More Than a Number: What It Means to Be Counted

Earlier this week, I was speaking to some Cheder students preparing for their bnei mitzvah ceremonies in the coming months. I asked them what they thought would change once they had completed the process. Their first response was that they would become adults in the Jewish world, which I had expected. I followed up by asking how that would change the way they behaved in the world. Then, one of them told me that they would now be counted as part of a minyan—the group of ten Jewish adults required for certain prayers and religious functions. I had expected one answer but was struck by the depth of another. My first instinct was to push further, encouraging them to think more about personal transformation, but I suddenly paused, realising the significance of what had just been said.

Being seen, being acknowledged, being counted as part of a group—these should never be taken for granted. The Jewish experience has long been one of seeking acceptance in the societies we have been part of while simultaneously retaining our status as the proverbial outsider. Becoming an insider is indeed something to celebrate and take pride in.

This week’s parashah, Ki Tissa, begins with God’s instruction to Moshe to count the people—one of several censuses taken as the Israelites journeyed through the desert. A midrash affirms that God’s repeated counting of the people is an expression of love: just as a king frequently plays with and counts his favourite gems, so too does God count the people of Israel multiple times.

A passage from Psalm 147 states that God is the one who “heals those with broken hearts and binds up their wounds; counts the number of stars and gives each one of them a name.”[2] I have always found these words profoundly beautiful, recognising that God operates on both a grand and intimate scale. Assigning numbers to the stars requires distance and perspective, while giving them names demands a deep, personal knowledge of each one. There is a common expression about not being able to “see the forest for the trees,” but Psalm 147 teaches that God sees both—attending to each tree individually while still perceiving the entire forest.

Returning to my students and their realisation about being counted in a minyan, may we all feel that we are full members of the Jewish community—counted in the overall numbers and truly seen in the fullness of who we are.

Shabbat Shalom!

[1] Ex. 30:12 

[2] Psalm 147:3-4

One light or many lights?

(A previous version of this text was published on this blog in Portuguese under the title "Uma luz ou muitas luzes?")

The other day, I was watching an old episode of one of those satirical news programmes that blend current affairs with humour. The topic being discussed was the numerous human rights violations involved in Qatar’s preparations for hosting the FIFA World Cup in 2022 [1]. During the segment, a FIFA official stated that the organisation found it challenging to work with democratic governments due to the multiple stakeholders involved in negotiations, whereas authoritarian regimes made hosting large-scale events much easier. While the candour of this remark is shocking, it reflects a belief held by many: that a single, unified vision ensures greater coherence within a group (regardless of its size) compared to the complexity of multiple differing perspectives. In contrast, others argue that engaging in dialogue and debate between diverse viewpoints ultimately strengthens processes, even if it makes them more complex and time-consuming.

This week’s parashah, Tetzaveh, opens with instructions regarding the lighting of lamps that were to remain perpetually illuminated in the Mishkan [2]. However, the very next verse instructs Moses and Aaron to light the lamps from evening until morning. Faced with this apparent contradiction, various commentators questioned whether the lights were meant to remain burning at all times or only during the dark hours. In a classically Jewish (and rabbinic!) approach, they resolved the dilemma by affirming that both interpretations were correct. A single lamp remained lit throughout the day, while the other lamps of the menorah were kindled only from dusk till dawn, when the darkness of night required additional light for the sacred space.

There are moments in our history that are marked by clarity: when we all agree on our goals and the best paths to achieve them. In such times, a single source of light may be sufficient, aligning us in a shared direction. However, Israeli philosopher Yeshayahu Leibowitz (1903–1994) warns us of the dangers of such unanimity turning into totalitarianism:

“A shared language and discourse is, according to many naïve individuals today, the description of an ideal situation: all of humanity united as a single bloc, without differentiation and, as a result, without conflict. But those who truly understand will know that nothing is more threatening than this artificial conformity: a city and a tower as a symbol of concentrating all humanity into a single thought—where there are no differing opinions and no disputes over values. One cannot imagine a greater tyranny than this, nor a sterility more intellectual and moral than such a state.” [3]

Returning to the instruction in this week’s parashah, during the darkest hours of the day, multiple lamps were lit to generate the necessary illumination, even if the resulting light was more diffuse than that of a single flame. Similarly, in situations where diverse opinions naturally emerge, it is crucial to embrace multiple voices, even if this makes the process slower and more intricate. The clarity offered by a single viewpoint often pales in comparison to the richness and depth that arise from contrasting perspectives. Russian philosopher Vladimir Lossky articulated this idea particularly well regarding theology, though his argument holds true in many other fields of knowledge: “There is nothing more dangerous, more contrary to true theology, than a superficial clarity at the expense of deep analysis.”

Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik, a key figure in Modern Orthodox thought in the United States, expressed a similar idea in a metaphorical and theological perspective: “The white light of divinity is always refracted through the dome of reality, composed of many coloured panes of glass.”

As we seek light amidst darkness, may we never forgo the glow of our own candle, and may we learn to appreciate the strength that arises from the multiple flames of the menorah.

Shabbat Shalom!

[1] https://youtu.be/UMqLDhl8PXw

[2] Ex. 27:20

[3] Yeshayahu Leibowitz, Earot leParshiot haShavua, Ch. 2: Bereshit - Noach

Dvar Torah: A Sanctuary in Our Midst: How Generosity Shapes Community

(A previous version of this text was published on this blog in Portuguese under the title "Dvar Torá: Criando na comunidade o espaço do Divino")

The name of this week’s parashah is Terumah, which literally means “donation,” and I have joked a few times that this sermon should be sponsored by the Jewish Fundraisers Association because the theme of donations is central to this biblical passage. While researching what I would say to you today, I came across a slightly better joke on the subject…

A rabbi, moved by the poverty in his city, decides to dedicate his sermon to the need for the community to increase its donations to those most in need. The next day, his students approached him, curious to know whether the sermon had already had any effect. “I achieved a 50% success rate,” said the rabbi. “Those in need are already interested in receiving; I just need to convince those who can give to increase their donations.” [1]

Beyond the humour, this highlights a real challenge: how do we inspire generosity and a sense of shared responsibility? The truth is that it is worth taking a few minutes to reflect on how we decide which causes to support and how we develop this commitment.

We often repeat a certain mantra that differentiates between the general approach to donations—represented by the word “charity”—and the Jewish approach—represented by the word tzedakah [2]. In this discourse, we explain that the root of the word “charity” comes from the Latin caritas, which is associated with a form of love. In this way, giving charity is an expression of love, a voluntary act of generosity towards someone one cares for. Tzedakah, on the other hand, comes from the Hebrew tzedek, which means justice. Thus, giving tzedakah is an obligation to act in the world to restore balance and justice in our societies.

I must confess that I do not like this discourse for at least two reasons: Tzedakah is not only an obligation or a concern for a general state of justice in the world; it is also a way of showing that we care, that we have empathy for those in need. Moreover, I see many people outside the Jewish community donating to restore justice, just as many within the community donate as an expression of love. As is so often the case, this attempt to qualify “ours” and “theirs” in absolute terms leaves much to be desired.

That being said, it is true that the Torah places great emphasis on the issue of social justice, instructing us, amongst other precepts, to help people in difficulty, whether citizens or strangers [3]; not to harden our hearts and to assist those in need [4]; not to press for the repayment of debts [5]; and to protect the orphan, the widow, and the foreigner [6]. In broad terms, these teachings align with the commandment tzedek, tzedek tirdof, "justice, justice you shall pursue" [7].

Our parashah, however, made me reflect that new approaches may be useful when thinking strategically about philanthropy (another word on the matter, which comes from Greek and means “love for humanity”). The text of the parashah begins as follows:

וַיְדַבֵּר ה׳ אֶל־מֹשֶׁה לֵּאמֹר׃ דַּבֵּר אֶל־בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל וְיִקְחוּ־לִי תְּרוּמָה

 מֵאֵת כׇּל־אִישׁ אֲשֶׁר יִדְּבֶנּוּ לִבּוֹ תִּקְחוּ אֶת־תְּרוּמָתִי׃

ה׳ spoke to Moses, saying: Speak to the Israelites,

 that they may take donations for Me;

accept My donation from every person 

whose heart is moved to give. [8]

