If you’re a regular reader of these Friday reflections, you have probably noticed that, like a Law & Order episode, they follow a pretty predictable form: I start with an engaging personal story, pivot to a lesson drawn from the week’s Torah portion, and then bring it home with a message about how Jewish spiritual practice can help us lead a more meaningful life.

This week I feel a need to write differently. Even as I reach for the right story, I can’t find it, other than to tell you that I’ve found myself waking in the middle of the night thinking a lot about Israelis, Gazans, and Jews.

Now I’m not here to offer political commentary or analysis. Much as it’s tempting, that’s neither my expertise nor, frankly, my role. Even as I wade into this water, I’m clear that my purpose is to offer a personal spiritual reflection rooted in Torah which can, I hope, be of benefit to you in your own spiritual journey. As my rebbe, Avi Weiss, used to tell us in yeshiva: “I’m talking to myself and letting you listen.”

As I said, I’ve been waking up in the middle of the night. And I’ve found myself gripped with a series of questions that have been swirling in the writings and conversations of people around the world who I read and am regularly in conversation with: How is it that Hamas still hasn’t released all the hostages, and will they ever be able to come home? How is it that Israel, Egypt, and the international community, haven’t implemented a way for the people of Gaza to be fed and housed—whether in Gaza or somewhere else of their own choosing—without facing the prospect of a violent death while waiting for food? What does it mean, and what will it mean in the future, for the Israel Defense Forces and the democratically elected government of Israel to have been the instrument of so much devastation? What will it mean for Jews—in Israel, in America, and throughout the world? What will it mean for Judaism itself? The list goes on and on.

Before I go further, I want to pause and invite you to notice how you’re feeling after reading that paragraph. How’s your breathing? How’s your heart rate? Are there any thoughts coming up for you? Maybe you feel some judgment arising because of who I mentioned or didn’t mention, the order in which I mentioned them, or how I phrased something. Perhaps you’re feeling some aversion and don’t want to read further. And/or perhaps you’ve experienced some of these same questions and you’re feeling hopeful that I’ll offer some definitive, clear answer. (Don’t get your hopes up.) Just pause to notice and, I would ask, withhold any impulse to judge for the moment.

Every year I find that reading the double Torah portion of Matot-Masei brings up some very deep questions of home for me. This is, after all, the parashah that includes the story of the tribes of Reuben and Gad, who ask Moses for permission to live on the eastern side of the Jordan River—that is, outside the Promised Land proper. And so, every year at this time I find myself asking, “Why do I not live in Israel? Why am I still in America?”

My life experience conditions me to ask this question. I was raised in a Zionist home, by parents who lived in Israel with my older brothers for a year in the early 1970s (before I was born). We had books about Israel around our house, and I heard Israeli songs growing up. My oldest brother moved to Israel 35 years ago, married, raised a family, and built a life there. My own children have grown up with visits to Israel and, like so many kids who go to Jewish day schools and summer camps, have been educated with a sense that a relationship with Israel is a foundational element of contemporary Jewish life.

So I think it’s pretty natural that reading this Torah portion brings up this question: Where is home? Where should it be? And, especially given all that conditioning—not to mention the challenges we face in the United States today, as both Americans and Jews—what am I still doing on this side of the ocean?

At the same time, this Torah portion also contains one of the most challenging passages in our tradition: “And YHVH spoke to Moses, saying, ‘Avenge the Israelite people on the Midianites; then you shall be gathered to your kin” (Num. 31:1-2). What follows is the most organized military campaign the Israelites wage in the Torah, complete with officers and regular troops. This would seem to be precisely what the previous chapters were preparing them for: to become a nation capable of conquering, holding, settling, and successfully governing the land.

And yet, moral problems abound: What does it mean to engage in a war of vengeance? What does it do to a nation to slaughter so many? Is the Torah saying that this is the price of nationhood—and, if so, is that an answer we can or want to accept, either about ancient Israel or the modern state? What is the place of values like compassion, justice, forgiveness, and diplomacy in this scheme—in a life of Torah, and in our collective life?

