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!

Dvar Torah: Rethinking How We Speak of the Divine

If you've visited my office over these past two months for a private conversation, particularly if our discussion was about learning more about Judaism, there's a good chance you left with a small, square post-it note with the names of a book and a podcast. The book, “Here All Along” by Sarah Hurwitz, is in my opinion the finest introduction to Judaism ever written. Even if you grew up Jewish, attended Jewish day schools, or think you have no need for an introductory-level book, you should still read it. In the introduction, Ms. Hurwitz shares how it was only as an adult, during an Introduction to Judaism class, that she discovered the depth and sophistication of Judaism, a richness she felt the diluted teachings of her youth had obscured. She studied extensively and wrote the book she wished had been available when she was younger.

Initially, the podcast I recommended alongside the book was an episode of “Being Jewish with Jonah Platt,” featuring Sarah Hurwitz. However, I soon realised that, while she discussed her book, much of the conversation addressed other issues less relevant to those I was advising. Thus, I began seeking other podcasts featuring Ms. Hurwitz, hoping to provide more focused recommendations.

In a podcast I listened to this week, she spoke with Mijal Bitton, a Research Fellow at the Shalom Hartman Institute of North America. At one point in their conversation, Ms. Hurwitz passionately challenged simplistic portrayals of God:

I find it utterly enraging when people define God as a being in the sky who controls everything, that's God. Then they smugly proclaim that they could never believe in such a thing, but isn't it wonderful when people believe in it because they need that to feel safe in the world. Oh, I'm so happy for them, I find that so condescending, I find it so arrogant, I don't believe in that kind of God. 

(…) From the Jewish tradition I have, it seems that actually our tradition also does not put forth a childish, simplistic kind of God. In fact, most religious traditions actually have a lot of sophisticated, complex, contradictory ideas, and for people to just be so condescending about these deep, vast, old religious traditions makes me really frustrated. So I really want to push back against ‘that’ as God, and I love this idea of making it a little broader and more complex.[1]

In another episode, Ms. Hurwitz spoke with my friend Dr. Joshua Holo, Vice President of Academic Resources at Hebrew Union College, emphasising Judaism's unique theological humility:

“We don't have a doctrine (…) [of] God, and I find that so wise because it reflects a fundamental humility. I think when people start telling you that they know what God is and what God does, what they're doing is they're actually shrinking God down to this human size thing that they can control for their own purposes and it's extraordinarily dangerous. I love that Judaism says, this is so beyond any one of us to define, to cabin, so we just, we intimate, we gesture to it.”[2]

All of us who grew up in predominantly Christian or Muslim societies inevitably acquired ideas about the Divine that aren't originally Jewish, influencing our understanding significantly. Even within the Orthodox Jewish world, comparing contemporary views about God to classical Jewish texts from two or three centuries ago reveals this external influence clearly. Famously, Maimonides developed the concept of "Negative Theology," arguing, like Sarah Hurwitz, that human minds cannot fully comprehend Divine reality, and thus, we should refrain from trying to define God directly, instead affirming only what God is not.

Rabbi Bradley Shavit Artson, Vice President of the American Jewish University, wrote extensively about Process Theology, aiming to remove these external philosophical influences. He recounts purchasing a house with a wall painted an unpleasant green. Initially, he asked a painter to cover it with white paint. But the painter noticed something underneath, and after scratching the surface, decided instead to remove the paint entirely, uncovering the beautiful wood hidden beneath. Rabbi Artson reflects:

Modern Westerners often approach religion as I did the paneling: they assume that the only way to be religious is to accept the sickly green overlay of Greek philosophy. They take neo-platonized Aristotelian scholastic presuppositions and filter religion through those ideas. Then, because they have insurmountable problems with those assertions, they assume that the quandary involves religion itself, or the Bible, or the Talmud, or observance, or God. What Process Theology offers is the opportunity to sandblast the philosophical overlay of Hellenistic Greece and medieval Europe off the rich, burnished grain of Bible, Rabbinics, and Kabbalah so that we can savor the actual patterns in the living wood of religion, the etz hayyim, and appreciate Judaism for what it was intended to be and truly is.”[3]

Rather than an omnipotent, unchanging deity entirely separate from creation, Rabbi Artson’s Process Theology presents God as deeply involved with the unfolding world, affected by human choices, continually offering possibilities for growth, healing, and transformation. God, in this view, does not coerce but gently guides the world towards goodness, beauty, and justice, respecting human freedom while actively nurturing the flourishing of creation.

This continuously evolving concept of God may challenge many of us. We like the security of fixed definitions, but this security is superficial. When our neatly defined beliefs confront reality, they often fall short. Embracing a relational God may not only align more closely with authentic Jewish teachings but also resonate more deeply with the realities of our lived experiences.

