Three years ago, during the first Pesach since the war began, I wrote this midrash for the Maggid— hoping it might offer some comfort, and open a space for hope in the midst of pain and war.
Sadly, that need is still with us.
And yet, the women of Exodus remind us that another way is possible, a reality grounded in the sanctity of life, in compassion, and in human connection.
Miriam and Pharaoh’s daughter met to save Moses and the future.
Like Shifra and Puah before them, they chose conscience over obedience, life over fear.
Together, these women challenge us, then and now, to choose differently: to resist despair, to act with courage and compassion, and to nurture hope for our children, on all sides.
Because another way is possible!
You are warmly invited to read this midrash as part of your Seder, and to open a moment for reflection on freedom and hope.
Maggid: Recounting the Passover Story, by Rabbi Sivan Navon-Shoval
“All who recount the story of the Exodus from Egypt in great depth is worthy of praise.” (Passover Haggadah)
And thou recount to tell your son and daughter on that day, saying: It is because of that which God did for me when I came forth out of Egypt, because of the leadership of Miriam and the daughter of Pharaoh. (According to Exodus 13:8)
“And his sister stood, from a distance, to know what would be done to him.”(Exodus 2:4)
And she ‘stood’: Miriam stood, upright and firm, in her faith and in her strength to act for the future of her people; and in her steadfast stance, she proclaimed: “Here I am.” With this, she upheld the covenant of Israel. For it is said: “You shall stand this day, all of you.” (Deuteronomy 29:9)
His ‘sister’: Miriam dedicated herself for the sake of all her brothers and sisters. She knew that if she did not stand there for them, it would be as though she herself had shed their blood. As it is written: “Where is Abel, your brother?… The sound of your brother’s blood cries to me from the earth.” (Genesis 4:9–10).
From a distance, to know what would be done to him: Miriam the prophetess stood and beheld, from a distance, all that would be done to her people in their deliverance from Egypt. She directed her heart to that place and saw the cries of their souls and the affliction of their bodies. Thus, she embraced the virtue of compassion into heart; the same virtue with which the Holy One would later redeem Israel from the land of Egypt. As it is written: “I have seen and beheld the plight of my people in Egypt, and I have heeded their cry from their affliction; for I knew their pain. ” (Exodus 3:7).
Miriam stood for the sanctity of life, and the daughter of Pharaoh stood beside her, defying the words of her father the Pharaoh, and proclaiming to all of humankind that the time had come for tikkun olam (repairing the world) and darchei shalom (followingthe path of peace). As it is written: “And when she opened it, she saw the child, and behold, the young boy wept. And she had compassion on him, and said, ‘This is one of the Hebrew children.’” (Exodus 2:6)
Rabbi Sivan Navon-Shoval lives in Jerusalem and was ordained at HUC, Jerusalem in 2022. She is the author of the Hebrew collection of liturgical poetry, Elohima (Carmel, 2026). Her work brings together teaching, writing, and research, alongside officiating life-cycle ceremonies. She previously served as the rabbi of Kehillat Shir Chadash in Tzur Hadassah.
The 137th annual Convention of the Central Conference of American Rabbis was held March 2026, in the San Francisco Bay Area, where 400 Reform rabbis gathered in person and online. Here, we share CCAR Chief Executive Rabbi Hara Person’s address to the Conference, urging the rabbinate to balance fear with bravery and gratitude, in hopes for our redemption.
Watch the video, or read the address below.
For those keeping track, and fair enough if that’s just me, this is the first year in a while that P’kudei hasn’t been the Convention parashah. Here we are this year in Vayikra, surrounded by entrails and suet, the cutting up into sections, all the dashing and draining of blood, the flaying and pinching, the tearing without severing, the kidney and loins, the fat, the broadtail.
This pivot between the lofty and gloriously detailed tabernacle building of P’kudei and the gory and highly detailed viscera of the offerings in Vayikra is a strangely familiar dance. One day we’re exalted, planning the blueprint for the future, dreaming big with great excitement about what can be and how we’re going to get there with what bountiful resources, and the next day we’re knee deep in the muck.
Both of these modalities, the P’kudei moments and the Vayikra moments, are based on hard work, on getting the details just right, so that we can be in proper covenantal relationship with God and with our community. Different methodologies, shared goals. Much of what we aim to do at the CCAR is find ways to support rabbis through both of these modes, and everything in between, through the periods of big, beautiful possibilities, and the days of trudging through the mucky mess.
As rabbis, we often teeter between these two poles of P’kudei and Vayikra, reminding ourselves even as we make our way through the mess that there is some greater purpose and goal. Both the edifice building and the sacrifices of our yields are ultimately kinds of offerings—examples of the unique human ability to produce shelter, creativity, and sustenance, remarkable acts of human skill and ingenuity that build upon the raw material provided by God. All this work has a greater purpose, to weave us into a covenantal tapestry in which both humans and God have obligation toward one another.
What are offerings but the manifestations of our hopes and fears: Take this and make my days plentiful; accept this and may I merit beneficence; receive this on account of what I meant to do but didn’t, or what I did but wish I hadn’t, and may all be well with me. We make our offerings and we pray for good outcomes, for safety, for the banishment of our daily dread.
Though we are, of course, very far from the days of the Temple and the priesthood, and thankfully (says this vegetarian) no longer required to slaughter animals as part of our religious practice, in many ways offerings are still our work as rabbis. No matter what kind of rabbinic work you do, in one of the many forms of chaplaincy or counseling, in a school or summer camp or college campus, in a congregation or organization, in retirement, we all bring forms of offerings, and we all want to get it right. Our sermons, acts of service, pastoral care, teaching, fundraising, strategic planning, life cycle officiation—all of these are our rabbinic offerings regardless of where and how we serve. As with the biblical priests, our offerings are for the greater good of the community, meant to enable our communities to flourish and thrive.
