There is a spiritual power to the Jewish calendar.
Rabbi Arthur Waskow teaches that Jewish time has a sacred rhythm,
mirroring the ebb and flow of the natural world.

Just as seasons turn and tides shift, the Jewish year moves us through cycles of joy and grief, contraction and expansion.
The calendar doesn’t just mark time—it shapes it,
guiding us through emotional and spiritual landscapes. 

Today we find ourselves at the lowest point of our Jewish calendar.
Israel is dry as a bone baking in the sun.
We are close to the summer solstice,
and so very far from the life-giving waters of the rainy season.


This is a time of mourning.

These past three weeks, leading into Sunday’s observance of Tisha B’Av, are known as bein hametzarim, the time between the narrows.
There is a tightening and restriction, meant to embody the siege of Jerusalem and the destruction of the Temple.

According to our sages, the destruction was the culmination of human failure, of leadership breakdown,
of unchecked greed, and of cruelty justified in the name of survival.

We read rebuke in this Shabbat’s Haftarah,
from the beginning of the book of Isaiah:
See how the faithful city has become a harlot!
She once was full of justice; righteousness used to dwell in her – but now murderers!
Your rulers are rebels, companions of thieves;
they all love bribes and chase after gifts.
They do not defend the cause of the fatherless;
the widow’s case does not come before them.

The destruction is also canonized in the book of Lamentations.
In Hebrew Eicha, Alas!
We will be reading it together tomorrow evening.

Scholar Adele Berlin reminds us of the reality beneath the poetry of Lamentations.
Ancient empires, she explains, used siege warfare as a brutal tactic
to break the spirit of a people.
Cities were blockaded until starvation and disease decimated those trapped inside.
No distinction was made between civilian and soldier.
The suffering was indiscriminate. 

All of this poetic outpouring is addressed to God,
so that God may feel the suffering of the people, rescue them,
and restore them to their country and to their relationship with their God.
The entire book may be thought of as an appeal for God’s mercy.
Yet throughout Lamentations, God remains silent.

The last two verses of Lamentations are perhaps the most distressing verses of our sacred texts:

Take us back, O God, to Yourself,
Oh let us come back;
Make us again as we were before.

But – if you have utterly rejected us, and remain so very angry with us…

And that’s it.
The if/then clause is left unfinished,
and we are left to sit in the pain of existential uncertainty. 
What if we cannot go back?

Tisha B’Av is a time for witnessing this pain. Our tradition demands it.

This week I have read and reread Lamentations side by side
with the endless news stories and first-hand accounts of the hell-like devastation being wrought in Gaza.

Our sacred texts are leaping off the page,
we are living the destruction in real time

We are witnessing civilians being herded into tighter and tighter spaces and then being shot at
We are witnessing lying and greed, self preservation over the sanctity of life
We are witnessing human beings die in the rubble from starvation and disease

There is no water, there is no flour
And where there is no flour, there is no Torah

I am sickened by this war being waged in the name of God
Adonai, Allah, whatever name you want to ascribe
And I fear to call it rock bottom,
because if this nightmare can somehow grow worse…

Read the articles, see the photos, and sit with the pain –
Let it break your heart
Let the pain pierce your soul in a way you will never forget.

—-

I have been asked “what can we do?” and I wish I had a more direct answer

I have found myself putting my efforts behind organizations I believe in,
I have sought to get to the core of the change I want to see, and try to determine who is doing it best.
Who is feeding children?
Who is mobilizing Israelis towards peace and political shifts?
Who is fighting to take greed out of life and death decision making?

I was listening to a conversation between Yehuda Kurtzer and Donniel Hartman where they compared the length of the arc of impact as seen by the educator, and the agent of change.
From their point of view, the educator needs to surrender an amount of control over influencing short-term change.

They cannot vote, they cannot stop the bleeding.
But they can flood the marketplace with ideas and morals and values,
They can teach, and inspire, and spread awareness until the tides shift

I find myself somewhere between
But what sticks with me from their conversation was the use of the word Flood.

While working on these words, and leaning in to the imagery of dryness and drought
It rained – a lot.
It rained last night while I taught Intro to Judaism,
As our class interpreted Tzedek Tzedek Tirdof
And determined that we are called on to pursue Justice time and time again
That we must pursue justice even when it might not be in our personal best interest
And that we must pursue justice, because we cannot rely on someone else to do it for us, especially someone in power. 

