav Amram Gaon of Babylonia, compiled around the year 860 CE. This book, which included the prayers for the entire year, marked a major step in codifying the Passover liturgy.

The first stand-alone Haggadah appeared almost five centuries later, around 1320, and originated in Spain. It was still handwritten. The first printed Haggadah followed in 1486, also in Spain. [1]

Some of the songs in the Seder are also later additions. The earliest full text we have for Dayenu comes from Seder Rav Amram in the 9th century. However, Echad Mi Yodea first appears in Ashkenazic Haggadot of the 16th century and in non-Ashkenazic Haggadot only in the 19th century. [2] Chad Gadya is also from the 16th century. One might assume the traditional melody for Ma Nishtanah is ancient, given its widespread use across Jewish communities. I was surprised to learn that Ephraim Abileah, a Russian composer and son of a chazan, wrote it only in 1936. [3]

The 20th century witnessed a significant diversification of Haggadot, as various Jewish movements sought texts that resonated with their contemporary realities. The Reform movement created Haggadot reflecting modern sensibilities and American identity. Kibbutzim in Israel developed secular Haggadot emphasising nature, communal values, and national independence. The Jewish labour movement in America crafted Haggadot with socialist and progressive themes. Even within more traditional frameworks, Haggadot began to include reflections on the Shoah and the establishment of the State of Israel—connecting the Passover narrative to pivotal events of the time. This period saw an increase in the dynamism of the Haggadah text, continually adapted to express the evolving ideologies and historical experiences of Jewish communities around the world.

So… despite what some may have learned in school, the Haggadah is not a closed document, and the Seder is not a finished ritual. One of the guiding principles of the Seder is:

בְּכָל דּוֹר וָדוֹר חַיָּב אָדָם לִרְאוֹת אֶת עַצְמוֹ כְאִלּוּ הוּא יָצָא מִמִּצְרַיִם,

שֶׁנֶּאֱמַר וְהִגַּדְתָּ לְבִנְךָ בַּיּוֹם הַהוּא לֵאמֹר, בַּעֲבוּר זֶה עָשָׂה ה' לִי בְּצֵאתִי מִמִּצְרַיִם

“In every generation, a person should see themselves as if they had personally left Egypt, as it is written: ‘And you shall tell your child on that day, saying: This is what ה׳ did for me when I came out of Egypt.’” [4]

The only way to achieve this is to bring our own lives into the ritual—to speak about our personal struggles, the ongoing fight for freedom in our times, the need to act for the downtrodden in our streets. We must speak about the persecutions we’ve endured—the Pharaohs under whom we have suffered—and also about the moments when we acted like Pharaohs. To examine what imprisons us—individually and as a community—and how we might break free.

Like Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur — set at a healthy distance of half a year from Pesach — this is an opportunity for personal growth, not merely an obligation to repeat ritual that may feel rote or disconnected. If your family’s Seder currently lacks meaning for you, I’d love to talk with you after the service. I’d be glad to offer ideas to help renew your tradition.

The story of Pesach is the foundational narrative of the Jewish people, and its annual celebration invites us to revisit what it means to be Jewish in today’s world.

Will you accept that invitation?

Shabbat Shalom.

[1] Vanessa Ochs, The Passover Haggadah (Lives of Great Religious Books)
[2] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Echad_Mi_Yodea
[3] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ephraim_Abileah
[4] Mishnah Pesachim 10:5

Of Words, Symbols, and Resistance

(A previous version of this text was published on this blog in Portuguese under the title "De palavras, símbolos e resistência")

Several years ago, I visited a religious temple in the Chicago area, where I was startled to find a design carved into the walls that strongly resembled a swastika. When I questioned the person guiding our tour of the space, I was informed that this design had been a religious symbol long before it was appropriated by the Nazis as the emblem of their party. lthough I understood the guide’s explanation, it was difficult to grasp how, in that building—whose construction had been completed in 1953—the widespread and painful meaning that this symbol had acquired in the twentieth century had not been taken into account, and thus avoided in the decoration of the walls.

Just like graphic symbols, words can also take on a life of their own, as poets have long attested. In some contexts, words are chosen precisely because of their double meanings, sometimes creating humorous situations; in others, they are avoided for fear of being misunderstood.

This week’s parashah, Tsav, returns to the theme of animal sacrifices, their contexts and regulations. One type of offering made to God was the olah, in which an animal was entirely burnt on the altar. The term was translated into Greek as holokauston—a concept already familiar in Hellenistic religions—meaning complete (holos) burning (kaustos), and it was later rendered into English as “holocaust”.

By the late nineteenth century, the word holocaust began to be used by the American press to refer to large-scale massacres, such as the Armenian genocide of 1915–1917. After the Second World War, when the full extent of the Nazi atrocities began to be revealed, Holocaust—now written with a capital ‘H’ and often preceded by the definite article—came to refer specifically to the near-extermination of the Jewish population of Europe through the brutal and systematic murder of six million people.