Our portion this week speaks of not just the variety of offerings, but also the right ways to bring them. The rules are plentiful and specific: an unblemished male animal from the herd or the flock, or a bird of the air. We learn how to slaughter the animal, and what to do with it. The text exhibits angst about making sure we get the offerings right, and the level of detail conveys a deep sense of anxiety about getting it wrong. Offerings are instrumental for the proper health and functioning of the community. The stakes are high, but there is a path to repair. Make amends for your wrongdoing, and a way forward opens up. This rule-bound system allows for our flawed humanity and encourages us to try again.
There is delicate choreography involved in these offerings, choices about what can be brought, with a welcome sense of justice embedded in the allowance made for those without the means to bring the costliest offerings. And if it is to be a meal offering, the most modest of the offerings, it must be prepared with flour and oil, but without leavening and honey (Leviticus 2:11). As a baker, I find curious the requirement to leave out that which makes it rise, and that which makes it sweet.
Challah and babka, my baking go-tos, are basically two versions of the same thing, the result of the reaction of yeast, salt, flour, eggs, oil, and water. Probably like a lot of you, my challah and babka baking exploded with creativity during the Pandemic, resulting in all kinds of, if I may so, delicious things like scallion pancake challah and chocolate tahina babka. However, take away all those extras, and other than the addition of leavening and sweetness, challah and babka aren’t all that different from the meal offering being described in our parashah. You could perhaps not use eggs—the Shammai position to my Hillelian recipe—or substitute butter for oil. At the end of the day though, it’s all about the yeast and sweetener. Without the yeast and sugar, you’ve basically got matzah, our primal paradigmatic sustenance.
Our ancestors have a great time debating the significance of the leavening and honey. It’s date honey, opine Ibn Ezra and Rashbam. It’s the juice from ripe fruit, says Rashi. Either way, there are essentially two issues here: one is that the sugar in the honey can cause flour to become leavened (great to see the rabbis of old try to understand the essentials of baking), but also a concern with not sweetening the offering because that’s what idolators did.
Perhaps another issue—that just as leavening is a move toward culture and away from the primal essence of flour, oil, and water, sweetening also removes the offering from its essential essence. As Nechama Leibowitz writes, “…the sacrifices as such—the slaughtering, sprinkling of the blood and the offering up on the altar—have no other function than to portend a change of heart and the wish to draw closer to the Creator.” Basically, the leavening and the sweetener are distractions; they get in the way of a direct, unmediated relationship between our exposed, vulnerable soul and the divine.
Leavening puffs up our loaves, and it puffs us up; it distances us from that which is elemental in ourselves and thus creates distance between us and God at the very moment when, by engaging in offerings, we are trying to connect with God. The Talmud, in B’rachot 17a, goes so far as to posit that it is yeast in the dough that prevents us from doing God’s will, equating it with the evil inclination within each person. Leaven is a metaphor for the evil inclination, as Rabbi Alexandri said in his prayer: “It is our will to do Your will, but the leaven in the dough prevents it” (B’rachot 17a). It is not the leavening in and of itself that is evil, but that it inflates us, it distances us from our essential, raw self, and thus must be used in moderation, and only at certain time like on Shavuot. B’rachot 34a teaches:There are three things that are harmful in excess but are beneficial when used sparingly. The first is: Leavening in dough…
In just a few weeks, we’re going to be ridding ourselves of chameitz. Passover is our annual journey of cleansing, getting rid of that which distances us from our essential selves. Ridding ourselves of excess, leavening helps us turn back to our core mission. Leavening takes up room—remove the leavening, and we have more room for God, for one another, and for that which matters most.
We are living in a time of terrible fear and uncertainty. We have been through a lot in recent years, even in recent days, and I’m not going to list it all for you because you know it and live it. The empty chairs in this room that should have been filled with beloved colleagues who could not get here are a testament to some of what we are living with right now. There are real things to be afraid of, plenty to make us anxious and scared.
Fear is totally reasonable. There are those who wish to harm us, as we are painfully reminded again and again. We must acknowledge that reality and take the steps necessary to be as vigilant and prepared as possible. But we can’t lead from fear. The question for us as leaders is what we do with that fear. Because one of the companions of fear is anger, and another companion is self-righteousness. As rabbis we must recognize fear, our own fear and that of those around us. But we can’t nurture our fear like it is soeir, sourdough starter that must be tended and fed, we can’t let it become leavened and rise to fill all the hollow spaces. Our job is to inspire hope and thereby lead with and toward courage.
Are the lives of those of us who live in North America in danger? Is Jewish life as we know it coming to end in North America? Is democracy both here and in Israel in its death throes? Is Israel under existential threat like never before? Does the ever-growing violence perpetrated by Jews against Palestinians on the West Bank portend a future of government sanctioned Jewish supremacy? Is this American and Israeli war against Iran justified and necessary? Perhaps, and perhaps not. We have predictions and theories and desired outcomes about all of these things, but we don’t yet know. I don’t want to minimize the danger of what we are experiencing, but our job as rabbis is not to be purveyors of fear. Our job as rabbis is not to encourage people to become either immobilized by fear or to give into anger-fueled actions and reactions, but rather to inspire, to help people find comfort and the courage to face the future with hope and creativity, and to take action.
The 137th annual Convention of the Central Conference of American Rabbis was held in March 2026 in the San Francisco Bay Area, where over 400 Reform rabbis gathered in person and online. Here, we share CCAR President Rabbi David Lyon’s moving address acknowledging the challenges of being a rabbi in this moment and a reminder to counter hate with courage and Jewish joy.
