Dvar Torah: Seeing with Care in an Age of Certainty

This week we read Parashat Re’eh. As it begins, Moshe, speaking to the people on the plains of Moab, about to enter the Promised Land, lays out a choice of cosmic significance. He says:

רְאֵה אָנֹכִי נֹתֵן לִפְנֵיכֶם הַיּוֹם בְּרָכָה וּקְלָלָה

“See, I set before you this day a blessing and a curse.” (Deuteronomy 11:26)

He continues, making the terms perfectly clear: the blessing comes if you listen to the commandments of God, and the curse comes if you do not.

It all seems so straightforward, so binary. On one side, there is light, blessing, and obedience. On the other, darkness, curse, and rebellion. It’s a structure that feels intuitive; it appeals to our desire for moral clarity, for a world where the rules are clear and the consequences are direct. Do good, and you will be rewarded. Stray from the path, and you will suffer.

It is a worldview of sharp lines and distinct categories, and for a generation poised to conquer a new land, filled with new challenges and temptations, perhaps this clarity was essential. You are either with God, or you are not. You are either on the path of blessing, or on the path of curse.

But as we sit here today, in our complex, messy, and often confusing world, we must ask ourselves: is life truly that simple? Do our experiences really fit into such neat and tidy boxes?

We have all lived long enough to know that sometimes, the most difficult and painful moments of our lives, what we might have called a ‘curse’ at the time, can lead to unexpected growth, wisdom, and transformation. We have a name for this phenomenon: a ‘blessing in disguise’. It’s the recognition that the neat division between blessing and curse can be porous, that light can emerge from darkness, that a painful ending can be the necessary prelude to a beautiful new beginning.

Our own tradition, in its deepest wisdom, understands this. While Deuteronomy presents this stark choice, the prophet Isaiah offers a far more complex and challenging theology. In a powerful declaration of God’s ultimate unity and power, the prophet says in God’s name:

יוֹצֵר אוֹר וּבוֹרֵא חֹשֶׁךְ, עֹשֶׂה שָׁלוֹם וּבוֹרֵא רָע. Yotzer or u’voreh choshech, oseh shalom u’voreh ra. “I form the light and create darkness, I make peace and create evil.” (Isaiah 45:7)

This is a staggering verse. It collapses the simple binary. It tells us that the source of all existence is one, and that this one source encompasses everything we perceive as good and everything we perceive as evil, the light and the darkness. Reality, Isaiah teaches, is not a simple battle between two opposing forces. It is a complex, unified whole. This verse challenges us to move beyond simplistic labels and to grapple with a more profound and unsettling truth: that life cannot be easily sorted into ‘blessing’ and ‘curse’. Everything, it seems, can be seen from multiple perspectives.

This ancient tension between the simple binary of Deuteronomy and the complex unity of Isaiah has taken on a powerful new urgency in our time. We live in the age of the algorithm, an age of social media, where the currency is not wisdom, but attention. The platforms that shape our discourse are designed for speed, not depth. They demand that every complex issue be distilled into a video of two minutes or less, every nuanced thought summarised in 280 characters.

In this digital ecosystem, complexity is a bug, not a feature. Nuance is boring. Thoughtful, analytical rigour is dismissed as elitist or out of touch. What gets rewarded? What goes viral? It is the simple, the radical, the absolute. It is the digital equivalent of “berachah u’klalah”, blessing and curse. You are either with us or against us. Right or wrong. Good or evil. The middle ground has vanished, and the loudest, most extreme voices dominate the conversation, attracting the views and the clicks upon which the whole system is built.

To make matters worse, we are caught in a relentless war of narratives. With the rise of sophisticated technologies like deepfakes, we can no longer be certain that what we are seeing is real. A video can be manipulated, a voice can be cloned, and a photograph can be manufactured to show something that never happened. The very foundations of our perception, seeing and hearing, are becoming unstable. How can we know who to trust? How can we discern what is true when our own senses can be so easily deceived?

It is precisely here, in this moment of profound epistemic crisis, that our parashah, Re’eh, returns to offer us its most subtle and urgent guidance.

The parashah's name and its very first word is Re’eh, meaning "See!" It is a command to open our eyes, to perceive, to witness what is being set before us. Yet in a world of deepfakes, this command becomes a challenge. It is no longer a simple instruction to look, but a demand to look critically, to see with discernment.

Then there is the word Sh’ma (שׁמע), to listen or to hear. Its variations appear six times in our parashah. We are told to listen to the commandments, to listen to the voice of God. But in an age of infinite information, of podcasts and pundits and screaming headlines, what does it mean to truly listen? It means filtering the noise, discerning the motive, and listening not just to the words being said, but for the truth, or the falsehood, that lies beneath them.

The acts of seeing and listening, the two primary ways we receive information about our world, are at the core of our parashah, and they are the very faculties under assault today.

