<![CDATA[Congregation Shir Ami - Blog]]>Tue, 11 Aug 2026 05:23:55 -0400Weebly<![CDATA[Three Traps for the Justice Unweary (P. Shoftim)]]>Sun, 09 Aug 2026 11:00:00 GMThttps://www.congregationshirami.org/blog/three-traps-for-the-justice-unweary
The holy preparatory month of Elul begins. The inner shofar begins to sound, calling us ever more to inner attention. Rosh Hashanah will follow so very soon.

So it's precisely now that Torah echoes the shofar call with a resounding bellow through the ages: "Justice, justice shall you pursue."

The path beckons us, with three traps to avoid. 
By Rabbi David Evan Markus 
P. Shoftim 5786 (2026)

From this week's Torah portion rises the backbone of Judaism's social justice ethic: "Justice, justice shall you pursue" (Deut. 16:20). Our ancestors riveted on these words, and so do we – especially at this time of year. 

These words are so central to collective identity and spiritual purpose that tradition heaps on them high aspirations and exacting standards of morality. Consider these examples:

  • If something unfair happens (there is no lack of examples), "Justice, justice shall you pursue." We must right the wrongs of injustice and never, ever perpetrate them.

  • If societal structures go awry (there is no lack of examples), "Justice, justice shall you pursue." We have a collective duty to select honest public servants to make and enforce the law (Rashi, Deut. 16:20).

  • Whether you personally stand to gain or lose in the outcome, "Justice, justice shall you pursue." Justice is not in the eye of the beholder but based on timeless principles that transcend any person however powerful or strident (Ibn Ezra, Deut. 16:20). Collective rightness is just that: we, not me.

  • If we feel that the ends justify the means, "Justice, justice shall you pursue."  Justice means the right result in the right way (Ramban, Deut. 16:20). Process matters. Kindness matters. Compassion matters.

  • If we content ourselves only to avoid the worst conduct, "Justice, justice shall you pursue." Even seemingly trivial words must be righteous (Rabbeinu Bahya, Deut 16:20).

We might agree with these teachings, even find pride and comfort in them. Good!  We might even recognize ourselves in them. Great! But precisely in pride and comfort lurk three spiritual traps at the heart of what "Justice, justice shall you pursue" really means.

Spiritual Trap #1: Our healthy pride and comfort in spiritual life can become unconsciously rigid. Pride in our collective social justice ethic can distract us from taking these words as deeply personal – as inner check-ups, tune-ups, directives, and sometimes even indictments.

Menahem Mendel Twersky of Chernobyl (d. 1797), also known as the Meor Eynayim ("Light of the Eyes"), taught that because humanity has free will, we have free will to incline awareness and interaction with principle however we wish – and call them whatever we want. Our inner narratives are powerful, and our sense of justification even more so. Unless we're already in the habit of healthfully critiquing ourselves, we might miss that these teachings are trying to get our attention to turn inward. "Justice, justice shall you pursue": turn inward now.

Spiritual Trap #2: Our penchant for excess self-judgment can make truthful introspection difficult or even impossible. We might either blame ourselves too much, for things not fully our responsibility... or so pound ourselves to pulp for our foibles that we don't bounce back to act better... or just go numb at risk of hurting too much.

R. Alan Law ("This is Real And You Are Completely Unprepared") taught that this time of year is like looking out a window. We look at the view, whatever we're looking at, but we also look at the window itself – the smudges, cobwebs and detritus that get in our way. Excess pride and comfort can be smudges on our most accurate vision, but so too can the opposite.  We'll explore this idea together during the High Holy Days as we seek to "Renew Balance."  "Justice, justice shall you pursue": as you turn inward, be real and also gentle.

Spiritual Trap #3: Our relationship with spiritual life feels less deep than surface, voluntary, something we choose when it feels right, when it's convenient. We imagine commandments as ideals or helpful suggestions, not mandates. But "pursue" justice in Hebrew is literal: chase justice. It's not a passive act, or easy, or convenient, or even necessarily "safe." Our calling is to chase justice with all we've got, as if we're chasing a thief or our greatest love.  "Justice, justice shall you pursue": chase your soul, your best self, your highest values.

It's one month until Rosh Hashanah. The holy preparatory month of Elul begins. The inner shofar begins to sound, riveting us to inner attention. Turn inward now. Be real and gentle. Chase your soul, your best self, your highest values.