After listing various types of donations—metals and precious stones, fabrics and oils — God continues the instruction:

וְעָשׂוּ לִי מִקְדָּשׁ וְשָׁכַנְתִּי בְּתוֹכָם׃

And they shall make Me a sanctuary, 

and I will dwell amongst them. [9]

Unlike the idea that Jewish donations always emphasise obligation and justice, this passage speaks of voluntary acts and generosity of the heart. The response to this divine request, which we will read about in Parashat Vayakhel in a few weeks, is that the people bring so many donations that the artisans ask Moshe to stop the request—they had already received more than was needed! [10]

The request for donations in our parashah was not about tzedakah, nor was it about correcting an injustice. In some way, the issue here was community-building: when the Mishkan, the portable Temple that the Hebrews built and used during their forty years of wandering in the desert, was completed, the people could point to various parts of the project and see how they had contributed to its realisation. Some had donated earrings or other jewellery, others had given fabrics, coloured threads, animal skins. A midrash tells of how people organised work groups in response to the request for donations.

In response to this communal effort, God proclaimed, “Make Me a sanctuary, and I will dwell amongst them.” Many commentators have noted that one would have expected the Hebrews to build a sanctuary and for God to announce that God would dwell in it, but instead, the proclamation was that God would dwell amongst the people. Rabbi Jonathan Sacks highlights that while, for the first generations of the Jewish people, it was easy to feel God's presence at all times, for later generations, God practised tzimtzum—contracting the Divine presence, dimming its light, and softening its voice. God's presence in the world was no longer as obvious [11]. For me, the presence of community often fills this void and creates the space in which the Divine presence can reside. According to the Talmud, the Shechinah—the Divine presence—dwells wherever at least ten people gather [12].

Addressing this same passage, the Chasidic master Yehudah Aryeh Leib Alter, the Sefat Emet, notes that the various donations for the construction of the Mishkan allowed each member of the people of Israel to take part in the project and that they were all united through this common purpose. Reflecting on the Sefat Emet’s commentary, my teacher, Rabbi Art Green, wrote in 1998:

Calls for Jewish unity, so it appears, were as common in the Sefat Emet's time as they are in our own. Remembering a Warsaw divided among Hasidim and socialists, Zionists and assimilationists, this teaching was as needed in early 1900, when it was spoken, as it is today. But his message is more defined than that: the way to achieve unity is through everyone holding on to his or her own distinctive viewpoint while sharing with all others in a context that fully accepts the infinite variety of minds and opinions, all of them making up a single divine whole. Here no view is to be dismissed or rejected for such would only diminish the whole, defacing the name of God. Such a truly pluralistic model of Jewish life has yet to be tried. [13]

These still seem, even today, to be immense challenges for community building: how can we accept everyone’s contributions without forcing them to conform to the majority opinion? How can we ensure that the entire community feels represented in this communal construction, regardless of the size of the contribution they are able to offer? How can we raise awareness in the whole community about the importance of this project and ensure that there are sufficient resources for its development?

Here at Bet David, and in the wider Progressive Jewish world, we tirelessly seek answers to these challenges and invite each of you to join us on this journey. To those who already contribute — whether financially, with time, or expertise — we offer our deepest gratitude. To the entire community, we extend an invitation to join this effort — to help shape the beautiful mosaic of Jewish life: diverse, rich, and undoubtedly a place where the Shechinah dwells."

Shabbat Shalom

[1] Adapted from https://www.hidabroot.org/article/218270

[2] See, for example, https://sapirjournal.org/power/2021/07/philanthropy-is-not-enough/

[3] Lev. 25:35

[4] Deut. 15:7

[5] Ex. 22:25

[6] Ex. 22:20-23.

[7] Deut. 16:20.

[8] Ex. 25:1-2

[9] Ex. 25:8

[10] Ex. 35:1-7

[11] https://www.rabbisacks.org/covenant-conversation/terumah/the-gift-of-giving/

[12] Bavli Sanhedrin 39a.

[13] Art Gren, "The Language of Truth: The Torah Commentary of the Sefat Emet", p. 122.