But the parashah does not leave us there. It offers us a third, crucial verb, a tool for navigating this treacherous landscape. The word is Shamor (שמור), meaning to keep, to guard, or to be careful. This root word appears an astonishing seven times in Parashat Re’eh. We are commanded to be careful to perform the statutes, to guard the commandments.

Here, I believe, lies the parashah’s hidden wisdom for our time. The text opens with the stark, simple binary of blessing and curse, a framing perfectly suited for the social media age. But it then repeatedly, insistently, whispers a different instruction: Shamor. Be careful. Guard yourself.

Be careful with what you see. Do not accept images at face value. Interrogate their source. Question their intent. See with a critical, guarded eye.

Be careful with what you hear. Do not be seduced by the easy certainties of the zealot or the comforting rage of the demagogue. Listen for the nuance, for the voices that have been silenced, for the complexity that the algorithm seeks to erase.

Be careful with the simple narratives of blessing and curse. The world is rarely so clear cut. The person you have labelled as your enemy is a complex human being with their own story. The political solution that promises a simple utopia is almost certainly hiding a dark compromise. Shamor. Be careful of the seductive pull of absolute certainty.

Parashat Re’eh, then, is not a simple instruction manual with a clear choice. It is a sophisticated lesson in perception. It presents us with the binary worldview that is so appealing, and then gives us the intellectual and spiritual tools to dismantle it. The true blessing, it suggests, is not found in blindly choosing one path. The true blessing is the wisdom to be careful, the strength to embrace complexity, and the courage to inhabit the difficult, uncertain, and profoundly human space between the extremes.

In a world that demands we react in an instant, our tradition calls on us to pause and reflect. In a world that rewards radical simplicity, our Torah urges us to be careful and to appreciate nuance. And in a world where we are told to trust our eyes and ears, our parashah says: Re’eh, see, Sh’ma, listen, but above all, Shamor, be careful. For it is in that careful guarding of our minds and our hearts that we will truly find the path to blessing.

Shabbat Shalom.

Elul: The Steady Work of Turning

As we enter the month of Elul on Sunday evening, I find my attention turning inward. This is the final month of the Jewish year, a period our tradition sets aside as a dedicated runway to the High Holy Days. It marks the formal start of Cheshbon haNefesh (חֶשְׁבּוֹן הַנֶּפֶשׁ), the “accounting of the soul” that prepares us for Rosh haShanah and Yom Kippur. Each morning in Elul (except on Shabbat), it is traditional to sound a single, piercing blast of the shofar, a spiritual wake-up call for the soul.

Despite being an economist by training, I find that the phrase “accounting of the soul” can sound intimidating, like a stern audit. I prefer to think of it as a gentle, but honest, “visit of the soul.” It’s a time to ask: Where have my actions aligned with my values this past year? Where have I missed the mark? In what areas of my life do I yearn for growth, forgiveness, or change?

While our Progressive tradition encourages this kind of mindful self-assessment all year long, Elul provides a powerful, communal framework for this sacred work. It gives us permission to dedicate focused time to the task. Just as we might prepare our homes for an important guest, Elul gives us 29 days to prepare our hearts and minds for the awesome spiritual potential of Rosh haShanah and Yom Kippur. It is a gift from our tradition, an annual chance to recalibrate our internal compass and set our intentions for the year to come.

But what does this “visit” actually look like in practice? It starts with creating small moments for reflection. This can be as simple as setting a daily phone reminder to pause, take a deep breath, and ask, “What can I begin to repair today?” For those who appreciate more guidance, I highly recommend the daily prompts from Rabbi Jordan Braunig and the Jewish Studio Project, which offer a creative doorway into this work. You can sign up for them here: http://bit.ly/4mwXoYG

From there, we can turn to our relationships. This might mean making a simple list of connections that need mending and identifying one small first step towards repair. This applies to our digital lives, too, reviewing our online conduct and curating our feeds to nurture compassion rather than anxiety. Finally, we can align our outer resources with our inner values, perhaps by reviewing our plan for tzedakah for the year ahead, and dedicating time to t'filah (prayer), whether through formal liturgy, a quiet moment, or humming a wordless melody (a niggun) to centre the spirit.

Elul in South Africa, as in Brazil, coincides with the turn towards spring, a fitting reminder that renewal in our tradition is not naïve optimism but the fruit of steady, honest work. May this month bring courage for truth-telling, tenderness for ourselves and others, and the joy that comes from making things right, one step at a time.

Shabbat Shalom!

Dvar Torah: Walking from Fracture to Wholeness in the Season of Teshuvah

Shabbat Shalom,

Last week, in the AdKan newsletter, I wrote about this unique and powerful season we find ourselves in, the ten-week journey that Rabbi Alan Lew describes as taking us from the destruction of Tisha B’Av to the rebuilding and joy of Sukkot. This is the season of t’shuvah, of turning and returning, and its central metaphor can be found in the story of the two sets of tablets.