Just as I was startled to find a swastika in a religious temple, many people are shocked to encounter the word holocaust in a translation of the Torah—especially when referring to a religious practice. The systematic murder of human beings and the disposal of their bodies in crematoria stands in complete opposition to the pursuit of a relationship with the Divine. For this reason, many reject the term Holocaust to describe this tragic chapter of Jewish and world history. Among the alternative terms proposed, Shoah—a biblical word meaning “catastrophe”—has become the preferred term in Jewish contexts when referring to these events.

While the Shoah was still ongoing, a group of young activists from Jewish-Zionist youth movements led an uprising against the Nazi forces emptying the Warsaw Ghetto and deporting its residents to extermination camps. On the eve of Pesach in 1943—which this year will fall tomorrow (11 April)—when SS forces entered the Ghetto, they were met with armed resistance from Jewish fighters, who managed to hold out for nearly two months. This act of defiance was extraordinary in the face of a far larger, better-trained, and better-equipped army. Commenting on the meaning of the uprising, one of its leaders, Itschak Cukierman, said:

“I do not believe it is really necessary to analyse the Revolt in military terms. This was a war of fewer than a thousand people against a mighty army, and no one doubted the outcome. This is not something to be studied in military academies. (...) If there is a school for studying the human spirit, this should be a central subject. What truly matters was the inner strength demonstrated by Jewish youth after years of degradation—to rise up against their destroyers and choose how they would die: Treblinka or Revolt.” [1]

May this Shabbat bring us the strength to reclaim the power of words, the meaning of symbols, and the control over our own narratives—to cherish life and the resilience shown in its defence.

Shabbat Shalom and Chag haCherut Sameach, happy Holiday of Freedom!

Dvar Torah: Intention Over Performance, The Heart of Jewish Spirituality

In the past few weeks, I taught two classes on Jewish liturgy. We spoke about prayer, how it has evolved over time, how it has shaped our Jewish experience. A question guiding our discussions was “Why do we pray the way we do? Who decided this order of words, these blessings, these silent moments?”

This unspoken question reminded me that Jewish prayer, as we know it today, has its roots not in poetry, nor in music, but in something far messier, louder, and more visceral: animal sacrifice.

Parashat Vayikrah begins the book of Leviticus, a text devoted almost entirely to the laws of korbanot, or “offerings”. Some were brought to express gratitude, others to ask for forgiveness. Some were voluntary, others mandatory. But all of them had one purpose: to bring the person closer to the Divine. The word korban shares a root with karov—to draw near. That was the foundation of spiritual life in the Torah’s time.

But that entire system no longer exists. Since the destruction of the Second Temple in the year 70 CE, we have not offered sacrifices. The physical altar is gone—but Judaism didn’t disappear. It transformed.

The early rabbis turned sacrifice into prayer, and they called this new form of spiritual life “Avodah shebalev”, the service of the heart. That term became central to Jewish prayer—and its meaning still resonates deeply: the idea that what matters in our worship is not the action alone, but the intention behind it.

Even the Talmud teaches that “a sacrifice brought without proper intent is invalid”.[1] It’s not enough to perform the right ritual, at the right time, in the right way. The ritual is meaningless if it lacks kavanah—consciousness, direction, soul.

This idea is at the heart of a contemporary Progressive reading of Vayikrah. While the descriptions of animal offerings might feel distant from us today, their spiritual message remains urgent: What matters is not just what you do, but the presence you bring to it.

In this sense, a central component of prayer in a Jewish context has to do with what is happening inside of each one of us. Rabbi Arthur Green writes about this with clarity and depth in Seek my Face, Speak My Name:

Let us think of the journey to God as a journey inward, where the goal is an ultimately deep level within the self rather than the top of the mountain or a ride in the clouds…. Prayer, our sages surely knew, is an inward act. ‘The Compassionate One wants the heart,’ the Talmud teaches. The locus of activity in human reaching for God is primarily inward, a turning of mind and heart that is attested by, but never fully subsumed within, outward deeds…. This inwardness is not only that of the person, but the shared inner self of the human heart, the human community, and the world around us.

Inwardness means the One is to be found within all beings. We find God by turning into ourselves, to be sure, but also in the inward experiences we share with others. The inner sight that we develop in such moments then leads us to see the inwardness of all creatures, to come to know them as the many faces of the One.[2]

Prayer, for Green, is not merely a recitation of words, and ritual is not merely a repetition of forms. These are gateways. But the real work, the true offering, is the inward journey they are meant to spark.