​It's time.
]]><![CDATA[The Mitzvah of Crossing Our Inner Jordan (P. Re'eh)]]>Sun, 02 Aug 2026 11:00:00 GMThttps://www.congregationshirami.org/blog/the-mitzvah-of-crossing-our-inner-jordan-p-reeh
We haven't yet reached our destination. We still act like travelers battling traffic, anxiety, regrets, cruelty, endless customer-service hold times, and whatever else we carry within.

We'll be our best when we reach our destination, we tell ourselves. But what are we waiting for? Isn't the destination we await already within?
By Rabbi David Evan Markus 
P. Re'eh 5786 (2026)

Many spiritual liberals tend to dislike being told what to do, especially by religion! Spiritual "commandment" (literally, mitzvah) morphs into "good deed" – a choice rooted in identity, not a duty rooted in mandate. A mitzvah becomes an extra, a gold star on the chart.

Even so, we know that altruism, integrity, generosity, compassion, kindness and grace tend to reflect our best selves – in Abraham Lincoln's 1861 words, the "angels of our better nature." Usually these behaviors feel good. These behaviors also help make meaning in our lives and repair our broken world. But a command to behave in those ways? Not so much.

Whether we embrace traditional ideas of commandment or we understand Judaism (or any spiritual system) as offering deep wisdom rooted in choice, we need to understand two lines of this week's Torah portion that place commandedness before us. And we need to receive them through the prism of when they appear – now, on the runway to the High Holy Days.

Now 40 years after liberation from Egyptian bondage, our spiritual ancestors have reached the Land of Promise. Moses assembles the Children of Israel for final words before they cross the River Jordan – final words that fill much of the Book of Deuteronomy. Among them are this week's commandment issued on the far side of the Jordan (Deut. 12:8-9):
לֹ֣א תַעֲשׂ֔וּן כְּ֠כֹ֠ל אֲשֶׁ֨ר אֲנַ֧חְנוּ עֹשִׂ֛ים פֹּ֖ה הַיּ֑וֹם אִ֖ישׁ כָּל־הַיָּשָׁ֥ר בְּעֵינָֽיו׃ כִּ֥י לֹא־בָאתֶ֖ם עַד־עָ֑תָּה אֶל־הַמְּנוּחָה֙ וְאֶל־הַנַּחֲלָ֔ה אֲשֶׁר־יה׳׳ה אֱלֹהֶ֖יךָ נֹתֵ֥ן לָֽךְ׃
Do not act [when you cross the Jordan] as we now act here, each as they please, for you have not yet come to the rest and inheritance that YHVH your God is giving you.
A command to change our ways—gotwww.sefaria.org/Deuteronomy.12.9?lang=bi&with=Rashi&lang2=en&p3=Zevachim.119a&lang3=bi it. For spiritual liberals, say "call" instead of "command." Change our ways as we cross into the Land that is our destination (whether the Land of Israel or, metaphorically, the Land of the New Year up ahead) – sure.

But what's this of "rest" and "inheritance"? We must change our ways because we haven't yet come into the "rest" and "inheritance" that God is giving us? What's that?!

I've come to understand these words in a new way, which turns out to be a very old way.

We haven't yet reached our destination. We act like travelers battling traffic, societal cruelty, anxiety, endless customer-service hold times, and inner demons of hurt and regret. We tell ourselves that we'll be our best when we reach our destination, when things are better, when there aren't so many reasons to try our patience and so much on fire to stoke our embers.

But life needn't work that way. In fact, if we wait for everything to be fine, we might end up waiting a long time. And even when things supposedly are fine, do we suddenly act like the better angels of our nature? Wherever we go, there we are.

Our ancient teachers understood this, so they turned these words inward. Often we act as we do because, conscious or not, there's a war afoot within us (Rashi, Deut. 12:9). We conquer to-do lists, social status, health concerns, fiscal worries, or whatever else is next. Amidst it all, we don't feel completely settled and safe: we're always on the move (Ibn Ezra, Deut. 12:9).

Put another way, of course we act out. Life is busy, we are busy, and we get wrapped up in it.

But, our teachers continue, there is a "rest" and an "inheritance" that "God is giving [us.]." It lies not at another time or another place, but deep within. It's there awaiting us.