This week, in Parashat Ekev, Moses retells that very story. It’s as if the Torah wants us to linger on this image, to understand its lessons more deeply as we stand on the precipice of Elul. Because this story speaks directly to this moment, to our moment. Let’s be honest: many of us feel shattered. The ground beneath us feels unsteady. At both the personal and collective levels, we are living through profoundly difficult times. We feel threatened, attacked, and at times, lost. The constant barrage of frightening news, the deep divisions that turn conversations into minefields, the sense that the world we knew is fracturing, it all takes a toll. People we thought were friends may have turned their backs on us, leaving us feeling isolated and questioning our own judgment.

And this collective anxiety seeps into our private lives, making our personal struggles feel heavier. In our quietest moments of introspection, we look back on our own actions and wish we had acted differently. It’s a quiet, internal ache, the memory of a word spoken in anger, an action not taken, a moment of weakness we wish we could reclaim. This, too, is a kind of brokenness, carrying the heavy weight of our own imperfections.

What do we do with all this brokenness? What is the place of our failures, our fears, and our regrets in a life we are trying to build?

The story of the tablets doesn't end with a simple replacement. The Talmud, in tractate Bava Batra, teaches something truly astonishing. It tells us that inside the Ark of the Covenant, the holiest object, the centerpiece of our sacred space, were placed both the new, whole tablets, and the fragments of the first, broken ones. This is a radical act. Most cultures build monuments to their victories, their perfection, their unblemished heroes. We build a sacred container and declare that what is broken is just as holy as what is whole. We are told to carry our history, not just the triumphant parts, but the painful, shameful parts as well.

Our tradition is telling us that our brokenness is not something to be discarded or hidden in shame. Our broken pieces are holy. Wholeness, then, is not perfection; it is the courage to integrate all of our experiences, our triumphs and our failures, into the story of who we are. It means we stop telling a version of our life story that conveniently leaves out the embarrassing chapters. Instead, we acknowledge that those chapters are precisely what gave our story its depth, its character, its humanity. Carrying our failures as a sacred reminder means they are not a source of shame, but a wellspring of empathy. Having known brokenness, we become gentler with the brokenness of others. Our own scars teach us how to tend to the wounds of the world.

The late poet Chana Bloch, in her poem The Joins, captures this idea perfectly. She writes that what is precious is fragile, like a clay cup that “shatters easily.” When it does, she says, “Repair / becomes the task.” She describes the Japanese art of kintsugi, where a potter repairs a broken cup not by hiding the cracks, but by tracing them with gold-dusted glue. The break is not concealed; it is illuminated. The repair itself becomes a beautiful, visible part of the object’s history, a testament to its journey. Bloch concludes with a breathtaking thought: “Sometimes the joins / are so exquisite / they say the potter / may have broken the cup / just so he could mend it.”

This is the very essence of t’shuvah. It is not about pretending the Golden Calf never happened, or that our world isn't fractured, or that we don't carry regrets. T’shuvah is the art of holy repair. This is not a quick fix. It is the slow, patient, and sometimes painful work of looking at the damage without flinching. It is holy because it is an act of profound self-creation, a refusal to be defined by our worst moments. It is about looking at the shattered pieces of our promises and our ideals, and instead of leaving them on the ground in despair, having the courage to pick them up and trace the edges with gold. It is about understanding that the cup, our lives, our community, is precious to us precisely because we saved it. The process of mending imbues it with a new, deeper value.

The journey from Tisha B’Av to Rosh Hashanah to Yom Kippur and Sukkot is the journey from seeing only the shattered fragments on the ground to building an ark large enough to carry them with us, to learning the art of mending with gold. The work is ours, we must cut the stone from the mines of our own lives. That mine is deep within us; it is the place of our deepest truths and most vulnerable memories. To descend into it requires courage. The tools we use are honesty, humility, and a stubborn refusal to give up on ourselves. But we are not alone. The promise of our tradition is that if we do the hard work of carving and mending, God will be there to help us fill the cracks with light.

May we, on this Shabbat, find the quiet courage needed for this work of introspection. May we learn not just to live with our shattered fragments, but to see them as holy, to build from them, and to find, in the joins, the exquisite, golden beauty of a life repaired.

Shabbat Shalom.

[1] https://www.versedaily.org/2015/thejoins.shtml

Change must come from everyone!

(A previous version of this text was published on this blog in Portuguese under the title "A mudança tem que vir de todos!")