Again, an invitation to check in. Pause for a moment if you feel the need. My aim is not to rile you up, but to offer some acknowledgement of questions that, certainly for me and perhaps for you, are often on a regular low simmer and, more recently, have been boiling to the surface.

Amidst the sharper edges of this Torah portion, there is one moment when some softer spiritual language appears: “You shall not defile the land in which you live, in which I Myself abide, for I YHVH abide among the Israelite people” (Num. 35:34). ‘Abide’ here is shokhen, as in Shekhinah, the Divine Presence. Rashi offers two comments. First: “Do not do anything defiling to the land so that you will make Me dwell amidst its uncleanness;” Second, “Even when the Israelites are impure, my Shekhinah remains amongst them.” As I read him, Rashi suggests that there is both a call to responsibility in the first comment, and, in the second, a reassurance of the abiding availability of the divine Presence, the ever-ready possibility of return, teshuva—even when we make mistakes, as we will inevitably do, individually and collectively.

This Shabbat begins the month of Av, leading us to the lowest point on the Jewish calendar, the 9th of Av, when we read Eicha, the Book of Lamentations, and are invited to experience our deepest sense of estrangement from the Divine Presence. Yet we conclude Eicha with the cry, “Return us, YHVH, to Yourself, and let us return; renew our days as of old.” At our most acute moment of feeling God’s absence, we move in the direction of return, the direction of presence.

What might that return look like? A return of the hostages to their homes and families. A return of the soldiers. A return of the hungry and homeless in Gaza to something better than the hellscape in which they live today. A return of all of us to a life, a community, a Judaism, and a world in which we can feel safe and strong enough to risk showing compassion, to turn toward one another in a peaceful, divine embrace of presence.

I was recently watching a television interview with a woman in her 60s. Her husband, about the same age, still works long hours, though they’re already quite financially wealthy. “If he says to me on his deathbed that he regrets working too much,” the woman said, “I’ll kill him.”

It’s a funny line, of course. What makes it funny is that, in this imagined scene, the man is dying, so the words, “I’ll kill him” don’t carry literal weight. Yet, to quote the great sage Homer Simpson, “It’s funny because it’s true.” The word “kill” here functions as an exaggerated metaphor: The emotional distress the woman would feel (and, perhaps, already feels) on account of her husband’s choices about spending his time on work are existential—they’re affecting their lives in a significant way, so much so that she’ll be upset enough to kill, even though she isn’t really going to do that. So, it’s funny—but it’s also true.

Now, those same words uttered in a different context could carry a different meaning: If two people were in a fight and one shouted at the other, “I’ll kill you,” and then, God forbid, did so, their statement would probably be used as evidence against them at a murder trial. In this case, based on the context and the subsequent action, the meaning of the words is not metaphorical, but literal. Not funny, but still true.

We encounter questions of literal versus metaphorical meanings all the time: “Life is a rollercoaster.” “She’s a walking encyclopedia.” “Like a bull in a china shop.” We don’t mean these words literally; we employ the metaphors as idiomatic figures of speech.

Metaphorical speech is the starting point for midrash—which many would argue is the essence of Torah study itself. As a teacher of mine, Rabbi Baruch Feldstern, said decades ago in a class at the Pardes Institute on the Book of Samuel, “Jews don’t read the Bible; Jews read the Bible the way the Rabbis read the Bible.” Which is to say, understanding the plain or literal meaning of a verse is not the goal of a Rabbinic approach to reading the Bible. Instead, the project of the ancient Rabbis of the Talmud and Midrash was to play with the text, to find deeper meanings within it—to push the limits of interpretation to their most creative ends, but not so far that they would break. (If an interpretation were completely unmoored from the meaning of the words, then it wouldn’t pass the smell test.)

A classic Talmudic discussion goes to the heart of the matter. The Mishnah (Shabbat 6:4), teaches: “One may not go out with a sword, bow, shield, club, or spear [on Shabbat] and if one does go out, they incur a sin-offering [because the person is carrying them, which is prohibited on Shabbat; if they were considered clothing, however, then the action wouldn’t be carrying, and thus would be permitted]. Rabbi Eliezer says: they are ornaments for the person wearing them [meaning that they are, in fact, clothing, and thus permitted to wear on Shabbat]. But the Sages say, they are nothing but a disgrace, as it is said, ‘And they shall beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruning hooks: nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war anymore’ (Isaiah 2:4).” The Sages’ view, contra Rabbi Eliezer, is that weapons of war are not clothing.