Only two weeks ago, we celebrated Purim. In ancient times, Persia returned the Jews to Judah; today, Jews seek to return Persians to Iran. It’s a topsy-turvy world sometimes. It’s not always ours to understand, but it’s always ours to make meaning. If only it didn’t take so long to return to our ancestral home in Israel, to repay the favor to Persia, or to anticipate peace after war in the Middle East. Apparently, it’s also going to be a while before Jewish institutions and the people who serve them can stop worrying and spending for security.
Our work, though, is a marathon, not a sprint, another sports metaphor that had to be explained to me by my colleague, Rabbi Adrienne Scott, who runs. I don’t run, unless I’m being chased. Esther, of course, was chased, but Mordechai had to remind her, in a horrible moment, that she had come to royalty “for a moment such as this.”
But, really? Under our circumstances, who hasn’t asked, “Have we come into the rabbinate for THIS?” Or maybe someone asked us, “For this YOU became a rabbi?” It’s rarely easy. So let’s be clear, today: For this and more WE were created.
Our learning begins in Vayikra where the Israelites and their priests managed their own sacred relationships with God through sacrifice. First among them, Moses brought different kinds of offerings. Referring to Psalm 18:26ff, Rabbi Nehemiah explains in Vayikra Rabbah:
When Moses approached God with special courtesy, God treated him with special courtesy; when he came to God with frankness, God answered him with frankness; when he approached God with lack of directness, God countered him with lack of directness; when he sought a clear statement regarding his affairs, God made clear his affairs for him. (Midrash Rabbah, Vayikra 11:5)
Without a Temple to offer sacrifices, the rabbis linked Moses’s relationship with God to the offerings of his lips and the intentions he brought with them. Then they linked Moses to themselves, and they taught that, with no Temple standing in Jerusalem, our verbal gifts would replace the sacrifices. The rabbis thus equated the power of their own prayers with the power of the best-intentioned sacrificial offerings. We, too, hope that our prayers and intentions will be worthy before God.
I write this in the shadow of our shared grief. Rabbi Andrea Weiss’s death is a loss to our community, and to the world. So many of us have lost a teacher, a mentor, a trusted colleague. May we continue to teach her Torah of deep scholarship, her love of our precious inheritance, and her commitment to the health of a vibrant, inclusive Jewish tradition.
I am sitting on our Tel Aviv mirpeset in the sun. It is another gorgeous day: blue skies with only whispers of clouds, climbing up to 70 degrees, birdsong complementing the voices of children at play.
The children are outside on the grass because there’s no school. No school, limited commerce, unpredictable intercity transportation. This tiny land-locked country has become an island of fear as we wait for the next siren that will send those of us lucky enough to have one into the shelter.
I am one of the lucky ones. For me, this isolation is reminiscent of Covid times, when we kept inside and apart from others because of a different kind of fear. For the majority of Israelis, these days have taken them back to last June, what is now “the first Iran war,” and to October 7, and the months that followed. For too many, their minds swing back to hours locked in safe-rooms, and the subsequent discovery that beloveds had been murdered or kidnapped and their homes destroyed. And then, months of no recovery, no government support, no new housing, no return of the hostages, alive and dead. All this is just below the surface for thousands who call Israel and Palestine home.
Thousands of residents of Israel walk through their days with unaddressed PTSD. And yet, and yet there is kindness and caring and deep wells of compassion.
And amazing resilience. I spent a day the week before last, just before the war began, in Bethlehem with two friends, an Israeli and a Palestinian friend, both of them activists in Combatants for Peace. We shared coffee and conversation, visiting the Healing Center that Nimala, our Palestinian friend, is building in Beit Jala, then being tourists for an hour at the Church of the Nativity, where we were guided by Mohammed, the husband of their colleague, Fatima. When I was in Palestine last year, Fatima shared her story, thanks to a translator, of her work as a peace activist in Gaza, and her amazing escape to the West Bank. Her story was shared at the annual Joint Memorial last year, read by someone else, as Fatima herself needs to shield her identity.
Thanks to the invitation of Rabbi Efrat Rotem, director of MARAM, I was able, on Wednesday, February 11 and Thursday, February 12, to join over thirty of our Israeli rabbinic colleagues for a two-day study retreat. We gathered at Kibbutz Dalia in the north of Israel. Study and meditation retreats have been essential to my professional and spiritual growth, so I was delighted to join my Israeli counterparts for an immersion in Jewish study, prayer, and sharing our work and our lives.
Our colleagues gathered from across the country, from their full-time and part-time positions working for the College, the Israeli Reform Movement, the World Union for Progressive Judaism, individual and regional congregations and k’hilot, training the next generation of Reform Jews in a range of educational settings, and work as chaplains and freelancers. Like the CCAR, our Israeli colleagues include men and women and non-binary souls of a wide range of ages in backgrounds.
Our scholar in residence was our colleague Rabbi Nancy Wiener, Director of the Blaustein Center for Pastoral Counseling, and professor of Human Relations at Hebrew Union College in New York. Nancy has been researching and writing about moral injury, helping her students and colleagues better understand and address the profound spiritual wounding that takes place when core beliefs are shattered and betrayed.
This topic was not theoretical for the Israeli colleagues who came together from all over Israel. Nancy taught in Hebrew, illustrating her teaching with a series of illustrative Hebrew slides. We learned about the invisibility of moral injury, and the challenge of honoring that we, as caregivers, are each carrying versions of the harm that we learn to identify in others. She reminded us of the essential role of listening and honoring the silence—or the floods of words—that may be shared with us. She taught us the linguistic and clinical differences and similarities between PTSD/post-traumatic stress disorder and moral injury, illustrating psychological and spiritual challenges with examples from our sacred texts.
As those of us who have had the privilege of studying with Nancy know well, she challenges her students, in this case, her colleagues, to immediately explore the learning she has shared by breaking into chavurot or small groups. Throughout our day of learning together, we explored a typology of survivor narratives to help us, as listeners, better accompany those who share their stories with us.