Then as now, the geographic represents the spiritual. After the Children of Israel crossed the Jordan into the Land, they set up a first spiritual "capital" at Shiloh ("town of tranquility") (Joshua 18:1, Judges 21:19, 1 Samuel 1:3). That was the next stop of their journey: coming to "rest" and re-center. But it wasn't their final destination or "inheritance." That was Jerusalem ("city of peace") where, finally, for awhile our spiritual ancestors had genuine peace (Rashi, Deut. 12:9, Sifrei Devarim 66:2, B.T. Zevahim 119a). May peace return speedily and soon.

It's much the same for us today. If we adopt practices of a rousing kind of tranquility (learning, contemplation, soulful rest, prayer, meditation, acts of care), we can reach an inner Shiloh. Shiloh is wonderful – a beautiful respite, a great teacher, a terrific place to visit. But Shiloh is not Jerusalem, the all-encompassing experience of total inter-being with the Sacred that feels, like I wrote last week, like we all share one heart – because ultimately we do. 

That place has a geographic symbol, but ultimately it's a place deep within. It's where the angels of our better nature dwell – our place of soul, our spark of the Sacred that we share.

We tune into that place by shifting. We begin by rousing, by attuning to how we behave, by not having the same ol' way. We begin by crossing our inner Jordan River of routine of habit.
We turn inward. We adopt practices of arousing tranquility.

Slowly at first, we move toward Shiloh on our way, at last, to our City of Peace.

Rosh Hashanah 5787 begins September 11, 2026.
]]><![CDATA[Rabbi's Corner: August 2026 & High Holy Days: #RenewingBalance]]>Thu, 30 Jul 2026 04:00:00 GMThttps://www.congregationshirami.org/blog/rabbis-corner-august-2026-high-holy-days-renewingbalance
As August begins, already we're on the High Holy Day runway.  It always feels too soon, and this year the holidays come "early."

In the last two years, our holiday seasons explored themes of love and strength. The world has needed both, and so have we.

For 5787, it's time to renew balance.
Picture
By Rabbi David

Happy August, Shir Ami! I hope these summer days are bright and sweet for you and your loved ones.

It's become my annual practice to focus a column on the upcoming High Holy Days around six weeks before Rosh Hashanah. Summertime focus on the "autumn" holidays always feels too early, but this year Erev Rosh Hashanah falls on September 11 – which means that the start of August is six weeks out. Even if it feels early, it's time.

This column mentions pre-holiday runway items, then delves into our upcoming journey – ​our theme, what will be the same and what will shift, and how to make the most of this Season of Meaning. This column attempts to be comprehensive, so thank you in advance for taking the time to read it.

From my heart to yours, I send blessings for a שנה טובה ומתוקה / shanah tovah um'tukah – a good and sweet new year of seeking and finding balance anew.
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August Runway Dates & Events

Have you registered for the High Holy Days?  We need your registrations ASAP to ensure proper preparations. Please click here to register.

August 3 continues our High Holy Day runway series (Tuesdays 7:00pm until Sept. 8). This year's series, "Worth a Thousand Words," explores the spiritual images of the core High Holy Day liturgy and how we can use them to power our experience of this sacred season. Entire series is free for members, $120 for guests. Please click here to register. 

August 7 is the deadline for Yizkor tributes. Board leadership set this deadline so that Shir Ami's hardworking volunteers can fully honor everyone's loved ones and also attend to their own High Holy Day preparations. Thank you for honoring this holy gavul (boundary). Please consult the newsletter for instructions.

August 28 "Back to Shul" Barbecue. Deep thanks to Abby & Howie Ross for opening their home for a "back to shul" pre-Shabbat barbecue at 6:00pm August 28.  Registration required by August 25 via email to Abby (aar1@optonline.net).
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Our Theme for 5787 

Picture
Many of you have shared how you feel it sometimes – the world off-kilter, our planet jolting, our civic space ailing, our newsfeeds disturbing, the Mideast poised on the brink, family and friends going astray, we ourselves going astray. 

Societies reach inflection points of change, and so do people. What worked before doesn't work now. Relationships and values, habits and priorities, character and emotions, what we believe in and what we can believe in – so much is changing, sometimes with dizzying speed.

Of course we feel it. The pace of it all sends hearts, minds and attention flitting from thing to thing like the childhood game whack-a-mole.