In a seminal paper, rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel also reflects on the nature of Jewish spiritual practice, recognizing the importance of its relationship to our internal spiritual life, but also highlighting that it should not be limited to the synagogue space, to the designated times or even to the prescribed words of the liturgy:

Prayer must pervade as a climate of living, and all our acts must be carried out as variations on the theme of prayer. A deed of charity, an act of kindness, a ritual moment—each is prayer in the form of a deed. Such prayer involves a minimum or even absence of outwardness, and an abundance of inwardness.[3]

These are not just poetic words. They are a challenge. Because it’s easier to focus on outwardness. It’s easier to check boxes, to follow procedures, to perform religion than to live it from the inside out in everything we do. But that’s what Torah is inviting us to do.

Vayikrah, often considered the most technical, even “boring” of the books of Torah, is in fact filled with profound insights. It reminds us that even the most detailed ritual must be rooted in presence. That holiness is not found in performance—but in intention.

In our own lives, what would it mean to shift our spiritual focus from the outside in? To treat prayer not as performance but as presence? To treat kindness not just as habit but as an expression of love? To see every mitzvah not just as a duty, but as a doorway into deeper awareness?

That is the invitation of this parashah: to stop looking for God somewhere far away and instead begin cultivating inwardness. To allow ourselves to approach the Divine not only through words or actions—but through attention, humility, and heart.

As we begin the book of Vayikrah, let us renew our commitment to this sacred inwardness. Let our words be true, our actions thoughtful, our prayer alive. Let us remember that we don’t need incense or offerings or altars to come close to the Divine.

We need kavanah. We need inwardness. And we need the courage to bring our full selves to the sacred.

Shabbat shalom.

[1] Amont other places in which this principle is formulated, Massechet Zevachim is dedicated to this very topic.

[2] Art Green, Seek My Face. Digital copy at perlego.com. The quoted text comes right after a section titled “God Above, God Within” in Part 1, “God and the Ways of Being”.

[3] Abraham Joshua Heschel, “On Prayer”, https://opensiddur.org/miscellanea/pedagogy/on-prayer-by-abraham-joshua-heschel-1969/

The Small Alef and the Sacrifices We Are Called To Make

(A previous version of this text was published on this blog in Portuguese under the title "O pequeno alef e os sacrifícios a que somos chamados")

“Called to Moses, and ADONAI spoke to him from the Tent of Meeting, saying…” With this verse, this week’s parashah and the Book of Vayikra—Leviticus, the third of the five books of the Torah—begin. It is not entirely clear who called to Moses, and this has been the subject of much debate and speculation among commentators over the centuries.

Adding to the mystery is the final letter of the first word in the verse: an alef, which is written smaller than the rest of the letters on the page. Who might have called out to Moses, so that God could instruct him in the laws of sacrifice—the primary theme of this third book?

Some commentators understand the small alef as a signal that it is Moses’s own “I” (aní, in Hebrew) that calls him. They interpret this as meaning that each person must listen to their own deepest voice, their truest conscience, in order to define what truly matters to them and what sacrifices they are prepared to make—what they are willing to give up.

Another interpretation takes the small alef in a different direction, associating it with the Shechinah—the aspect of the Divine closest to our world and present in all things and all people. According to this reading, listening to the call of the small alef means paying attention to the world around us, in order to determine what sacrifices are required of us. While the first interpretation calls us to ask our inner selves where to engage, this one invites us to listen to what the world is crying out for—its most urgent needs. We look around, seeing the Divine in the faces of those close to us, as well as in those more distant. Which causes and projects cry out for our involvement, even if they are not the ones that naturally interest us?

In both approaches, personal sacrifice lies at the centre. We live in a time of material abundance, perhaps unprecedented in human history. Most of us possess far more “stuff” than we can meaningfully use in our lifetimes. We generate staggering amounts of waste each day and yet find it remarkably difficult to let go—to part with the things we hold dear. When we make donations, it is often money we will not miss or shoes we no longer wear; when we give gifts, they are usually items we’ve grown tired of.

Plenty of stories show that those who have the least are often the quickest to share—even if it means they’ll go without, even if they have to stretch the pot for an extra guest. The Book of Vayikra presents this behaviour as ideal: God instructs us to give up the best fruits, the best animals, to offer that which we will genuinely miss. And so, the small alef at the end of the book’s first word calls us to ask: what does our innermost truth tell us we must relinquish? What causes do we believe in deeply enough to support with our time and energy? What realities do we wish to help transform? What projects feel so important that we must be part of them, even at the cost of other interests?

A famous midrash teaches that Abraham came to the awareness of a singular God by observing that a burning tower must have a keeper—if the world was not consumed by chaos, then the Divine must be sustaining it. Many theologians say we now live in a time of Hester Panim, in which God hides the Divine face. It is our turn to listen to our inner voice, to observe the external reality, and to make the sacrifices we can, to prevent chaos from overwhelming the world entirely.

What is the cause that truly moves you? What need do you hear the world crying out for help with? What are you willing to sacrifice to ensure that we all live in a reality that is more just, more balanced, more inclusive, and more compassionate?

Shabbat Shalom!