Our retreat was expertly and wisely led by our colleague Rabbi Efrat Rotem. Our time together was a rich balance of prayer, study, and play. I especially appreciated our evening of trivia. Efrat is a gifted comedic impresario and had crafted an evening of silliness rivaled only by some of our colleagues’ elaborate Purim presentations. We divided into teams of five to eight and competed with one another for mastery of an extraordinary range of trivia, from daily prayer to rabbinic citations to popular culture to geography. I was fortunate to sit next to Rabbi Michael Marmur; without his translations and encyclopedic mind, I would have missed much of the fun! I loved the easy comradeship—indeed, the full engagement—of our colleagues that, for me, mirrored the deep connections and mutual devotion between them.
Sharing t’filah with other rabbis is one of the greatest gifts of inclusion in our community of sacred service. When we lift our voices together, I am wrapped in sacred intention, reminding me of the clarity that brings me back, again and again, to our holy gatherings.
As I write this, there are no non-Israeli flights into and out of Israel. It is unlikely that our Israeli colleagues will be able to join our annual CCAR Conference in California. We continue to pray as one for a cessation of this wide-ranging and destructive war.
May all who gather for the CCAR know that we are indeed one, each of us working in our own small corner of the world, cultivating sacred seeds of hope in this time of war and spiritual challenge.
Rabbi Sue Levi Elwell (HUC-JIR ’86) has been blessed with a rich and varied rabbinic career. She currently serves as Spiritual Director at the New York Campus of Hebrew Union College. Blessed to be a savta of three, Elwell lives in Philadelphia and Tel Aviv with her partner, Nurit Levi Shein.
The Central Conference of American Rabbis mourns the death of our teacher, our colleague, and our friend, Rabbi Andrea L. Weiss, PhD, z”l. A beloved professor of Bible and leader at Hebrew Union College, Rabbi Weiss was the associate editor of The Torah: A Women’s Commentary and contributed to many other CCAR Press volumes, including writing the forewords to The Social Justice Torah Commentary and New Each Day: A Spiritual Practice for Reading Psalms. We share her foreword from The Social Justice Torah Commentary (2021) in her memory.
Some twenty-seven hundred years ago, the prophet Amos encapsulated an inspiring vision of justice in just six Hebrew words. With the terseness that defines poetry and the evocative power that marks metaphor, this ancient Israelite expressed the expectation that individuals and the societies they inhabit will establish and execute justice. Putting this well-known verse in context, the passage quotes God scolding the Israelites:
I loathe, I spurn your festivals, I am not appeased by your solemn assemblies. If you offer Me burnt offerings—or your meal offerings— I will not accept them; I will pay no heed To your gifts of fatlings. Spare Me the sound of your hymns, And let Me not hear the music of your lutes. But let justice well up like water, Righteousness like an unfailing stream. (Amos 5:21–24)
In the most emphatic language, God rejects religious rituals—all means humans employ to connect to or communicate with the Divine—if those who perform those rituals do not act in an ethical, upstanding manner.
Other biblical prophets reiterate this message, insisting that justice and morality take precedence over the performance of religious rites. In Isaiah I, God spurns sacrifices, prayer, and festival gatherings since “your hands are full of blood” (1:15). Instead, God demands:
Cease to do evil; Learn to do good. Devote yourselves to justice; Aid the wronged. Uphold the rights of the orphan; Defend the cause of the widow. (Isaiah I:16–17)1
The prophetic message is simple: What matters most is justice. What God desires is a world in which humans care for one another. According to Isaiah 58:6–7, this means a world in which we help the oppressed to go free, we share our bread with the hungry, we clothe the naked, we do not ignore our kin. The prophets warn us that if there is no justice, there can be no peace:
The way of peace they do not know, And there is no justice where they go . . . We hope for light, but, look, darkness . . . We hope for justice but there is none, for rescue—it is far from us. (Isaiah 59:8–11)2
The divine demand for justice repeats throughout the Bible. In Psalm 82, God demotes the members of the divine assembly who fail to administer justice on earth. Disappointed and exasperated by these lesser deities, God declares:
How long will you judge dishonestly and show favor to the wicked? selah Do justice to the poor and the orphan. Vindicate the lowly and the wretched. Free the poor and the needy, And from the hand of the wicked save them. (Psalm 82:2–4)
Psalm 82, like Isaiah 1 and other biblical texts, associates the administration of justice with the protection of the most vulnerable individuals, which in an ancient Israelite context meant the fatherless, the widow, the stranger, and the poor.3 According to Robert Alter, this psalm presents a mythological account meant to explain “the infuriating preponderance of injustice in the world.”4
The Book of Job probes the “preponderance of injustice” that besets “a blameless and upright man who fears God and shuns evil” (Job 1:8). Job shouts and struggles, striving to make sense of a world in which bad things happen to a good person and it appears that “there is no justice” (Job 19:7). In contrast, the Book of Proverbs depicts the opposite scenario, promising that rewards will come to those who cultivate the knowledge and discipline needed to live a virtuous, just life. Like other examples of ancient wisdom literature, Proverbs distills the divine demand for justice into a series of pithy sayings. For instance, Proverbs 2:8–9 encourages the listener “to keep the paths of justice” and to “understand righteousness, justice, and uprightness,” each one a “pathway of good.” Proverbs 16:8 advises, “Better a pittance in righteousness, than abundant yield without justice.” Proverbs 29:4 observes, “A king makes a land stand firm through justice, but a deceitful man destroys it.” In this biblical book, injustice does not go unpunished, and only good things happen to good people.