Dvar Torah: A World on Fire - Our Responsibility to Act

Last Saturday morning, we read here in shul the Ten Utterances, the Ten Affirmations, which people usually refer to as the Ten Commandments, even though not all of them are commandments… For those who were here, we even talked about ideas of what the so-called eleventh commandment should be and we got some great ideas — from “don’t judge a book by its cover” to “you shall never forget”. This week’s parashah introduces 53 additional mitzvot—rules the Israelites are instructed to follow.

Have you ever thought about the rules — both religious and secular — that you live by? Some of them might seem obvious and universal, like the sixth of the Ten Utterances, “לא תרצח”, “you shall not commit murder”, but, as we have sadly seen this week, not everyone abides by this rule.

Other rules might be more idiosyncratic. Much to the despair of my children and Melanie, I never cross the street outside the pedestrian crossing or when the robot is not green. A famous singer in Brazil never mentions the word “evil”. Some people will still eat food that fell on the floor if they pick it up before five seconds, even though scientists say that even one second would have been too late, and you need to throw that food away.

Some of these rules express our deepest values; others stem from superstitions or hopes; and some have simply become habits, with no clear reason why.

The mitzvot in this week’s parashah primarily addresses interpersonal relationships and personal responsibilities. As I was reading them, one instruction caught my attention. It deals with the impact and responsibilities of fire: “when a fire is started and spreads to thorns, so that stacked, standing, or growing grain is consumed, the one who started the fire must make restitution.” Perhaps the recent fires in Los Angeles and Brazil made this instruction stand out to me. But it became even more compelling when I found a Talmudic passage that expands on it:

Rabbi Shmuel bar Naḥmani says in the name of Rabbi Yonatan: Calamity befalls the world only when wicked people are in the world, but the calamity begins with the righteous first, as it is stated in the verse: “If a fire breaks out, and catches in thorns, so that a stack of grain, or standing grain, or the field, is consumed” (Ex 22:5). When does the fire emerge? At a time when the thorns, i.e., the wicked, are found with it. But calamity begins from the righteous first, as it is stated in the continuation of the verse: “And a stack of grain is consumed.” It is not stated: If a fire breaks out, and catches in thorns, and consumes the stack of grain; rather, it states: “A stack of grain is consumed,” meaning that the stack, i.e., the righteous, has already been consumed before the thorns. [1]

The righteous, therefore, have a responsibility to prevent the fire or extinguish it once it has started. This reminded me of a wonderful midrash about Avraham Avinu. It comments on the biblical verse in which God instructs Avraham to leave his house and go to the land that God would show him:

Adonai said to Avram, "Go you forth from your land…" … Rabbi Yitzchak said: this may be compared to a man who was traveling from place to place when he saw a castle on fire. He said, "Is it possible that this castle lacks a person to look after it?" The owner of the building looked out and said, “I am the owner of the castle.”

Similarly, Avraham asked: “is it possible that his world doesn’t have a leader?”. The Holy Blessed One looked out and said to him, “I am the Master of the Universe.” [2]

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks offers his interpretation of this midrash:

Abraham was struck by the contradiction between the order of the universe – the palace – and the disorder of humanity – the flames. How, in a world created by a good God, could there be so much evil? If someone takes the trouble to build a palace, do they leave it to the flames? If someone takes the trouble to create a universe, does He leave it to be disfigured by His own creations? On this reading, what moved Abraham was not philosophical harmony but moral discord. For Abraham, faith began in cognitive dissonance. There is only one way of resolving this dissonance: by protesting evil and fighting it. [3]

That is the poignant meaning of the Midrash when it says that the owner of the palace looked out and said, “I am the owner of the palace.” It is as if God were saying to Abraham: I need you to help Me to put out the flames.

We live in a world on fire. Sometimes, like Avraham, we despair at its disorder and ask ourselves, the Universe, and God: 'Isn’t there anyone taking care of this precious palace?

The Talmud passage warns that calamity can spread when the righteous fall into chaos, allowing destructive forces to take hold. This past few days, we were reminded in the most painful way of what happens when the flames of hatred are allowed to spread unchecked.

The midrash, particularly Rabbi Sacks’ interpretation, urges us to become God’s partners in fighting the fire—spreading light where there was only darkness, resisting despair, and building a world rooted in love.