And it rained this morning right before I left for La Collaborativa
As 20 of us met under the bridge in Chelsea to help distribute food.
Like we try to do every month
It felt so good to feed someone in need of nourishment
Without judgment, without red tape, and in defiance of injustice
It felt like change in the right direction,
It felt like the words of Torah in the work of our hands

When we find ourselves in a moral desert,
we must flood our world with good in every way we can.

We must make justice burst forth like a river, righteousness like a never-failing stream.
The waters will find their way to the low places, to the dry places

Tisha B’Av is for witnessing. For mourning.
For facing the screams and the silence.

But it is not the end.

Immediately after the low point of Tisha B’Av, our calendar implores us to climb again.
Next Shabbat is called Shabbat Nachamu, the Shabbat of comfort.
And as we begin the Book of Deuteronomy,
We begin again the long arc toward return, toward hope, toward the possibility of change.

No one said the climb would be easy. It is slow. It is steep. One foot in front of the other.

So I ask you: as we turn this corner in Jewish time, what do you hope to see in our times of renewal?
By Rosh Hashanah? By Simchat Torah?

What changes feel beyond your control—and what actions are within your reach?

And where is the stretch—the courageous stretch—
that brings those two poles just a bit closer together?

Let us walk together, upstream. Toward the headwaters. Toward what is pure. Toward a world where righteousness flows again—not in poetry alone, but in policy, in practice, and in peace.

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Tonight,
if I may,
I’d like to tell you a story.

*****

In the summer of 2005,
I was a recent high school graduate,
spending my last summer in Los Angeles before starting college at Emerson.
I thought surely Boston would be a quick four-year detour before returning to
California for good.
Needless to say,
20 years later,
I’ve spent more of my life here in the northeast than I ever did in L.A.
And somehow,
along the way,
I’ve become a proud New Englander.

*****

This summer marks 20 years not just since moving back east,
but since coming out.

In 2005,
I found the courage to live truthfully,
openly,
and without shame.

And to mark that moment,
I did something big:
I went to my first Pride Parade.

*****

At 18,
I had no idea what to expect.

I didn’t know how to act,
or dress,
or fit in.

But with a close friend by my side,
I showed up as myself.
And what I saw were thousands and thousands of others doing the same.
None of us was alone.

Before social media,
this was how we saw each other.

This was where we were seen.

*****

In more recent years,
I haven’t always felt the same pull to Pride.

It’s usually on Shabbat.
It’s loud and crowded.

And honestly,
at a place like Temple Israel,
every day feels like pride.

So I’ve often opted out.

*****

But this year felt different.

*****

The voices are louder.

The ones that say trans people shouldn’t get healthcare.
That drag queens are a threat.
That kids shouldn’t learn about people like me.
That books about LGBT families shouldn’t be on library shelves.
That our marriages,
our safety,
our dignity are up for debate.
And those voices have power.

And they’re not just online.
And sometimes they’re accompanied by very real violence.
In this moment,
it can be hard to feel like the arc of the moral universe is bending toward justice,
no matter how long.

*****

So this year,
I didn’t just attend the parade –
I marched.

****

And at the same time,
this year,
a close friend of mine was harassed at a Pride event in California for wearing a
Jewish star necklace.

This year,
the New York Dyke March officially banned Zionists –
without defining the term –
expelling longtime Jewish organizers.

KeshetUK, the only Jewish LGBT+ education and training charity in the United
Kingdom, had to pull out of London Pride due to lack of assurances that Jews
would feel physically and psychologically safe at the festival.

The 15th annual Brooklyn Pride Interfaith Service was canceled.

The Reform rabbi set to host it said her congregation’s connection to Israel
– which she described as deep,
complex,
and largely not supportive of the current government –
was one of the reasons it was no longer welcome.

*****

So this year,
I showed up with a different kind of hesitation.

But I showed up.
I marched with Keshet and Boston’s Jewish community.
I wore a large Jewish star necklace and carried a sign with a Jewish star over a rainbow background –
(a flag that has actually been banned at multiple other Pride celebrations)

*****

I braced for a curse.
I expected slurs,
or worse.
It’s happened to others,
why not me?

But what I saw instead were crowds –
in the rain!
– lining the streets.
And as we marched,
I heard so many people shout right at us:
“We love you!”

“We support you!”
For a mile and half,
I heard nothing but love showered on us.
I saw many of you along that route.
I hugged many of you along that route.
And most impactfully,
I saw myself at 18 along that route.
I saw myself in the queer youth attending their first pride parade,
maybe even admiring the confident,
self-assured LGBT adults proudly marching.

I’ve become one of those adults that my teenage self needed to see.

*****

What I expected to be a day of curse turned out to be a day of blessing.
A surprise blessing.
A moment of healing I didn’t know I needed.