As I discussed in last week’s drashah, the Sh’ma is perhaps the most well-known phrase in Jewish liturgy. According to tradition, it is recited upon waking and also before going to bed; it is among the first phrases in Hebrew that Jewish children learn and, very often, the last one uttered. In addition to its opening sentence, “Hear, O Israel, ADONAI is our God, ADONAI is One”, many of us also commit to memory the first paragraph in both Hebrew and English: “And you shall love ADONAI your God with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your might…”. These two passages come from the Torah and formed part of last week’s parashah[1]. Not everyone realises, however, that the two subsequent paragraphs are found, not in the sequence of the text, but in other passages of the Torah. The third paragraph[2], which speaks of the tallit and the tsitsit as instruments which remind us to fulfil the mitzvot, is in the book of BaMidbar, and the second paragraph, which speaks of punishments and rewards for those who follow Divine instructions, is in this week’s parashah[3].

For those who pay attention to the translations of these passages and compare the content of the first and second paragraphs, there seems to be a certain redundancy in the openings of the two texts: “Love ADONAI your God with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your might” begins the text of the first paragraph; “If you indeed listen to My commandments which I command you this day, to love ADONAI your God, and to serve [God] with all your heart and with all your soul” is the opening of the second. Commentators did not let this similarity between the texts go unnoticed. Rashi notes that, while the command in the first paragraph is formulated in the singular, that of the second paragraph is addressed to the whole community. Considering that the focus of the second paragraph is on the way God responds when humanity listens (or does not listen) to the Divine words, Ramban explains that Divine responses do not come as a reaction to our individual actions, but only to those of the society as a whole.

Rabbi Arthur Waskow wrote an interpretation of the second paragraph of the Sh’ma[4], in which he associates our behaviour towards nature, our interpersonal relationships, and our own ambition and greed with the way the planet, life, and God treat us. In his words, if we continue “chop[ing] the world into parts and choos[ing] parts to worship — gods of race or of nation, gods of wealth and of power, gods of greed and addiction,” then we will continue facing increasingly severe climate crises and a climate of hatred that will ultimately consume our existence.

As Ramban pointed out, these negative consequences result from our collective behaviour, [5] and the solutions must also be understood in broad terms. Certainly, each one of us needs to be mindful in how we relate to the environment and to other people, but we must also develop social mechanisms to ensure that these efforts are not only the work of a few well-intentioned people, but become our new way of life.

Who knows – perhaps the next time we hear the Sh’ma and its three paragraphs, we will begin to glimpse how to bring about such a profound social change?

Shabbat Shalom!

[1] Deuteronomy 6:4–9.
[2] Numbers 15:37–41.
[3] Deuteronomy 11:13–21.
[4] https://bit.ly/3Aw6T4z
[5] See Ramban’s commentary on Deut.11:13

Dvar Torah: The Many Colours of the Sh'mah Israel

(A previous version of this text was published on this blog in Portuguese under the title "Dvar Torá: As muitas cores do Sh´má Israel")

Shabbat Shalom,

During my rabbinic training, I studied at two different institutions. I began at Hebrew Union College — the academic institution of the Reform Movement — on its Los Angeles campus, and completed my studies at Hebrew College, a pluralistic rabbinic seminary near Boston.

While I was still in Los Angeles, I took a class with Rabbi Stephen Passamaneck. In addition to teaching rabbinical students, “Dr P,” as we affectionately called him, was also a chaplain for the Los Angeles Police Department — and he often brought his firearm to class, placing it on the desk for all of us to look at and be scared by it. Many students left his classroom in tears after some particularly harsh comment, and he took pride in causing that reaction. But eccentricities aside, what stayed with me most from the two semesters I studied with Dr P was a single statement of his: “The Torah means what the Rabbis say it means.” Here, he did not mean the future rabbis he had in front of him, but the Rabbis with capital “R”. He was talking about Hillel, Shammai, Rabi Yohanan, Rashi, Maimonides….

In other words: we could, as an intellectual exercise, go through the text, turn it over and over, and try to discover the original meaning of each phrase — even each letter — of the biblical text. But when it comes to the implications of Torah for contemporary Jewish life, what matters are the interpretations given by the rabbis of the Mishnah, the Talmud, the midrashim, and the early codes of Jewish law — people who lived at least eight hundred years ago.

Dr P was certainly right when it comes to matters of Jewish law and practice. It’s no use debating the original intention of the Torah when it says three times, “Do not cook a kid in its mother’s milk.” The rabbinic interpretation — that this verse prohibits mixing (not just cooking) meat and milk (not just the kid in its mother’s milk) — became so deeply ingrained in Jewish communal life that I often struggle to show students that this is not necessarily the literal meaning of the text.

When the topic leans more toward theology, however, the door opens wider for later generations to revisit meanings ascribed by earlier sages. One of the most famous theological declarations in all of Torah appears in this week’s parashah:

שְׁמַע יִשְׂרָאֵל, ה׳ אֱלֹהֵינוּ, ה׳ אֶחָד

Sh’ma Yisrael, Adonai Eloheinu, Adonai Echad

Hear, O Israel: ה׳ is our God, ה׳ is One.