Rabbi Menachem Creditor expanded on the words of Psalm 89:3, “עֹ֭ולָם חֶ֣סֶד יִבָּנֶ֑ה”, “A world of love will be built,” and composed a song inspired by it, with the twist that it gives us agency in the building of this world:

Olam chesed yibaneh...yai dai dai

Olam chesed yibaneh...yai dai dai

Olam chesed yibaneh...yai dai dai

Olam chesed yibaneh...yai dai dai

I will build this world from love...yai dai dai

And you must build this world from love...yai dai dai

And if we build this world from love...yai dai dai

Then God will build this world from love...yai dai dai [4]

Shabbat Shalom!

[1] Talmud Bavli Bava Kamma 60a

[2] Bereshit Rabbah 39:1

[3] https://rabbisacks.org/covenant-conversation/lech-lecha/a-palace-in-flames/

[4] https://youtu.be/EUna9KngE6k

What Sparks Joy? Rethinking Our Approach to Giving

Over a decade ago, Marie Kondo's book, The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up: The Japanese Art of Decluttering and Organizing, was first published, catapulting her into the pop-culture stratosphere. Her status as a household name was further cemented in 2019 with the debut of her Netflix show. A central tenet of the philosophy she outlines in the book and demonstrates on television is decluttering one's home by discarding items that don't “spark joy.” The core principle is that if an item is neither useful nor brings happiness, it's time to part ways with it. What, then, should you do with these unwanted possessions? Kondo advocates thanking each item for its service before disposal, encouraging responsible practices such as donating usable items to charity, selling items in good condition, and recycling textiles wherever feasible.

I'm one of those people who find it really difficult to let go of their possessions. When I'm clearing out my wardrobe, instead of asking “Have I used this item in the past twelve months?”, I tend to frame the question the other way around: “Can I possibly imagine a situation in the next 12 months in which I might use this item?”—and whenever the answer is "yes" (which is almost always the case, even if I'd need to lose 15kg before being able to wear it!), I keep it. For this reason, Kondo's method has never really resonated with me.

But there was an aspect of her approach (and I confess I consulted ChatGPT to get a better understanding of it) that caught my attention: the suggestion to donate items that don’t spark joy, or sell those in good condition. This highlights an issue with our donation culture that has often bothered me. We often donate things that are no longer fashionable, or clothes that are ripped or stained. If items are still in good condition, the prevailing advice is to sell them as second-hand goods and make a bit of profit.

The Hebrew word for “charity", tzedakah, comes from the same root as tzedek, "justice." This recognises that in a as world full of inequalities as ours, sharing one's wealth isn't merely an act of kindness, but a matter of bringing justice into the world. Seen as a question of justice, our donations should bring dignity to those who receive them. I once volunteered with an organisation whose motto was, “If you wouldn't give this to your nephew, don't give it to anyone.” Returning to Marie Kondo’s method, it's the items in the best condition that should be directed to charity; let the torn and stained items be sold at second-hand shops!

This week’s parashah, T’rumah, exemplifies this kind of behaviour. God asks for donations for the construction of the Mishkan, the portable Sanctuary that the Israelites would use whilst wandering in the desert. Remember that this was a people who, until recently, had lived as slaves and left Egypt in haste, without being able to carry much. For them, any donation would mean parting with something they valued, something that genuinely "sparked joy." And yet... the volume of donations was so significant that Moshe had to ask the people to stop giving.

We live in confusing times. A decade or so ago, it was common for billionaires to be generous with their fortunes, creating foundations that helped communities and countries in need. The wealthiest nations also provided aid, recognising their responsibility in a world in which so many lacked basic necessities. Unfortunately, we are experiencing the opposite trend in recent years, with the ultra-rich accumulating even more wealth, but not being generous in the least, and with countries suspending their foreign aid programmes, convinced that their own people must come first.

May our sense of justice move us to see the dignity in every human being and adjust our generosity accordingly.

Shabbat Shalom!

A Shattered World: Trying to learn from Mishpatim in the Wake of Loss

As I write these words on Thursday morning, the bodies of four Israeli hostages have been transferred to the Red Cross, being returned to their families in Israel. Among them are the youngest of the 250 hostages taken by Hamas and associated groups on October 7th—Kfir, who was nine months old at the time of the attack, and Ariel, who was four years old then—as well as their mother, Shiri Bibas, and Oded Lifshitz, a peace activist who volunteered in an organisation helping Palestinians in need of medical care to cross the border for treatment in Israeli hospitals.