*****

Which is where my story bleeds into the story of this week’s Torah portion,
Balak.

This week,
Balak,
a Moabite king,
hires the prophet Balaam to curse the Israelites.
He wants them condemned,
damned,
destroyed.

And in Numbers Chapter 24,
this prophet Balaam,
at the king’s insistence,
looks up and sees all of the Israelites gathered together,
as he opens his mouth and delivers his preamble:
נְֻ֤אם ִּב ְל ָע ֙ם ְּב֣נֹו ְב ֔עֹר”
Word of Balaam son of Beor,
word of the man whose eye is true,
word of one who hears God’s speech,
who beholds visions from the Almighty,
prostrate,
but with eyes unveiled:”
And then,
what follows is far from the expected curse.

What comes out of Balaam’s mouth are the words now made famous by our
morning liturgy:
“Mah Tovu Ohalecha Yaakov”
–
Look how good your tents are,
Jacob!

How gorgeous is this –
how beautiful and good and blessed is this group of Jews.

*****

Now in the context of the biblical story,
this is far from the first time Balaam has offered a blessing when the King has
asked him to offer a curse!

So,
arguably,
the King really should have seen this coming.
But when we have curse on the mind,
it’s sometimes impossible to even imagine blessing.
Curses can blind us to the good right in front of our eyes.

*****

Balak expected a curse and was livid when met with Balaam’s blessing.
I expected a curse and was instead overcome with a sense of gratitude for an
unexpected blessing.

*****

The curses in this world are very real.
Antisemitism is alive and well –
I don’t need to tell any of you that.
As are homophobia and transphobia.
But what doesn’t make the news are acts of love.

Parents loving their queer kids is not in the New York Times.
Jews being loved and welcomed and embraced by our friends and neighbors
doesn’t go viral.

Jewish communities welcoming LGBT people with open arms, and queer spaces
welcoming Jews openly and without ideological litmus tests –
these are not headlines that gather enough clicks to entice advertisers.
But that doesn’t mean they’re not real.

*****

It would be easy to convince you that we are alone in this world and have no allies
and no support.
Easy maybe,
but not true,
Certainly not a complete picture.

This year,
for all of us,
no matter who you are,
no matter who might be trying to make you afraid,
you are a blessing and deserving of blessing.
And there are more of us who believe that than you realize.

Balaam saw a group of Israelites waiting to be cursed and told them their
encampment looked like palm-groves and gardens and cedars, dripping with
moisture, with deep roots in abundant water.

Surely, a vision that could only be seen from a distance.

Surely an image the Israelites could not have even had of themselves.

*****

This week,
may you find blessings where you least expect them.
May the blessings you experience surprise and delight you.
When you feel a curse coming up in your own throat,
may you find that sacred inner voice to help you transform it into a blessing.
Mah Tovu –
how good it is,
to be who we are,
and to be loved for it.
Eizeh Bracha –
What a blessing.

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Avi Lubin is the chief curator of the museum and acclaimed international curator and critic. The exhibition features nearly 300 works by 47 Israeli artists who reenvision iconic masterpieces from Western art history—from the Italian Renaissance to Picasso—through the lens of Israel’s unique political, social, and artistic landscape.

Masterpieces weave together two narratives: the legacy of Western art and the evolution of Israeli art. The works on display challenge distinctions between original and copy, local and global, center and periphery. Amid a complex political moment, this exhibition invites viewers to reconsider the meaning of “masterpiece” and the power of reinterpretation.

June 26, 2025
Temple Israel of Boston

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Shabbat Shalom, it is great to be in community with all of you. We need it more than ever.

Parashat Korach, Numbers 16, we find Korach, a Levite of some standing, and his followers rising up against Moses and Aaron, challenging their leadership with these powerful words: “You have gone too far! For all the community are holy, all of them, and GOD is in their midst.
Why then do you raise yourselves above GOD’s congregation?” (Numbers 16:3)

Moses responds to the challenge with a test to see who’s sacrifice will be acceptable to God. 

What follows is dramatic. The ground opens up, and consumes the 250 Israelites from Korach’s camp. 

It is a protest met with a divine crackdown, and for many years, I was taught this as a cautionary tale: don’t challenge legitimate authority.
Don’t confuse Korach’s ego for prophecy. And there’s some truth in that.

But many commentators—especially in recent years— have returned to Korach with new eyes. They see in him a frustrated voice, calling out centralized power and elite control of holiness. Maybe his rebellion was flawed. Maybe his ego got in the way. But maybe his critique had truth in it.