Turning to the Torah, the Five Books of Moses teach us not just why, but also how, to fulfill God’s demand for justice and morality. The collections of rules and case law found in the Torah turn the abstract concept of justice into concrete actions carried out in the home, in the field, and at the city gate. Take Exodus 23:2–3: “You shall neither side with the mighty to do wrong . . . nor shall you show deference to a poor person in a dispute.” Or Leviticus 19:10: “You shall not pick your vineyard bare, or gather the fallen fruit of your vineyard; you shall leave them for the poor and the stranger: I the Eternal am your God.” Or Deuteronomy 22:1: “If you see your fellow Israelite’s ox or sheep gone astray, do not ignore it; you must take it back to your peer.”5 Adele Berlin summarizes the common thread that binds together the Torah’s wide-ranging laws: “The goal is to create a balanced society in which the poor and weak are legally protected from the rich and strong, in which property and human lives are respected, and—most importantly—in which individuals are subject to the community and its laws.”6
Outside of these legal collections, various narrative passages in the Torah explore the complexities involved in carrying out the command to pursue justice.7 Abraham challenges God’s decision to destroy the inhabitants of Sodom and Gomorrah: “Will You indeed sweep away the innocent along with the wicked? . . . Must not the Judge of all the earth do justly?” (Genesis 18:23, 25). The daughters of Zelophehad question the fairness of laws of inheritance: “Let not our father’s name be lost to his clan just because he had no son! Give us a holding among our father’s kinsmen!” (Numbers 27:4). After God declares, “The plea of Zelophehad’s daughters is just,” Moses enacts a new law to ensure that the legal system remains responsive and equitable (Numbers 27:7–11). These and other passages preserve the ways our biblical ancestors strove to “keep justice and do righteousness” (Isaiah 56:1).
In laws and stories, poems and prayers, the imperative to practice justice permeates the Torah. The Social Justice Torah Commentary traces this theme from B’reishit to V ’zot Hab’rachah. By bringing a social justice lens to each parashah, the commentators in this valuable volume shed new light on the Torah and show how these ancient texts still motivate us to seek justice today. This commentary urges us to do our part to create a world in which “justice will well up like water and righteousness like an unfailing stream.”
Notes 1. Also see Isaiah 58:1–10; Jeremiah 6:19–20; Hosea 6:6, 8:13; Joel 2:12–13; Malachi 1:10, 2:13.
2. This and the translations of Psalm 82 and Proverbs from Robert Alter, The Hebrew Bible, vol. 3 (New York: W. W. Norton, 2019).
3. Also see Exodus 22:20, 23:5; Deuteronomy 10:18, 14:29, 24:14, and elsewhere.
5. The legal collections in the Torah appear in Exodus 21–23; Leviticus 19; Deuteronomy 12–26.
6. Adele Berlin, commentary on Parashat Ki Teitzei in The Torah: A Women’s Commentary, ed. Tamara Cohn Eskenazi and Andrea L. Weiss (New York: Reform Judaism Publishing, an imprint of CCAR Press, 2008), 1165.
7. Deuteronomy 16:20 famously declares, “Justice, justice you shall pursue.”
Rabbi Andrea L. Weiss, PhD, z”l, (1965–2026) was Provost, Head of Seminary Programs, Rabbinical School Director, and Associate Professor of Bible at Hebrew Union College.
The Central Conference of American Rabbis, Reform Judaism’s rabbinic professional leadership organization, is home to more than 2,000 Reform rabbis across North America and beyond. And while Reform rabbis wear many hats, often at the same time—Torah scholar, officiant, pastoral counselor, chaplain, educator, organizational leader, activist—they also serve in a wider range of settings, changing the shape of the sacred work of the rabbinate with innovative new visions for Jewish communal life.
We’re proud to share the stories of CCAR members who are taking our ancient Jewish traditions and imaginatively and courageously building new programs, practices, collaborations, communities, and transformational approaches to Reform Judaism.We’re also sharing how, even in dark times, so many CCAR members find joy as rabbis, and we share their hopes for the future of the Reform rabbinate and Reform Judaism.
How do you describe your rabbinate? I am the Director of GLIDE’s Center for Social Justice. GLIDE is both a historically Black church—with a forty-member gospel ensemble and a seven-member funk band—and a social justice/service agency located in the Tenderloin neighborhood of San Francisco. GLIDE is on the forefront of addressing some of society’s most pressing issues, including poverty, housing and homelessness, and racial and social justice.
GLIDE is dedicated to fighting systemic injustices, creating pathways out of poverty and crisis, and transforming lives. Through our integrated comprehensive services, advocacy initiatives, and inclusive community, we empower individuals, families and children to achieve stability and thrive.
I create immersive learning experiences for elected officials, corporations, foundations, schools, and groups from all over the world. Be they six-hour engagements in the Tenderloin or five-day justice pilgrimages to Alabama, we help learners of all ages wrestle with systemic racism, economic inequalities and, ultimately, summon individuals and groups to moral strength and responsibility to bring healing, hope, and change.
Brandeis San Francisco (the local Jewish day school) brings their seventh graders to GLIDE eight times during the year to learn Torah, to live Torah, and to rise into responsibility as agents of change in their families and in their community. Before Rosh HaShanah, I brought all fifty seventh graders to the beach below the Golden Gate Bridge to sanctify the beginning of the year and to set the stage for the deep engagement with GLIDE. We will return to Crissy Field at the end of the school year for another immersion to take inventory of their learning and to plot out their future justice engagements.
GLIDE and The Kitchen (my wife, Rabbi Noa Kushner, founded The Kitchen fifteen years ago) have an ever-deepening justice covenant. The Kitchen’s K–12 Freedom School regularly meet at GLIDE learning Torah and living Torah. Kitchen members bake 100+ challot most Friday mornings of the year, perfuming the building with the smells of the best challah in town. They then walk challot throughout the building, delivering hot challah to GLIDE staff, who, amongst innumerable righteous acts, serve upwards of 700,000 hot meals every year. The Kitchen’s One City initiative works with GLIDE’s Walk-In Center to get needed items (furniture, cookware, etc.) to newly housed San Franciscans.