Many of you have shared how sometimes the world feels like it's lost perspective, regularity, soul and balance. From planet to peoplehood to community to self, nowadays much seems the very opposite of balance.

Which is why our High Holy Day theme for 5787 will be balance.

Together we will explore balance and its discontents, how we restore lost balance, and what might be even more important than balance. Is the balance we most crave just nostalgia by another name, a yearning for easier or better times (real or imagined)? How can we wisely shift balance to serve us today and tomorrow rather than only yesterday or yesteryear?

Along the way, we will explore the Jewish spirituality of Tiferet, our capacity to seek and shift balance wisely, to deepen our intellectual, emotional and spiritual center of gravity so we can harmonize and balance the sometimes competing forces of our lives. We associate Tiferet with heartspace, our inner fulcrum like the fulcrum or pivot of a playground seesaw always seeking to find balance.

With Tiferet we will turn inward, evolve perspective, get unstuck, change habits and realign for a new balance worthy of our best selves calling us into the year ahead. And as for us as individuals, so too for our expanding circles of family, community, peoplehood, nation and planet. All are prone to lose balance.

Soon the shofar will summon us home to ourselves and each other, to find balance anew for a world that needs all the balanced love, beauty and healthy transformation we can give. With tremendous gratitude for our community and the opportunity to serve, I look forward to sharing this journey with you and your loved ones.

P.S. As I do each year, the graphic above hints at the arc of sermons and discussions from Rosh Hashanah through Yom Kippur, each of them developing our theme.
]]><![CDATA[About the Blocked Heart (P. Eikev)]]>Sun, 26 Jul 2026 10:57:00 GMThttps://www.congregationshirami.org/blog/about-the-blocked-heart-p-eikev
Living with a fully open heart all the time can be uncomfortable – even risky. Anyone reading this probably knows this truth from life experience.

Most humans learn to protect their hearts. We learn so well that the feeling of a closed heart can be instinctive, automatic, effortless.  We can become so inured that we might not know just how closed our hearts have become.

Maybe that's why, precisely now in the Jewish year, Torah calls us to open our hearts wide.
By Rabbi David Evan Markus 
P. Eikev 5786 (2026)

I've been known to watch shellfish.

Tidal pool rocks offer choice clinging spots for mollusks. At high tide, they open their shells to absorb sea-washed nutrients. When the tide goes out, they "clam up": their shells fuse tight.

Hearts can be like that. But hearts aren't mollusks. Hearts don't naturally have shells. They form and harden against hurt like calluses or stone.

So over time, hearts can become less eager to open. After all, safety and certainty can feel better than hurt and risk. And let's face it: the tide has washed in plenty of hurt and risk.
​
Yet it's precisely now, as the seven-week countdown to Rosh Hashanah begins, that Torah calls us collectively to open our heart wide (Deut. 10:16):
​וּמַלְתֶּ֕ם אֵ֖ת עָרְלַ֣ת לְבַבְכֶ֑ם
​וְעָרְפְּכֶ֔ם לֹ֥א תַקְשׁ֖וּ עֽוֹד׃
Circumcise the foreskin of your hearts,
​and be not stiff-necked anymore.
One heart, not "hearts." We share one heart.

These words are visceral.  We are called to remove the protecting shell over our heart. We are to do so now. We are to do so unconditionally – even if the tide is out, even if we're afraid, even if it might hurt, even if we think we're right. And if it's hard, use a scalpel (figuratively).

What does this mean? Sure, it's partly about not being "stiff-necked" (stubborn), so willful that we refuse to meet people partway (Maimonides, Guide for the Perplexed 3:33.2). That's no way to live. But tradition offers far more.

To circumcise the foreskin of the heart means to clear "emotional blocks" (Women's Torah Commentary, Deut. 10:16). Remove "prejudices that afflict the mind and blind it to errors in how we see the world" (Sforno, Deut. 10:16). Remove "inhibitions of personality's full potential" to fully embrace soul and the sacred (Rabbeinu Bahya, Deut. 10:16). Remove "obstruction" to vulnerability and relationship (Siftei Hakhamim, Deut. 10:16). Remove hindrances to receiving the "still small voice" we call God (Tur HaArokh, Deut. 10:16).