A Talmudic discussion ensues (Shabbat 63a) in which the later Rabbis try to understand both positions. Explaining Rabbi Eliezer’s view, they cite as a prooftext the verse from Psalms (45:4), “Gird your sword upon your thigh, mighty one, your glory and your splendor.” The Talmud continues, “Rav Kahana said to Mar, son of Rav Huna: Is that really a proof? This verse is written in reference to matters of Torah and should be interpreted as a metaphor.” That is, according to Rav Kahana, when the verse from Psalms talks about a “sword,” what is obviously meant is Torah. If so, how could it support Rabbi Eliezer’s view? Mar replied, “Nevertheless, a verse does not depart from its literal meaning.”

What’s striking in this passage is that the peshat, or plain meaning of the verse in Psalms, is treated as an afterthought. “Of course the verse is talking about Torah and not a sword,” Mar seems to be saying, “but still, we do have to concede a little bit to the unembellished meaning of the text.” But it’s the exception that proves the rule: In general, the default preference in Torah study is for thicker, richer, more creative and more intertextual interpretations.

That brings us to Parashat Balak, and specifically to the words of Balaam, which are the subject of much Midrashic discussion. “How beautiful are your tents, O Jacob, your dwelling places, O Israel” (Num. 24:5) is one that may be familiar. Yes, it may literally have referred to their tents, but metaphorically the Rabbis understand this as an allusion to the site of the Temple.

A particularly timely example comes earlier, when Balaam compares Israel to a lioness (Num. 23:24)

Lo, a people that rises like a lioness,
Leaps up like a lion

Predictably, the Midrash understands this verse as referring to Torah study, alluding to rising up early to recite the Shema and perform mitzvot. Yet attuned readers may recognize the words “a people that rises like a lioness” from recent events. In Hebrew those words are am k’lavi yakum, and the name of the Israeli military operations against Iran last month was Am K’lavi. And in that sense, the Israel Defense Forces were clearly not reading these words as a (perhaps attenuated) metaphor about Torah, but as something closer to the plain text itself (which, of course, is a metaphor to begin with).

All of this is perhaps a reflection of the challenge Balaam presents us overall: The gap that can exist between intention and utterance, between spoken or written words and the deeper meanings they may not only convey, but arouse and inspire in us. Likewise, it reflects the ever-flowing possibilities of abundance inherent in our study of Torah, of language, and of our lives—which are lived in and through language. As Ouaknin writes, “The real meaning of a text, as it addresses itself to the interpreter, does not depend on accidental factors concerning the author and his [sic] original audience. Or, at least, these conditions do not exhaust its meaning… In fact, it is not the text that is understood but the reader. He understands himself.”

If you were in band class at Pioneer High School in Ann Arbor in the 1980s and 90s, you probably had Robert Albritton for a teacher. And if you had Mr. Albritton for a teacher, you probably remember some of his many colorful sayings. More than 30 years later, my brothers and I still find occasion to recite them to each other. One of our favorites was what Mr. A would occasionally say to a percussionist by way of encouragement: “Young man/woman, Hit the drum! I promise it won’t hit you back.”

Naturally, this phrase came to mind the other night as I attended a moving performance of Giuseppe Verdi’s Requiem with the Chicago Symphony, led by Riccardo Muti. While the entire piece is one of the crown jewels of the classical repertoire, its most memorable section by a mile is the Dies Irae, a truly terrifying piece of music set to terrifying words about the “day of wrath” that will “break up the world into ash” and “how much trembling there will be.” The words are brought to life by the full orchestra, soloists, and double chorus, who perform music that feels like a freight train on a roller coaster at maximum volume, punctuated by the repeated thunderous booms of two bass drums and the tympani played as loud as humanly possible. Mr. Albritton would love it. (And kids, I can testify with my own eyes: the drum did not hit back.)