If I were to survey you on what these six words mean, I imagine most would say you understand them — that they are the foundational declaration of Jewish monotheism. In the end, many people understand the Sh’ma as the Jewish way of saying there is only one God.

But is that really what the text is saying? Today I’d like to explore a few interpretations beyond the conventional one and invite each of you to reconsider what this verse might be teaching us.

Rashi, the 11th-century French commentator — whose interlinear glosses in the Talmud are indispensable to our understanding of that work — believed the Sh’ma required a similar kind of interpretative expansion. For him, the verse should be understood as: “Hear, O Israel: ה׳, who is our God now, will one day be recognised as the One and Only God throughout the world.” He concludes his comment by quoting a line we know from the Aleinu:

בַּיּוֹם הַהוּא יִהְיֶה ה׳ אֶחָד וּשְׁמוֹ אֶחָד

Ba-yom ha-hu yihyeh Adonai echad u-sh’mo echad —

“On that day, ה׳ shall be One and God’s name shall be One.” [1]

Rabbi Avraham Samuel Benjamin Sofer, who lived in 19th-century Hungary, asked why God’s name appears twice in the Sh’ma. Wouldn’t it be simpler, he wondered, for the verse to say, “Hear, O Israel: Adonai is our God and is One”? According to him, Moses’s aim in repeating God’s name was to underscore that everything in our lives comes from God — our successes and our failures, the times when we are lucky and those when everything goes wrong. Even though all things may come from God, the Torah instructs us clearly to distinguish between good and evil, between that which leads to life and that which leads to death — and to choose what is good and life-giving. [2]

Rabbi Art Green seems to agree, but he goes even further:

Hear, O Israel. The core of our service is not a prayer but a call — a call to our fellow Jews and fellow human beings. In it, we declare that God is One — which means that humanity is one, that life is one, that joy and suffering are one — for God is the force that unites all of it.

There is nothing obvious about this truth, because life as we live it seems infinitely fragmented. Human beings appear isolated from one another, divided by the fears and hatreds that make up human history. Even within a single life, one moment feels disconnected from the next. Memories of joy and wholeness offer little comfort when we are depressed or alone.

To affirm that all is One in God is our supreme act of faith. [3]

Feminist theologian Judith Plaskow takes this exploration even further. She writes:

On the simplest level, the Sh’ma can be understood as a passionate rejection of polytheism. (…)

This understanding of the Sh’ma, however, does not address the issue of God’s oneness. It defines “one” in opposition to “many, ” but it never really specifies what it means to say that God/Adonai/the One who is and will be is one. Is God’s oneness mere numerical singularity? Does it signify simply that rather than many forces ruling the universe, there is only one? (…)

There is another way to understand oneness, however, and that is as inclusiveness. In Marcia Falk’s words, “The authentic expression of an authentic monotheism is not a singularity of image but an embracing unity of a multiplicity of images.” Rather than being the chief deity in the pantheon, God includes the qualities and characteristics of the whole pantheon, with nothing remaining outside. God is all in all. This is the God who “forms light and createsdarkness, who makes peace and creates everything,” because there can be no power other than or in opposition to God who could possibly be responsible for evil. This is the God who is male and female, both and neither, because there is no genderedness outside of God that is not made in God’s image. On this understanding of oneness, extending the range of images we use for God challenges us to find God in ever-new aspects of creation. Monotheism is about the capacity to glimpse the One in and through the changing forms of the many, to see the whole in and through its infinite images.

“Hear O Israel”: despite the fractured, scattered, and conflicted nature of our experience, there is a unity that embraces and contains our diversity and that connects all things to each other. [4]

Marcia Falk, the poet-theologian who had the immense chutzpah to rewrite the entire siddur, including its biblical passages, usually wrote texts in Hebrew and in English that are not direct translations of each other. She reframed the Sh’ma as follows:

שְׁמַע, יִשְׂרָאֵל: לָאֱלֹהוּת אַלְפַי פָּנִים, מְלֹא עוֹלָם שׁכִינָתָה, רִיבּוּי פָּנֶיהָ אֶחָד

Sh’ma Yisrael: La-Elohut alfei panim, m’lo olam sh’chinatah, ribui panehah echad.

which translates to:

“Hear, O Israel: The Divine has many faces, whose presence fills the world —

the multiplicity of these faces is One.”

or in its version in English:

“Hear, O Israel — The divine abounds everywhere and dwells in everything;
the many are One” [5]

It is Marcia Falk’s vision that comes to mind when I recite the Sh’ma. In her words, we recognise the connection we share through God, while also embracing the vast diversity within God. As Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik — the leading voice of Modern Orthodoxy in North America — expressed it, “The white light of divinity is always refracted through reality’s dome of many colored glass.”