The real question is why? If we feel like our lives generally are fine enough, if usually we're comfortable, if the world is difficult enough, then why make such effort to be vulnerable and introspective? Why risk hurt?

Because, teaches Maimonides, we live most of our lives half asleep – partly numb, not fully feeling joys. A heart that hardens against feeling oy tend snot to fully feel joy  – or awe, grace or wonder. Even love can feel muted. As Henry David Thoreau put it, under the surface most of us lead "lives of quiet desperation" but barely know it (Walden, 1854).

Or as one midrash quotes God asking Abraham, "Why do you believe you are whole now?" (Midrash Tanhuma, Lekh Lekha 16:13).

The thing is, the world needs us to be whole. Relationships most important to us need us to be whole. Our souls need us to be whole. Our communities and peoplehood need us to be whole. The world's brokenness looks the way it does mainly because of unawareness, because folks live life partly asleep and disconnected. We forget that we share one heart.

Which is why the world needs us to be whole, to wake up, to rouse, to go deep, to feel, to ask, to yearn, to risk. Because only then might each of us, and all of us with our shared heart, ever become whole anew.

Erev Rosh Hashanah 5787 begins September 11, 2026.
]]><![CDATA[Gently Grasping Spirit (P. Vaethanan)]]>Sun, 19 Jul 2026 11:00:00 GMThttps://www.congregationshirami.org/blog/gently-grasping-spirit-p-vaethanan
Perhaps you've experienced the "beach wisdom" that the tighter we grasp dry sand in our hand, the more likely the sand will fall through our fingers. The way to hold sand is to cup it gently.

Lots of things work that way. (For instance, wise parents know that about their adult children.)

It's not exactly the same with what we call holy – the sacred, spirit, God – but it's close.
By Rabbi David Evan Markus 
P. Vaethanan 5786 (2026)

Beachgoers, especially the young and young-at-heart, know this "beach wisdom" well. Try to hold dry sand tightly by the fist. The tighter one grips the sand, the more likely it will slip through. We can hold onto more sand by cupping it gently.

Wise parents have similar wisdom about their adult children. Spiritual life can be like that, too. We hold traditions, but gently so they can evolve. We hold ourselves, but gently so we can evolve. We hold ideas, but gently lest they calcify or become brittle.

And what of the holy – the sacred, the Infinite, spirit, God? How do we hold them?

This week's Torah portion asks that question directly. After Moses recounts our ancestors' past rebellions that culminated in great losses, Moses observes (Deut. 4:4):
וְאַתֶּם֙ הַדְּבֵקִ֔ים בַּיהו''ה אֱלֹהֵיכֶ֑ם
חַיִּ֥ים כֻּלְּכֶ֖ם הַיּֽוֹם׃
​And you, who held fast to YHVH your God,
​you all are alive today.
​Nope. We can't literally "hold" God any more than we can literally "follow" God, which Torah also calls us to do in the same way that we are to "hold" God (Deut. 13:5).

So what do these words really ask of us? Jewish spiritual tradition offers two answers:

Answer #1: Act godly. Talmud's rabbis offered that we "hold" and "follow" godly attributes by doing our best to imitate godly action (B.T. Sotah 14a). We care (God clothed Adam and Eve, so we clothe the naked). We show compassion (God visited Abraham when he was sick, so we visit the sick). We extend empathy (God comforted Isaac grieving his father, so we comfort mourners). We show up with piety (God buried Moses, so we bury the dead).

Attributes we associate with the sacred – patience, creativity, love, rightness, ethics, resilience, justice, integrity, etc. – are for us to emulate as much as we can.

Answer #2: Melt into spirit. Spiritual revivalists in the 18th century offered that Torah's "hold" in the original Hebrew (devekut) means to "glue." Devekut is to "glue" ourselves to God in consciousness, thought, feeling and identity. It's a profound spiritual experience to be in such rapturous love with God that, even for an instant, we feel ourselves melt into God.

For most of us, Answer #1 is easier and less risky than Answer #2. It's easier to act concretely in the world than to fully immerse in spirit. But if you've lost yourself in a beloved's gaze, or felt yourself melt into the awe of a sunset, then you've experienced a bit of what devekut is like.

And, the second you think about it, the experience abates. We can't think about it and do it at the same time. It's like my friend R. Bella Bogart says of singing: "If you think you're singing when you're singing, you're not singing." To really sing is to so fully be in singing that self-consciousness falls away.