And we can and should debate the merits and demerits of Korach. But that’s not the end of the story. 

And it’s what happens next that has grabbed my attention. 

In Chapter 17, kol adat bnei yisrael—the whole Israelite community— rail against Moses and Aaron. “You two have brought death upon God’s people!” (Numbers 17:6).

This is no longer just Korach and his 250 followers. This is the whole nation, grieving, afraid, and speaking up. Are they mistakenly blaming Moses for God’s decisions and actions? Or are they crying out to their representative, the ones closest to the power source to do something to protect the people? 

In response to their outcry, a plague breaks out. 

Moses, now urgently tells Aaron to make a sacrifice, reparations on behalf of the people to quell God’s wrath- 

Beautifully phrased, Aaron stands between the living and the dead until the plague subsides.  

But in its wake, 14,700 Israelites perished. Death by dissent. 

You might argue that Moses and Aaron waited too long to act. They spend too much time defending their position, Angered that their authority has been challenged. 

But they do eventually act. Even in the face of God’s wrath. They stand in the breach. And that, too, is dissent. It’s not for ego, or a bid for power. It’s their duty. And it likely saved further lives. 

But I can’t shake the thought: What would have happened if that courage came sooner?

I am thinking a lot about dissent this week.

As the Supreme Court hands down rulings before summer recess. 

Let me say quickly, I gave a Korach sermon, this week, three years ago, and spoke a lot on how I feel about the fate of justice in the hands of the politically compromised… and those feelings still hold. 

I have only begun to wrap my head around all the decisions passed down, and the aftermath we will be living in. 

So many of the court rulings are split along predictable ideological lines: 6–3. 

And in decision after decision, the liberal justices— Kagan, Sotomayor, and Jackson— three women of valor, continue to write forceful, deeply moral dissents. 

“Because such complicity should know no place in our system of law, I dissent” – Justice Sotomayor

“With deep disillusionment, I dissent” – Justice Jackson

“Because I will not be complicit in so grave an attack on our system of law, I dissent” – Justice Sotomayor

“With fear for our democracy, I dissent” – Justice Sotomayor

They know they won’t change the ruling. They know they are in the minority. But they speak anyway. They have to. It’s their duty. 

And someday, god willing soon, these dissents will be more widely recognized as the moral compass that they are.

Because dissent doesn’t only change the present— it plants seeds for a future that must find its way back to what we can recognize as justice.

In their fear and anguish, the Israelites reached a sacred response our voices must be heard, our leadership must be accountable for the change we yearn to see.

One of my social media teachers is a woman named Jess Craven, she calls herself a Practivist – a practical activist, 

Her Substack newsletter is called Chop Wood, Carry Water.

The title comes from a Buddhist teaching: Before enlightenment, chop wood, carry water. After enlightenment, chop wood, carry water.

It means: don’t stop doing the work, even if you don’t see the transformation yet, and when you do realize the fruits of your labor – keep doing what got you there, keep putting the work in. 

Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakkai, gave a similar teaching. “If you should be holding a sapling in your hand when they tell you the Messiah has arrived,” he advised, “first plant the sapling, then go out and greet him.”

Craven gives people practical ways to take action every single day. She’s been on the streets in Los Angeles. She’ll tell you how to show up for marginalized communities.

She calls her representatives every single day. She tells them when she thinks things are going wrong— And I have no doubt that someday, she’ll call to thank them when things finally go right.

Chop Wood, Carry Water

It’s not a performance, it’s a practice.

And it’s our Jewish practice to argue. to protest. To question authority. To ask, “Why?” And to work towards repair.

We don’t erase disagreement—we canonize it. We don’t just honor the winning argument—we teach the rejected ones, too. 

And we study them. Year after year after year. Because together, they tell the whole story.

Dissent is not betrayal. Dissent is Torah. And committing to making your voice heard, especially when it’s sounds different, even if it’s late,
especially when it feels lonely— may be the most Jewish act of all.

Because here’s the not so subtle secret. It’s not really lonely. That is a myth of divisive power, The false narrative that your voice is small, isolated, and meaningless.

Far from it my friends.

There is strength in numbers. There is power in shared purpose. And at any given moment there is a sacred song being sung  which needs your voice in the choir. That’s our duty.

We do not act alone. We rise up in community. Onsite, Online, in the streets, in the halls of government. In any and all the ways we can

Together, we carry forward our Judaism that insists: All the people are holy. All our voices matter. And none of us stand alone

So with faith in our community trust in our tradition, And with confidence in our unshakeable spirit – I too, dissent

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