In this week’s parashah, P’kudei, the Israelites complete the construction of the Mishkan. The Torah tells us:

וַיְכַס הֶעָנָן אֶת־אֹהֶל מוֹעֵד וּכְבוֹד יְהֹוָה מָלֵא אֶת־הַמִּשְׁכָּן׃

The cloud covered the Tent of Meeting,

and the Presence of ה׳ filled the Tabernacle.[4]

The sanctuary wasn't built just once, long ago; it is continually built wherever we sincerely pursue holiness. Whenever and wherever such sacred space is created, God’s Presence fills it anew. When we try to confine God into limited boxes derived from external religious concepts, we do a disservice both to our ancient tradition of rich, diverse theological perspectives and to our own personal relationships with a dynamic, living God.

This Shabbat, let’s try to be open to experiencing God as constantly in process and transformation, just as we are. Perhaps this dynamic growth is the truest meaning of being created in the Divine image.

Shabbat Shalom!

[1] https://open.spotify.com/episode/5dy8utGVkMpFlUddlBISKO?si=7185feeac72b4f05
[2] https://open.spotify.com/episode/6Og6Xy3eP50d92oP5TfcwW?si=57b32a0633184876
[3] Artson, R. B. S. (2013) God of Becoming and Relationship. 1st edn. Jewish Lights.
[4] Ex. 30:34

Building the Mishkan in ourselves

(A previous version of this text was published on this blog in Portuguese under the title "Construindo o Mishcán em nós mesmos")

This week's parashah contains the final instructions for constructing the Mishkan (Tabernacle), the portable Temple that the Israelites carried during their forty-year journey through the desert. Upon completing this process, the text states: “When Moshe had finished the work, the cloud covered the Tent of Meeting, and the Presence of ADONAI filled the Mishkan.” (Ex. 40:33–34)

At first glance, the extensive list of materials and intricate details provided in this parashah could serve as a blueprint for reconstructing the Mishkan (and indeed some have attempted precisely that!). Yet, how can we integrate these detailed instructions into our lives amid the bustling environment in Johannesburg in the 21st century?

One possible path can be found in Hasidic commentaries, which frequently draw parallels between the text of the Torah and the dilemmas faced by our ancestors with our own inner struggles. Thus, the task of building the Mishkan, a place for the Divine presence to dwell, can be compared to the inner work of constructing ourselves into the individuals we aspire to become, reflecting, as closely as possible, the Divine image in which we were formed. Whether we view this as aligning with a Divine purpose or simply cultivating our highest ethical selves, it involves practical steps: identifying what's distancing us from our goals, intentionally removing those obstacles, and consistently developing habits such as daily reflection, deliberate kindness, or community engagement. This demanding, detailed work, akin to the Mishkan's construction, leads to what Hasidism calls d'vekut – the profound experience of connecting spiritually with God and living purposefully. This is how we bring the Divine Presence, not just into our personal experiences, but into the world as a whole.

As Rabbi Ebn Leader, one of my beloved teachers, emphasises, just as the Mishkan was portable and could be established anywhere, we too can initiate our personal process of transformation and pursuit of d'vekut at any time and place [1]. It begins by listening to our inner voice and deciding to engage in the challenging work of transforming ourselves into our own Mishkan.

This Shabbat, may the instructions of Parashat P’kudei inspire us to transform ourselves, enabling God to occupy the Divine’s rightful place in our lives and in the world around us.

Shabbat Shalom!

[1] Ebn, R. et al. (2013) Speaking Torah Vol 1. 1st edn. Jewish Lights.

Balancing Structure and Spirit: The Dance of Keva and Kavanah

This week, I taught a class on t’filah, Jewish prayer, in which the students and I discussed the balance between keva, the fixed part of the liturgy—both in terms of the moments we are required to pray and the words we use—and kavanah, the spontaneity that leads us to seek connection with the Divine at different moments of the day, not necessarily using the prescribed words.

Throughout the centuries, Jewish tradition has sought to achieve a balance between these two concepts. On one hand, no one has ever believed that a spiritual connection can occur when words are recited mechanically, without presence in the moment. Indeed, very early sources already expressed the opinion that a prayer said without kavanah—without intent and concentration—is not considered valid. At the same time, several authors recognise that achieving genuine spiritual connection requires effort and that, just like with any other acquired skill, frequent practice—even when one does not feel “in the mood”—eventually makes the connection possible.

Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel, one of the most influential theologians of the 20th century, wrote:

“There is a specific difficulty of Jewish prayer. There are laws: how to pray, when to pray, what to pray. There are fixed times, fixed ways, fixed text. On the other hand, prayer is worship of the heart, the outpouring of the soul, a matter of devotion. Thus, Jewish prayer is guided by two opposite principles: order and outburst, regularity and spontaneity, uniformity and individuality, law and freedom. These principles are the two poles about which Jewish prayer revolves. Since each of the two moves in the opposite direction, equilibrium can be maintained only if both are of equal force.” [1]

This week’s parashah, Vayakhel, introduces the search for this equilibrium between opposing principles. It continues the instructions for the construction of the Mishkan, the portable sanctuary the Israelites carried in the desert—the physical expression of what the prescribed liturgy, keva, meant in those times. At the same time, it details the incessant flow of donations towards the Mishkan’s construction, a desire to deeply connect with the Divine and with this communal effort—kavanah! Furthermore, the text tells us how Bezalel, the artisan leading the construction, was endowed by God with knowledge in every kind of craft (which could be seen as an expression of keva) but was also inspired to create all sorts of designs—an act of inspiration and creativity, which I see as forms of kavanah.

Quite often, when we think about Jewish religious observance—including but not limited to t’filah—we focus on the rules and laws that govern every aspect of our practices. And they are important! But it is equally essential to leave space for spontaneity, for the expression that comes from our innermost selves as we seek to connect with the Divine, with tradition, and with one another.

We have been striving to do just that at Bet David—incorporating new melodies, drawing from the beautiful poems in Mishkan T’filah, introducing new ones, and creating opportunities for members of the community to add their creative voices to the service. And we want to do even more!

Let’s learn about Jewish traditions and all their rules—and infuse them with our Jewish creativity, building together our shared Jewish path!

Shabbat Shalom,

[1] Abraham Joshua Heschel, “The Spirit of Jewish Prayer” in Moral Grandeur and Spiritual Audacity, p. 111

 

Dvar Torah: Faith Without Idols: Why Absolute Certainty Can Be Dangerous

At some point during my teenage years in the 1980s, a fancy hotel in São Paulo began organising gastronomic festivals, inviting chefs from renowned international restaurants. In one of these events, in 1986, they hosted a dinner inspired by the restaurant in Rome where the famous Fettuccine Alfredo was born. My brother, a fan of the dish and eager to taste it in its original form, convinced my parents to take him. My mother, then, made me an offer: since the dinner was expensive and I was not particularly interested in the famous fettuccine, she would give me another gift of the same value. At fifteen years old, already certain of the career path I wanted to pursue, I accepted the deal and chose a book on computer graphics.

Computer graphics, which are now an integral part of our daily lives, were not as widespread back then. Beauty and the Beast, featuring a ballroom scene partially developed with computer graphics, was only released in 1991. Toy Story, the first full-length film created entirely using computer graphics, came out in 1996. At the time, I was fascinated by the short, creative TV videos created by Hans Donner, a Swiss designer who had established home in Brazil and become a reference in the field.

What captivated me about the book I received instead of the dinner were its beautiful images, but behind those incredibly realistic computer-generated models lay complex mathematical formulas. Computer Graphics is the field of Computer Science that transforms numbers, formulas, and algorithms into images that, over time, have become almost indistinguishable from reality.

How is it possible that numbers can describe physical reality? Max Tegmark, a Swedish physicist and author of Our Mathematical Universe, argues that the physical world is a “gigantic mathematical object.” [1] Similarly, Galileo stated that “Mathematics is the alphabet with which God has written the universe.”[2]

Mark Schaefer, author of The Certainty of Uncertainty, points out that one of the advantages of mathematics as a language is that it is far less ambiguous than other fields of knowledge. “There are not competing traditions of mathematicians who argue whether 2+2=4, nor are there dissenting mathematicians who maintain that 2+2=5 and consider the rest to be hopelessly misguided heretics.”[3] Thus, mathematics could be seen as a system in which certainty exists. However, Rabbi David Curiel argues that the certainty that every mathematical problem has a solution disappears when we delve into Advanced Mathematics.[4] In the same vein, illustrating how advanced mathematical studies differ from our everyday experience of certainty, the physicist Erwin Schrödinger stated that a completely satisfactory model of quantum reality was “not just practically inaccessible but even unthinkable.” He added: “To be precise, of course, we can think of it, but it is wrong.”[5]

In preparing this week’s sermon, I have spent a great deal of time reflecting on our certainties and doubts, on the space we allow for ambiguity, and on the times when we demand definitive answers.

This week’s parashah recounts that, after the liberation from Mitsrayim, the parting of the sea, and the encounter with the Divine at Mount Sinai, Moshe delayed his return with the Tablets for forty days. In his absence, the people constructed a golden calf and began worshipping it. Despite having experienced direct interactions with the Divine — encounters that our generation can only dream of — they still needed something more tangible, a more absolute certainty, which they found in the form of a golden statue.