While the piece contains many moments of beauty that offset this fire-breathing energy, theologically speaking the Dies Irae is pretty representative of the liturgical text of this requiem mass overall. The view of the Divine that Verdi presents here is not, on the whole, a comforting one: It’s a lot of Day of Judgment, prayers for salvation from a fiery fate and the like, concluding with the words of the Libera me, “Deliver me, Lord, from eternal death on that awful day. Deliver me.” While we have some of this kind of thing in traditional Jewish liturgy (most notably, perhaps, on Rosh Hashanah), on the whole the portrait of God presented here lands as a striking contrast to the gentler, more loving, less judgmental, and less angry conception that predominates much of contemporary Jewish theology—including the approach we teach here at IJS.

Which makes sense. I mean, today we can choose what kind of service we want to go to—or even make for ourselves. And while Verdi’s music is breathtaking, it’s hard for me to imagine many folks in my world vibing with a vision of the Divine as a terrible, destructive force. To put it crassly: that view of God just isn’t good for business.

And yet, as I write these words, there is terror and violence all around. A war has just taken place between Israel and Iran involving weapons whose destructive power were unimaginable in Verdi’s time. And that war comes on top of a war between Israel and Hezbollah, which of course came on top of the ongoing war in Gaza, with its enormously devastating toll. Which of course came on top of the October 7 massacre. And this is to say nothing of the terrors of ICE raids and deportations, or attacks on vulnerable minorities (including Jews) here in the US, or the fear and trembling at the destructive power of Mother Earth in the form of tornados and hurricanes and punishing heat waves, all of which we have managed to make even worse through our own collective action and inaction.

While we may listen to Verdi’s Requiem and think, “Well that’s not a very sunny view,” all we have to do is take a look at the news and we might find ourselves saying, “Maybe he wasn’t so wrong.”

Parashat Korach is not only about the story of a rebellion against Moses. At its heart lies the latent terror that can be present in the collective human encounter with the Divine, with the source of life—which is also the source of death. In this Torah portion we read of the earth swallowing people up and sending them down to she’ol, and a plague of Divine wrath that takes the lives of 14,000 people. At its core, perhaps, is the people’s anguished cry to Moses: “‘Lo, we perish! We are lost, all of us lost! Everyone who so much as ventures near YHVH’s Tabernacle must die. Alas, we are doomed to perish!” To paraphrase, perhaps: How are we supposed to do this—to live together with the Holy One in our midst, to trust our leadership and one another? We can’t seem to pull it off.

In response, the Torah offers us a system of social-spiritual order: The kohanim will be specialists in God-service, as it were, assisted by the Levites, so to that the whole camp can function without further risk of plagues and death. (Note: Ibn Ezra comments that this whole episode comes out of order, and in fact occurred before the people left the wilderness of Sinai.) In exchange for receiving special gifts from the people, God instructs that the Aaron that “you and your sons alone shall bear any guilt connected with your priesthood.”

This is a solution, of course, but it’s far from perfect. Leaders who are granted power and privilege then face their inevitable temptations—which can just lead to a repetition of the cycle that started all of this to begin with. This leads Rabbi Kalonymos Kalman Epstein (1753-1825) to interpret this charge to the kohanim this way: “You must always mindfully tend to the concern that you are doing this sacred service for your own glory and enjoyment. You must regularly engage in deep discernment as to whether your intention is aligned with that of the Creator.” And, being a Hasid, Rabbi Epstein sees this as not only the work of the kohanim, but, in the nascent democratic spirit of the age in which he lived, the spiritual labor of us all.

It seems to me that a good deal of that regular practice of reflection and discernment involves touching in with our fears and acknowledging them: fears of violence, death, destruction, and loss, or even of their less extreme expressions—fear of rejection, humiliation, not belonging. The embers of these fires are ever-present—that comes with being human—so we can show ourselves some compassion for having them. Yet I would suggest the work that we are called to do is to acknowledge those fears and then choose life-giving responses—in our words and our actions. I think that’s what Verdi did with his music, and I bless us all that we may do it with the music we make too.