Put another way, we hold ourselves gently so we can fully experience the world beyond self. Maybe that's what it means to hold God, and fully live.
]]><![CDATA[The Empowering Distortion Mirror of Memory (P. Devarim)]]>Sun, 12 Jul 2026 11:00:00 GMThttps://www.congregationshirami.org/blog/the-empowering-distortion-mirror-of-memory-p-devarim
Whatever our age, character and inclinations, we can't help but inhabit our memory. All that we have experienced in life shapes us through the lens of what we remember of our past experience, ourselves and other people.

And whatever our age, character and inclinations, memory has a hidden way of reflecting ourselves back at us. This truth becomes especially important as the introspective Season of Meaning approaches.
By Rabbi David Evan Markus 
Parashat Devarim 5786 (2026)

Torah's final book fulfills its English title: Deuter-(second) -onomy (telling). Deuteronomy is Moses' "second telling" of the 40-year journey to the Promised Land now nearly complete. Moses recaps what happened along the way, giving the people his final charge – and rebukes for their penchant to act out.

But Moses' "second telling" did not repeat with perfect accuracy what came before.

What happened before didn't quite happen as Moses says now. Compared to his younger days, the Moses of Deuteronomy toggles between more bitter and more loving, more angry and more forgiving. Moses' shifting inner lenses color his recall, so his "second telling" shifts his narrative of what happened before. Moses even subtly changes the Ten Commandments! (Compare Exodus 20 [God's revelation at Sinai] with Deuteronomy 5 [Moses' "second telling"]).

We learn that memory is never neutral. Neurobiologists show how the memories we access, and what our memories emphasize, tend to reflect our emotions and neural associations.

Jewish spirituality knew that long ago – which is a big deal as the High Holy Days approach.

With Rosh Hashanah soon to appear on the distant horizon, what we remember of ourselves and others will shape our experience of the season.

Whom did we wrong and how? What character traits most need our critical gaze? What do we make of our flaws and foibles? How do we become ready to see them and repair them? What need we do to seek and accept forgiveness from others? What need we do to seek and accept forgiveness from ourselves? What freight do we carry from others who wronged us? Did we play a part? Is our judgment of others fully accurate? Do we stoke and ferment hurts inside us? 

These "Season of Meaning" questions depend on our memory, exposing them to a deep truth: memory arranges itself partly based on how we feel, what we value, how we behave.

Spiritually, it's probably too much to say, in the words of essayist Anaïs Nin, that "we see the world not how it is but how we are." After all, there is at least some objective truth!

That said, we humans tend to be most judgey about what sticks to our own inner landscape. The flaws in others that most hold our focus and memory might be most accessible to us because we ourselves possess those very flaws. As Talmud puts it (B.T. Kiddushin 70b), "All who disqualify another [spiritually] do so from their own flaw," and (B.T. Berakhot 55b), "We see" – in our dreams and in our vision – the thoughts of our own hearts."

In Jewish tradition, the prophet whose lens was clearest was Moses (B.T. Yevamot 49b) – but Deuteronomy teaches that not even Moses had perfect recall. Even his vision saw reflections of his own emotions, character, loves and losses shaping the accuracy of his memory.

As for Moses, so for each of us. But this can be a feature, not a bug. If we are wise, this truth can greatly empower our journey into the Season of Meaning.

How? What if we let our vision be like a mirror, reflecting back to us not just what we see but also how we see? What if we gently shift our gaze to look dispassionately at just that – our own vision, how we see the world, the judgments we make, the flaws in others we're most likely to notice? What might we learn about ourselves? How might our own hearts soften to some of the sharper memories and achiest hurts we carry deep inside?

What might we see that we didn't see before?
]]><![CDATA[Our Cities of Refuge (P. Matot-Masei)]]>Sun, 05 Jul 2026 11:00:00 GMThttps://www.congregationshirami.org/blog/our-cities-of-refuge-p-matot-masei
It's summer travel season, which aligns with the approaching spiritual season nine weeks ahead.

Wonderful as travel can be, travelers can tire from traveling – the need to get somewhere, the hurry up and wait, the grip of the wheel. Travelers get bumped and bruised, hot and bothered.  