GLIDE and The Kitchen also have a years-long partnership with Ben Gurion University (and many other Israeli organizations). BGU sends over twenty students each year for an immersive week of learning at our institutions. The students spend multiple days at GLIDE, serving meals, waiting in the food line, baking challot, and coming to Sunday Celebration. In between, they spend twenty-five hours of shabbat praying, learning, eating, and recharging at The Kitchen and at our apartment.
How has your rabbinate evolved throughout your career? I was a congregational rabbi for eighteen years. I loved that life. And, having two rabbis in two separate congregations proved unsustainable. In my most recent congregation, I brought my congregants into jails and prisons around the Bay Area, doing restorative justice work, celebrating Shabbat and holidays with incarcerated men, counseling them, and, with the head of the Chevra Kadisha I built in Marin, we taught the men who run the Prison Hospice in Vacaville about taharah and sh’mirah. It was one of the holiest days of my rabbinate.
What is your rabbinic motto that guides your rabbinate?
Psalm 145:14–19: GOD supports all who stumble, and makes all who are bent stand straight. The eyes of all look to You expectantly, and You give them their food when it is due. You give it openhandedly, feeding every creature to its heart’s content. GOD is beneficent in all ways and faithful in all works. GOD is near to all who call, to all who call with sincerity. Fulfilling the wishes of those who show reverence, [God] hears their cry and delivers them.
What is the most rewarding aspect of your rabbinate? Building sacred connections across lines that we don’t usually cross in America: race, religion, class, education, and zip code.
What excites you or makes you feel the most hopeful about the future of the rabbinate? I feel fully in my sh’lichut, being a rabbi at GLIDE six days a week and bringing in Shabbat at The Kitchen every week. It feels like a remarkably sacred balance. I couldn’t do my work at GLIDE without Shabbat at The Kitchen. Plus, my GLIDE colleagues and our clients inspire me to no end.
There were thirty-nine (or so) men and me in that HUC-JIR entering class in Jerusalem in 1971. Many were there to get out of the draft; I was there to figure out what being Jewish meant to me. I was shaped by the identity politics of the late ’60s at Brown University—civil rights, anti-war, feminism—and the two white male Protestant chaplains who modeled a connection between spirituality and social justice.
That first year was hard: my friends were wives of some of the guys in my class, struggling like me with how one can be both Jewish and feminist. My next four years were divided between Los Angeles and New York—also not easy years. I was singled out for humiliation by Professor Steven Passamaneck, but in those days, challenging a tenured faculty for inappropriate behavior was unthinkable. I knew then of President Gottschalk’s inappropriate relationships with other women students. It was only years later (2021) that HUC released the investigation which revealed the sexual harassment, racism, misogyny and homophobia that had existed for years. I’m proud that HUC committed to do teshuvah. I was moved beyond words by the reordination ceremony when Rabbi Andrea Weiss put her hands on me and blessed me.
What did I learn from those early experiences? Beyond the Torah of tradition that HUC taught me, I learned to value the Torah of my life and to explore how each enriched the other.
My work over the years of my rabbinate was varied, challenging and fulfilling. After ordination, I served for fourteen years as the Hillel director at the University of Southern California. My mentor Rabbi Richard Levy taught that everything a rabbi did was holy, from teaching, to counseling, to empowering student and faculty leaders, to encouraging university officials to pay attention to the role of spirituality in higher education. All holy work—including shlepping chairs.
Next I was the regional director of the American Jewish Congress. I learned during those years (1990–1994) how complicated social justice work can be and that this too was holy work. The Los Angeles uprising was in 1992; what followed were years of intense community organizing and reorganizing. I learned how important it was to listen to the experience of people very different from me, and to recognize the ways in which my own privilege as an upper middle class white cisgender woman sometimes made the work of building coalitions difficult. The issues: police reform, intergroup coalitions, gun violence, pro-choice advocacy, Middle East peace, and economic justice (particularly around sweatshop conditions) opened my mind and my heart. And at the same time, my work to create the first Jewish Feminist Center gave me a safe space to find new ways to celebrate the Torah of my life.
When I was forty-four, Joshua was twelve, and Elana was five, Wilshire Boulevard Temple was looking for a Westside address; Temple Emanuel was facing bankruptcy. The leadership of both temples and the senior rabbis supported a merger. Bylaws required that there be a congregational vote; it was defeated by twenty-six votes. Suddenly Emanuel was looking for a rabbi, and I was looking for a new position. The idea of being a part of transforming a challenged synagogue was exciting to me. Even though I had not one day of congregational experience, Emanuel decided to give me a chance. So I became the first women selected in a national search to be the senior rabbi of a major metropolitan synagogue. The headline was: “Woman Rabbi Smashes Stained Glass Ceiling.” The real headline should have been: you can begin your career anywhere and end up anywhere. Take chances. Follow what you love.
I loved the work. Together with lay leaders and talented colleagues, we created a culture that celebrated our different talents, a web of connections rather than a hierarchical structure. We took chances with innovative programs. During those years I was a fellow at the Hartman Institute, part of the first cohort of the Institute for Jewish Spirituality, and a trustee on the Corporation of Brown University. Each of those opportunities helped me become the rabbi that I am. I am grateful that I was so often in the right place at the right time.
A few years after I came to Emanuel I found my soulmate, Richard Siegel, z”l. We worked together on a project that became the book Getting Good at Getting Older. Together we were cofounders of the first synagogue village, a partnership between Temple Emanuel and Temple Isaiah for active older adults who want to age in place. Chai Village LA is now in its ninth year.
I became the rabbi emerita of Temple Emanuel in 2016. I consider this stage not retired but rewired, asking the question: Now that there are more years added to our lives, how do we add more life to our years?
What I look forward to now is continuing the conversation about growing older through my new book, Moments that Matter: Marking Transitions in Midlife and Beyond, coauthored with Rabbi Beth Lieberman. And I look forward to the unfolding of my journey, wherever it leads.