Wars are rife with tragedy, and people far from the conflict often build emotional defences to endure the anguish they bring. Yet, certain events—charged with profound symbolism—can break through these barriers, forcing us to confront the full weight of suffering. Amid a war that has claimed tens of thousands of lives, the deaths of two children have resonated deeply across the globe. Just as, a decade ago, images of three-year-old Alan Kurdi lying dead on a Turkish shore awakened the world to the horrors of the war in Syria, the deaths of the Bibas brothers have rekindled our awareness of the brutal toll the Israel-Gaza conflict has taken on children. The deaths of the Bibas brothers have shaken the world, as have the images of countless Palestinian children who have lost their lives in this war — the grief is universal, and our humanity demands that we feel the pain of all innocent victims, regardless of nationality.

This week’s parashah, Mishpatim, also known as the “Book of the Covenant,” provides instructions on how to build a society rooted in justice and care for all people. Among them are obligations to protect foreigners, orphans, and widows; to treat enemies with dignity and return their lost property; and the principle that punishment should be proportional to the damage, as expressed in the formula “an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.”[1] These are the values that have guided Jewish conduct throughout history—while practices may have evolved, the principles they embody have remained steadfast.

May our current pain for all victims on both sides of this conflict, especially children, remind us of our commitment to building the kind of society delineated by the Book of the Covenant: one in which justice prevails, in which everyone feels safe, and in which the most vulnerable receive our full attention. At the same time, may we remain steadfast in the pursuit of securing the release of all hostages, ensuring the safety of innocent civilians, and striving toward a future in which such tragedies no longer occur.

Shabbat Shalom

[1] After extensive discussion in the Talmud, the Rabbis determined that this principle guided the scale of financial compensation in each case but did not grant the injured party the right to inflict the same injury in return.

Many Ways to Sanctify Shabbat

It was Ahad HaAm, the intellectual and founder of Cultural Zionism, who famously formulated the idea that “More than the Jewish People have kept Shabbat, Shabbat has kept the Jews.” Indeed, Shabbat practices, beyond their halachic dimensions (related to Jewish law), hold immense symbolic significance.

This week's parashah, Yitro, is where we first read about the encounter with the Divine in which we received the Decalogue, the Ten Statements. The fourth of these concerns Shabbat [1], linking it to the Divine rest after the creation of the universe in six days. In the second instance in which the Decalogue is formulated in the Torah [2], the observance of Shabbat is connected to redemption and the liberation from the slavery in which the Hebrews lived in Mitzrayim. In common, both formulations instruct us to sanctify this day and prohibit any form of labour on it, without defining what would qualify as labour.

Often, when we talk about Shabbat practices, we focus on specific prohibitions, whether they originate from the Bible or rabbinic tradition: people debate whether they may drive, write, or carry objects in the street on Shabbat. More broadly, however, how can we understand the concept of sanctifying a day?

Generally, the idea of sanctification is associated with making something distinct, special. If that is the case, how can we make Shabbat special? What practices can we develop to ensure that this day truly has flavours, scents, and pleasures that belong uniquely to it?

For some, the smell of challah coming out of the oven on Friday afternoon already begins to awaken the senses to a day set apart. For others, attending synagogue for Kabbalat Shabbat has become an important ritual for marking the shift in the quality of time; some find that the Shabbat morning service helps establish a calmer, unhurried pace. The Saturday morning breakfast holds central importance for certain families; board games after lunch or the practice of strolling through the neighbourhood, visiting friends for a relaxed coffee, help to shape a different rhythm.

Whatever it may be, it is worth finding YOUR own way to make Shabbat a day with a distinct texture from the rest of the week—a day that celebrates the infinite dignity of every human being, worthy of freedom and created in the image of the Divine, who formed the world and then rested.

May this be a Shabbat of peace, connection, and new discoveries!

Shabbat Shalom!

[1] Exodus 20:8-11
[2] Deuteronomy 5:12-15