On this Tu b’Av, the Jewish festival of love, we celebrate all colours, all shapes, and all expressions of love — recognising that the Divine dwells within them all.

Shabbat Shalom!

[1] Rashi’s commentary on Deut. 6:4
[2] A Torah Commentary for Our Times, vol. 3, pp. 110–111.
[3] Ma’ayan Niguer (manuscript), p. 12.
[4] My People’s Prayer Book, vol. 1, pp. 87–99.
[5] Marcia Falk, The Book of Blessings, pp. 170–173.

Relationships that Transform and Prepare Us for the Season

Since last Sunday, we have entered a particularly meaningful period in the Jewish calendar. According to Rabbi Alan Lew, during the ten weeks from Tishah b’Av to the end of Sukkot, we move from deep mourning over the destruction of the central home of Jewish tradition (the Temples in Jerusalem) to the joy of dismantling other homes, the temporary booths we construct for Sukkot. Over the course of this period (which represents a fifth of the year!), we journey from destruction to rebirth to joy. We deconstruct ourselves, ask difficult questions, evaluate who we are, and begin to rebuild on foundations we hope will be more solid, enabling us to come closer to who we truly aspire to be.

T’shuvah – the process of self-reflection, repentance, and redirection – is central to the experience of these ten weeks. Rabbi Sharon Brous speaks of a Jewish dialectic that, on the one hand, emphasises justice and the rigour of honestly confronting our failings and, on the other, holds an infinite optimism in our ability to return to the best version of ourselves. On this Shabbat – known in our tradition as Shabbat Nachamu – we begin to rediscover the possibility of allowing the past to inform our conduct without defining it; of recognising our errors without letting them dictate our future; of seeking redemption despite, or because of, the path that brought us here.

This week’s haftarah (the prophetic reading) speaks to the potential for this reconstruction and opens with these words:

“Comfort, comfort My people (Nachamu nachamu ami), says your God.
Speak tenderly to Jerusalem and declare to her that her term of service is over, that her iniquity has been expiated.” (Isaiah 40:1–2)

At the other end of the t’shuvah process is our ability to accept apologies and to truly forgive. How often do we go through life holding on to grudges, unable to free ourselves, bound to the pain of what has been? T’shuvah and forgiveness are complex and difficult, especially when we feel lonely or vulnerable. Those who feel abandoned may find it harder to recognise their own faults or to forgive others, as if clinging to one’s own righteousness might somehow compensate for the pain of feeling isolated.

This Shabbat, which is not only Shabbat Nachamu but also Tu b’Av – the Jewish day that celebrates love – offers an opportunity to draw strength from love as we prepare for the introspective and evaluative processes the coming months will invite. These are also moments to reflect on how we love and how we are loved. Do we truly give ourselves, with all our energy, in the loving relationships we cultivate, whether with parents, siblings, friends, romantic partners, or even with ourselves? What does it mean to love in this way? Is it something we wish to strive for? And if not, what other expressions of love might we want to embrace?

This week’s parashah offers two paradigmatic examples of love. First, it recalls the giving of the Decalogue, the Ten Utterances that God spoke at Mount Sinai. Many rabbinic commentaries understand this moment as a mystical marriage between God and the Jewish people, offering insight into how love can manifest. The first Tablets, symbols of this sacred union (akin to rings), were quickly shattered following the episode of the Golden Calf. According to Rabbi Art Green, this outcome was inevitable: the Tablets, carved and inscribed by God alone, contained no human element. It was a union in which there was space for only one voice, a relationship in which the individuality of the people of Israel was not yet acknowledged.

According to one tradition, Yom Kippur marks the day when Moses descended from Mount Sinai a second time, carrying a new set of Tablets, this time carved by Moses and inscribed by God. These Tablets, the result of a partnership between the human and the Divine, endured as a symbol of a covenant in which both sides were seen, heard, and validated. And you – do your loving relationships honour who you truly are?

The second paradigmatic example of love in this week’s parashah is the Sh’ma Yisrael, perhaps the best-known verse in the entire Torah. Its first paragraph teaches: “You shall love ADONAI your God with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your might.” (Deut. 6:5) Commenting on this verse, Rabbi Jeffrey Salkin writes: “Love doesn’t mean affection. It means a deep, powerful connection that binds Jews to God through the mitzvot.” Does the love you feel for others also move beyond emotion and take the form of concrete, real action in the world? Do you feel that others care for you not only in what they say, but in how they behave?

Mutuality in relationships enables us to feel safe enough to acknowledge our vulnerabilities and to engage in authentic processes of t’shuvah and forgiveness. May we, on this Shabbat, find strength in loving and being loved, with respect and recognition, with listening and validation, so that we might open ourselves to the possibility of being transformed within and through the relationships we build.