Rabbi Laura Geller is Rabbi Emerita of Temple Emanuel of Beverly Hills.
Looking back, it might seem as if my career followed a straight line, from loving Hebrew school (really), giving the 7th grade graduation speech in Hebrew, to becoming the interim “rabbi” in my senior year at Harpur College. But being accepted at Yale in Economics broke that line. That is, until my (uncompleted) PhD thesis brought me to El Salvador, face-to-face with real poverty, and the realization that Jewish values compelled me to care about the needy and the vulnerable and to try to build a Jewish community that would reflect those values in the context of worship, learning, and social action.
I found that community in, of all places, Temple Shalom, in Succasunna, New Jersey, where 244 families were open to such a vision and joined me enthusiastically for twenty-seven years, making it a reality, whether it was ROQ (Pure) Shabbat creative services with our singing congregation, learning opportunities where all interpretations were encouraged, or worldwide Fain award-winning social action. There was the Temple Shalom question: How can we help you? and the Temple Shalom way of doing things: People come before rules. We doubled in size, drawing from twenty-seven communities, for our whole congregation was one enormous caring community that walked the Jewish walk.
We adopted the Vietnamese Lieu family and six Soviet families, giving them everything they needed. We created the International Committee to Rescue the Mendeleev Family and what became the URJ Adult Mitzvah Corps, building homes in post-Hurricane Sandy New Jersey with Israeli partners and in Maine with teenagers. Groups of us went to Zvenigorodka, Ukraine, bringing a Torah and a 180-piece ark to the newly renamed “Temple Shalom.”
The Million Quarter Project, which provided that many meals for hungry Ethiopian children waiting to come to Israel, led to my becoming the president of the National Coalition on Ethiopian Jewry.
None of this would have been possible without the hundreds of people who contributed time and money, lifting my spirits when I was down. We took this holy journey together. I was also blessed with so many mentors along the way who saw something special in me and helped to bring it out: Cantor Arthur Yolkoff, z”l; Chuck Kroloff; Professors Eugene Borowitz, z“l; Larry Hoffman; Michael Chernick; and Norm Cohen. I can only hope that I can do nearly as well by my own mentees, rabbinic and lay alike, here, in Israel, and East Africa, and the seven clergy who grew up at Temple Shalom.
I was blessed with many sabbatical “pieces,” which enabled me to volunteer in Bakersfield, California, with Cesar Chavez, z”l, at the Religious Action Center of Reform Judaism with the indefatigable David Saperstein, and for months at a time in Israel with Sandy and our sons, Jeremy and Aaron (six grandchildren were yet to come).
When I retired in 2006 as Emeritus, I received two wonderful blessings. One came from Elyse Frishman and the Barnert Temple in Franklin Lakes, New Jersey, where I was welcomed into a second thriving community, spending sixteen years as Sabbatical and Social Action Rabbi and then Talmud and Torah teacher.
The other came from a congregant who suggested that we create what became the Jewish Helping Hands Foundation, so I could continue my worldwide social action projects. Over twenty years, with no fundraisers and no overhead, we have raised some 2.5 million dollars to help nearly 100,000 new Rwandan mothers receive the eggs and milk they need to heal, to support dozens of genocide widows, and to create youth centers of dance, computers, and English in Rwanda and Uganda. There is also the newly dedicated Mishkan in Rishon LeZion, a sanctuary for people experiencing homelessness and some twenty other projects in Israel.
As my book, The Mitzvah on Your Forehead, recounts, I have found my calling and tried to fulfill it to the best of my ability. My life continues to be one of blessings given and even more received in return. Nearly every homeless person to whom I give a dollar in Manhattan says, “God bless you.” I respond, “May God bless you, too, for giving me the opportunity to help.”
At 81, I’m still going forward full steam, ever grateful for the life I’ve been so fortunate to lead.
CCAR member Rabbi Joel Soffin is celebrating 50 years as a Reform rabbi. We look forward to celebrating him and all of the CCAR’s 50-year rabbis at CCAR Convention 2026.
Upon ordination in 1976, I knew two things: I wanted to live in Israel. and I wanted to make a difference in the lives of Jewish people throughout the world. Looking back, I am blessed to have done both and to still be doing both.
My goal of living in Israel was sealed when I met my wife, Rachelle, from Bulawayo, Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe) who was working in the NFTY office after graduating from the WUJIS program in Arad. I was working back then at HUC-JIR in Jerusalem after my ordination in 1976. I was sure if I met a woman to marry who was already committed to living in Israel, my goal of making aliyah to Israel would become a reality. It did.
After a few important years of working in the US as a rabbi in Los Angeles, my next goal was to secure a position back in Israel that would enable me to serve the Jewish people both in Israel and around the world. This came about when I met Rabbi Dick Hirsch, Executive Director of the World Union for Progressive Judaism, at a UAHC biennial in Toronto in 1985, and asked him if I could come work with him at the World Union office in Jerusalem. He told me flat out that he had no budget for a position. I asked him what if I would bring with me funds to cover my position for two years, would he then have a position for me. Anyone who knew Dick Hirsch would know his answer: “Absolutely,” he said, “you bring the funding, I will create a job for you.” I did and he did.
The World Union position became secure after WZO funding began the following year. It was my professional home for thirty years and a source of tremendous pride and satisfaction for my rabbinate. During those years I was able to “make a difference” in Israel, the Former Soviet Union (FSU) and throughout the world. I learned a great deal from Dick Hirsch, which helped me build my symbiotic relationship between Israel and the Diaspora. I worked in both, and I came to appreciate the value and importance of both.