In many passages of our tradition, the construction of the golden calf is associated with the pursuit of unquestionable, absolute certainties. This person is good, and that one is bad; one culture values life, while another worships death; this ideology is unquestionably superior to that one. In exchange for these absolute truths, we often forgo our critical thinking and our ability to question with sincerity. The Chassidic master Mordechai Yosef Leiner, better known as the Ishbitzer and author of Mei HaShiloach, wrote: “People’s anxiety stems from their immense fear of stepping into the realm of doubt, and for this reason, some have claimed that it would have been more comfortable had humankind never been created.”[6] According to Rabbi Leiner, God planted אילנא דספיקא, ilna desfeica, “the tree of doubt,” in this world, and this is the source of our anxiety.

In a way, Moshe descended from Mount Sinai carrying a different kind of certainty—the Tablets of the Covenant, a tangible representation of the abstract relationship between God and the people of Israel. Confronted with the worship of the Golden Calf, he threw the Tablets to the ground, shattering them. Those Tablets represented absolute certainty, sculpted and inscribed by God. With that act, Moshe extinguished any expectation that our tradition would be built on absolute answers.

Anyone who knows me knows that I relish playing the devil’s advocate, questioning almost everything, turning our certainties upside down until we are left with no golden calves to cling to. That is why the idea of worshipping our own certainties unsettles me deeply.

And yet, we live in strange times… Some people argue that vaccines contain microchips to control us; others claim the Earth is flat; some deny the science of climate change. Sowing doubt to reap conflict has become a profitable business, making some of the world’s biggest corporations immense fortunes. Instead of being used to embrace and understand, doubt is being weaponised to exclude; instead of saving lives, it is serving those who seek to put them at risk.

I wish I could offer a mathematical formula to distinguish between constructive doubts — those that help us refine our answers — and destructive doubts, which only generate discord without improving anything. Unfortunately, I let go long ago of the certainty I once had that my future lay in computer graphics, along with the belief in automated solutions to complex problems. There is no magic answer; each of us must rely on our discernment and critical thinking.

Towards the end of the parashah, God instructs Moshe to carve a new set of Tablets. This time, they would not be exclusively Divine but the product of a partnership between God and humanity. By design, doubt was embedded in this second set of Tablets.[7] The tablets were to be shaped by human effort, while the inscriptions would be Divine.

Moreover, Rashi tells us that the fragments of the broken Tablets were placed in the Ark alongside the new set. This way, we would be constantly reminded of the dangers of absolute certainty—represented both by the fragments and by the Golden Calf.

As if we needed more reminders, this week’s parashah offers yet another moment that challenges absolute rules. Moshe asks to see God’s face, and God replies: "I will make all My goodness pass before you and proclaim before you the name ה׳ and the grace that I bestow and the compassion I show, but you cannot see My face, for no human being can see My face and live." Yet, just nine verses earlier, the Torah states: "וְדִבֶּר ה׳ אֶל־מֹשֶׁה פָּנִים אֶל־פָּנִים כַּאֲשֶׁר יְדַבֵּר אִישׁ אֶל־רֵעֵהוּ", "And God spoke to Moshe face to face, as one speaks to a friend."[8]

There are moments when we are almost certain we have encountered the ultimate truth, that we have seen truth itself face to face. Yet, even as the Torah recounts moments when this seemed to happen between Moshe and God, it simultaneously acknowledges that such an experience is impossible. The closest we can come is to see the Divine, truth, and certainty from behind, with a hint of doubt—just as God offered Moshe.

May all doubt always serve to advance, to embrace, to improve, to refine. In a time when we are increasingly prone to retreat into our own truths, may we remain open—to listen, to see, to consider, to question, to engage in dialogue. And in doing so, as a community, supporting one another, may we navigate the anxiety of living in a world of uncertainties.

Shabbat Shalom.

[1] Max Tegmark, Our Mathematical Universe, p. 246, as quoted in The Certainty of Uncertainty, p. 108.
[2] Mark Schaefer, The Certainty of Uncertainty, p. 107.
[3] Ibid., p. 107.
[4] "Ki Tisa: Releasing the Golden Calf of Certainty", Asiyah: Jewish Community of Greater Boston, 5 March 2021. Available at: https://www.asiyah.org/news-1/2021/3/5/ki-tisa-releasing-the-golden-calf-of-certainty
[5] Martland, Religion as Art, p. 166, as cited in The Certainty of Uncertainty, p. 112.
[6] Mei HaShiloach Anthology, commentary on Talmud, Eruvin 13b:1.
[7] Rashi, commentary on Deuteronomy 10:2.
[8] Exodus 33:11.