Shabbat Shalom

Dvar Torá: O que "amar ao próximo como a nós mesmos" pode nos ensinar hoje? (ACIB)

Há alguns anos, o New York Times publicou um artigo na coluna Modern Love que teve grande repercussão. A autora, Mandy Len Catron, relata um experimento baseado num estudo acadêmico: ela e um conhecido sentaram-se frente a frente e responderam, uma a uma, a 36 perguntas pessoais, seguidas por alguns minutos de contato visual direto. O objetivo era induzir intimidade — e, quem sabe, amor. Surpreendentemente, funcionou. Os dois, que não estavam romanticamente envolvidos antes, acabaram apaixonados.

O que esse experimento sugere é que o amor não é apenas algo que “acontece” conosco. Ele pode ser construído. Podemos deliberadamente criar conexões emocionais — com tempo, atenção e vulnerabilidade. E se isso vale para o amor romântico, por que não também para o amor ético?

Esse é justamente o convite — ou o desafio — que aparece na parashá desta semana, em um dos versos mais conhecidos de toda a Torá:

“Amarás ao teu próximo como a ti mesmo. Eu sou ה׳.” (Levítico 19:18)

Mas essa frase tão familiar é, na verdade, profundamente desconcertante e nos deixa com muitas perguntas. Como se pode mandar alguém amar? O que, afinal, significa amar o próximo? E quem é esse próximo? E por que a equivalência com o amar a você mesmo?

Vamos tratar de duas destas perguntas hoje...

A primeira pergunta -- O que significa “amar como a si mesmo”? Maimônides, no Mishnê Torá, oferece uma resposta eminentemente prática. Amar o próximo, segundo ele, não é um sentimento passivo, mas algo que se concretiza em ações. Ele escreve:

“Amarás o teu próximo como a ti mesmo — isso significa que tudo o que você deseja que os outros façam por você, faça você por seus irmãos e irmãs.”

Para Maimônides, amar o próximo é visitar os doentes, consolar os enlutados, acompanhar os mortos, celebrar com os noivos, ajudar em necessidades concretas. É, portanto, uma mitzvá ativa, incorporada na rotina da vida comunitária. O amor, aqui, não se limita à esfera da emoção: ele se realiza através do cuidado.

Nachmânides, o Rambanm por sua vez, reconhece que pode ser impossível amar o outro com a mesma intensidade com que amamos a nós mesmos. Mas ele propõe uma exigência igualmente desafiadora:

“Devemos desejar para o outro tudo o que desejamos para nós — e fazê-lo sem reservas.”

O problema, segundo Nachmânides, é que o ser humano tende a manter a vantagem: deseja o bem ao outro, mas desde que isso não o iguale a si próprio. A Torá, então, exige o contrário: que desejemos plenamente o bem do outro, mesmo que isso signifique abrir mão da nossa superioridade.

O rabino Shmuel Goldin resume essa ideia com uma frase marcante:

“A Torá não está exigindo o impossível — apenas o extraordinariamente difícil.”

Essa leitura nos convida a pensar o amor não como um sentimento natural, mas como uma orientação interna para desejar, de forma verdadeira, o florescimento do outro — e agir em consonância com esse desejo.

Por fim, Erich Fromm, no livro The Art of Loving, diz que o “amor é uma atividade… é principalmente dar, não receber” De acordo com ele, no ato de se dar, não perdemos, sacrificamos ou abrimos mão daquilo que nos é precioso. Amar é expressar nossa vitalidade, é desejar o crescimento e a plenitude da pessoa amada. Mas ele adverte: “Se um indivíduo ama apenas os outros, mas não a si mesmo, ele não ama de verdade”.

A segunda pergunta -- Quem é esse “próximo” que somos instruídos a amar? Pela tradução usual, “próximo” pode indicar alguém emocionalmente próximo de mim; já em outras versões, traduzido como “vizinho”, o termo pode sugerir quem está fisicamente próximo. Mas, no fundo, a pergunta essencial permanece: a quem se aplica essa obrigação? Apenas aos judeus? Também aos não judeus?

O contexto imediato do versículo parece apontar para uma limitação do mandamento -- amar apenas quem tem já faz parte do grupo. Os versículos anteriores falam sobre não tratar com indignidade os membros do teu povo, não odiar teus irmãos, repreender os membros do teu povo, não guardar rancor e não se vingar “de alguém do teu povo”. 

Isso tem levado muitos comentaristass a argumentarem que o mandamento se restringe aos israelitas bíblicos — ou, numa leitura contemporânea, apenas aos judeus.