Arriving in Israel with two small boys (my third son was born in Israel in 1989), I quickly came to see that if there was going to be a school setting that would be the right mixture of liberal Judaism and secular studies, I and other like-minded parents would have to establish it. And so we created a new school in Jerusalem, linked to the TALI educational system (Tigbor Limudei Yahadut) which began using rooms in HUC-JIR and Bet Shmuel in Jerusalem and later blossomed in the neighborhood of Bayit V’Gan (imagine that). Back in the late 1980s, that was a big deal.
Timing is everything in life: I fell into my World Union position just as the Soviet Union was imploding and Jewish life was, once again, a possibility for millions of our Jewish family members who knew nothing about Judaism, but everything about their deep commitment and sense of belonging to the Jewish people. I helped build Jewish communities in the FSU and raise up a generation of rabbis and lay leaders there, all the while feeling that this work was personal as well as professional. My family roots on both my mother’s and father’s side were from Ukraine and Belarus. What an opportunity to contribute to those family members who were less fortunate than I—who lived through the Shoah and were searching for a meaningful doorway into their Jewish identity. Progressive Judaism provided that doorway and I was there to help open it for hundreds upon hundreds of my family still in the “old country.”
I traveled the world with the World Union, helping to establish and support Progressive Jewish congregations throughout the world, but primarily in Latin America and Europe. The last community I helped establish was in Rome, Italy. When I retired from the WUPJ in 2016, I began serving Beth Hillel in Rome on a part-time basis, and ten years later, I continue to be the rabbi for the community. We have purchased a building in a beautiful neighborhood in Rome and will begin renovations later this year. This is a retirement I never imagined, but one which I highly recommend.
My class of 1976 met in Atlanta at the recent NAORRR conference. What an amazing few days to remember who we were back in 1971 in our first year in Jerusalem and then again, fifty years after our ordination. I am grateful for the opportunity my rabbinic ordination afforded me to help make a difference, both in my beloved Israel and throughout the Jewish world.
Rabbi Joel Oseran serves Beth Hillel in Rome and is the VP Emeritus, International Development of the World Union for Progressive Judaism.He is celebrating 50 years as a Reform rabbi. We look forward to celebrating him and all of the CCAR’s 50-year rabbis at CCAR Convention 2026.
Looking back over forty years as a congregational rabbi, plus ten as an “active emeritus,” it is clear to me that I was fortunate to be engaged in the Jewish enterprise at a time of great energy, anticipation, creativity, and purpose. Intimations of peace were all about. The work of liberating Soviet and Ethiopian Jews was in high gear. Movements of social justice and community service were making progress. We felt the arc of history bending towards justice and opportunity for all. Our congregations were thriving. Our Movement and its affiliates were opening new perspectives on Jewish life, learning, and spirituality in America, in Israel, and around the world. Our camps and our seminaries were raising up new generations of Jewish leaders and teachers. And we eagerly took part in it all.
It may have been among the best of times, but it also contained the seeds of for some of the most difficult of times. It is hard to recall the heady times of Middle Eastern peace-making in light of the wars, the intifadas, the terrorism, and the destruction wrought on both Israelis and Palestinians—and Americans—since Sadat’s famous visit. The “start-up” nation became the start of arguments. We are excused, if not expelled, from certain tables where pressing matters of social justice are being discussed. Public institutions of culture and learning, which Jews have supported, sustained, and in which we have flourished, feel less welcoming. The political culture of promise has morphed into one of prejudice. Our Movement, its institutions and affiliates struggle to keep pace. And we were part of that, too, even if reluctantly.
It seems to me this is a pattern repeated in our history. In how many times and places did our folk and faith flourish only to flounder when the political, economic or cultural currents shifted? Sometimes, our people fled to more promising situations. Too many times, however, the option of flight was denied. Those communities suffered greatly, and they are no more. But, despite all that, our people live. Our communities persist. Our Judaism remains vibrant and relevant. It is a miracle too often taken for granted. And, happily, we are part of that, too.
My fifty years in the rabbinate have been fifty years of supporting, sustaining, and guiding Jewish communal life; fifty years of sharing, teaching and, to the best of my ability, modeling the wisdom of our Judaism, the timelessness of Jewish values, and the sensitivities of the Jewish soul. Fifty years of celebrating, consoling, listening, and comforting. Fifty years of so many interactions and episodes, both social and spiritual, they are beyond count. I have come to this: That what our folk and faith derive from the times of plenty (of whatever kind) is what will sustain us through the lean years. It is not about social, political, or economic success. It has always been about communal fortitude, spiritual strength, moral clarity, and prophetic vision, the insistence that tomorrow can be, should be, better than today, and that the vision applies not only to our people, but to all people. Not only on the grand scale, but also in the context of daily interactions and personal relationships. And that our Torah, our traditions, our prayers, the entirety of our Judaism is to inspire us, guide us, and move us towards that ideal.
Embroidered on the corners of my tallit is the teaching of Shammai:
Shammai used to say: Make your [study of the] Torah a fixed practice; speak little, but do much; and receive all men with a pleasant countenance (Pirkei Avot 1:15:2).
This is my watchword. I tried to teach and live my rabbinate with integrity and consistency, which does not preclude creativity or growth. I tried to let my deeds outnumber my words (a losing battle). And I tried to be as open, embracing, and caring a person as I believe Judaism to be.
I thank my teachers, my colleagues, friends, and family, my congregants and students, for the privilege and pleasures of serving my folk and faith as Rav b’Yisrael.
CCAR memberRabbi Jack Luxemburg is Rabbi Emeritus of Temple Beth Ami in Rockville, Maryland. He is celebrating 50 years as a Reform rabbi. We look forward to celebrating him and all of the CCAR’s 50-year rabbis at CCAR Convention 2026.
Featuring gorgeous color art by Siona Benjamin, this new Haggadah celebrates the sacred multivocality of the Jewish people, helping us rediscover the Passover story with fresh eyes and a vibrant imagination.