Essa leitura alega também que nossas obrigações são mais fortes para com aqueles de quem somos próximos. A doença de uma criança vivendo em outro continente não tem o mesmo peso emocional que quando o meu filho fica doente. Da mesma forma, pessoas vivendo na rua da minha cidade cortam meu coração muito mais do que o conhecimento de que pessoas vivem na rua do outro lado do mundo. Em uma passagem talmúdica que fala da nossa obrigação de ajudar quem precisa, isso é expresso da seguinte forma:

se houver escolha entre uma pessoa judia e uma não judia, a pessoa judia tem preferência; entre uma pessoa pobre e uma rica, a pessoa pobre tem prioridade; entre os pobres da própria família e os pobres em geral da cidade, os da família vêm primeiro; entre os pobres da própria cidade e os de outra cidade, os da própria cidade têm prioridade.[1]

No entanto, há fortes argumentos internos à própria Torá para uma interpretação bem mais ampla para a obrigação de amar ao próximo: Levítico 19:33–34, apenas alguns versículos depois, diz:

“Quando estrangeiros residirem com vocês em sua terra, não os oprima. Eles serão para vocês como os cidadãos, e você os amará como a você mesmo, pois vocês foram estrangeiros na terra do Egito. Eu sou ה׳ seu Deus.”

Mesmo em uma leitura estreita, o estrangeiro -- que em linguagem bíblica representa todas as pessoas vivendo em situação de opressão -- é colocado no mesmo nível legal e moral do cidadão israelita. A obrigação, desta forma, seria, pelo menos, de anar todos os israelitas e todos oss oprimidos. 

Além disso, podemos argumentar que, num mundo em que os israelitas interagiam quase exclusivamente com seus pares e com os estrangeiros residentes, os dois mandamentos juntos — amar o “próximo” e o “estrangeiro” — abarcam praticamente todos com quem se convivia. Nesta linha de raciocínio, o rabino britânico Louis Jacobs escreveu:

“Em uma sociedade distinta, na qual os israelitas vivessem junto a não-israelitas, as implicações do mandamento geral se estenderiam para incluir também estes.”

Finalmente, o versículo termina com as palavras “Eu sou ה׳” — uma frase que, como muitos comentaristas sugerem, indica que esse amor é exigido não por afinidade ou conveniência, mas por princípio. Porque TODA a humanidade, segundo a tradição judaica, foi criada b’tzelem Elohim, à imagem Divina, o mandamento de amar não pode se restringir a um grupo. Ele é, por definição, universal.

Em um livro no qual argumenta que o amor — por Deus, pelo próximo e por si mesmo — está no centro da teologia e da prática judaica, apesar de muitas vezes ter sido negligenciado ou marginalizado, Shai Held analisa a passagem do Talmud mencionada acima, que estabelecia prioridades para nossas obrigações de ajudar quem precisa:

O comentarista talmúdico Menahem HaMeiri observa que, implícita na afirmação de que nossas obrigações com x “têm precedência” sobre nossas obrigações com y, está a ideia de que temos obrigações com ambos — x e y. Por exemplo, damos prioridade a um parente pobre, mas ainda assim temos a obrigação de ajudar outra pessoa necessitada da nossa cidade. Para HaMeiri, é especialmente importante destacar que, embora os pobres judeus tenham precedência sobre os pobres não judeus, é de forma inequívoca uma mitzvá e uma exigência moral ajudar ambos. [2]

No mesmo livro, Shai Held, refletindo sobre a obrigação de amar ao próximo como a si mesmo, escreve:

Podemos aprender a sentir compaixão ou preocupação diante do sofrimento de um grupo étnico desprezado por aqueles ao nosso redor “por meio de esforços de imaginação e empatia — esforços para conceber como seria estar no lugar dessas pessoas, enfrentar suas lutas, viver suas batalhas.” Em outras palavras, enxergar ou não os membros de uma minoria alvo em toda a sua humanidade depende, em grande medida, das decisões e compromissos que tomamos — ou deixamos de tomar. [3]

Essa reflexão se torna ainda mais urgente em tempos de conflito. Com frequência, vemos lados opostos de um embate — especialmente quando atravessado por dor e violência — incapazes de enxergar o sofrimento do outro. Choramos as perdas “do nosso lado”, mas nos tornamos indiferentes às vítimas do “outro lado”. Quando isso acontece, falhamos no cumprimento do mandamento de amar o próximo como a nós mesmos.

O amor ético que a Torá propõe não é automático, nem confortável. Ele exige esforço, imaginação, humildade. Ele nos convida a sair da bolha de nossos afetos naturais e a nos comprometer com o reconhecimento da dignidade humana — mesmo quando isso nos custa.

“Amarás o teu próximo como a ti mesmo. Eu sou ה׳.”

Que essa frase não seja apenas um ideal recitado, mas um compromisso vivido — em nossas relações pessoais, em nossa comunidade e nas escolhas que fazemos frente à dor do outro.

Shabat Shalom!

 

[1] Talmud Bavli Bava Metzia 71a

[2] Shai Held, Judaism is about Love, posição 135/524 (Kindle)

[3] Shai Held, Judaism is about Love, posição 109/524 (Kindle)