We all are travelers – whether vacationers or journeyers on the road of life. We all need refuge from things that go sideways on our way. 

Maybe to our surprise, this refuge isn't a rest stop, or community – but something else entirely.
By Rabbi David Evan Markus 
P. Matot-Masei 5786 (2026)

There it is! It's just up ahead, after the next exit! We finally made it!

After 40 years of "Are we there yet?" whining from the backseat, travails, traffic, drama and detours, at last our spiritual ancestors approach their fabled destination: the Land of Promise. They're hot and tired. They're hungry. They need a shower. They're eager to unpack, rest, and begin what's next in the land of "milk and honey" whose allure kept them going for so long.

But first, an odd instruction – seemingly out of left field, but one with deep spiritual, emotional and intellectual meaning in today's turbulent world (Numbers 35:10b-14):
 כִּ֥י אַתֶּ֛ם עֹבְרִ֥ים אֶת־הַיַּרְדֵּ֖ן אַ֥רְצָה כְּנָֽעַן וְהִקְרִיתֶ֤ם לָכֶם֙ עָרִ֔ים עָרֵ֥י מִקְלָ֖ט תִּהְיֶ֣ינָה לָכֶ֑ם וְנָ֥ס שָׁ֙מָּה֙ רֹצֵ֔חַ מַכֵּה־נֶ֖פֶשׁ בִּשְׁגָגָֽה׃ וְהָי֨וּ לָכֶ֧ם הֶעָרִ֛ים לְמִקְלָ֖ט מִגֹּאֵ֑ל וְלֹ֤א יָמוּת֙ הָרֹצֵ֔חַ עַד־עָמְד֛וֹ לִפְנֵ֥י הָעֵדָ֖ה לַמִּשְׁפָּֽט׃ וְהֶעָרִ֖ים אֲשֶׁ֣ר תִּתֵּ֑נוּ שֵׁשׁ־עָרֵ֥י מִקְלָ֖ט תִּהְיֶ֥ינָה לָכֶֽם׃ אֵ֣ת ׀ שְׁלֹ֣שׁ הֶעָרִ֗ים תִּתְּנוּ֙ מֵעֵ֣בֶר לַיַּרְדֵּ֔ן וְאֵת֙ שְׁלֹ֣שׁ הֶֽעָרִ֔ים תִּתְּנ֖וּ בְּאֶ֣רֶץ כְּנָ֑עַן עָרֵ֥י מִקְלָ֖ט תִּהְיֶֽינָה׃
When you cross the Jordan [River] into the Land of Canaan, establish for yourselves cities to be cities of refuge to which a slayer who unintentionally kills another may flee. These will be for you cities of refuge from the avenger, so the manslayer will not die without standing for justice before the community. The cities you thus assign will be six cities of refuge in all – you will have three cities on the [near side] of the Jordan, and the other three will be in the land of Canaan: they will be cities of refuge for you.
Literally, this instruction is about safe zones against mob (in)justice and blood revenge. Cities of refuge were so important that Israelite society organized itself around them. Nothing could get in the way of immediate access, so there had to be direct roads leading to them, right of way to reach them, and clear signage showing the way. Cities of refuge were so important that the instruction to create them had to precede arrival.

That was then. What could this instruction mean for us now?

​R. Levi Yitzhak of Berditchev (d. 1809) taught in the name of the Ba'al Shem Tov (d. 1760) that our "cities of refuge" now lay within – and we must pave our way to them by what we think, say and do (Kedushat Levi, Num. 35:11):
שלשה ערי מקלט הוא הרמז מחשבה, דיבור, מעשה. שצריך האדם לברוח מפני גואל הדם, הוא הס"מ שרוצה לבטל אותם מעבדות הבורא וצריך להתחזק עצמו במחשבות קדושות ודיבורים קדושים ומעשים טובים, כי אף על פי שאינם כל כך ברורים וזכים, מכל מקום טוב יותר משב ואל תעשה כנ"ל, כי מכל מקום רעותא דמריה עביד:
The three cities of refuge [on the Israelite side of the Jordan] hint at thought, speech and action. Just as one must not allow blood revenge, one must [heal] from the [inner] accuser who would destroy our ability to serve [the sacred]. Therefore, one must strengthen oneself by holy thoughts, holy words and good deeds. Even if these are not entirely clear and perfect, even then the [effort] is better than passivity and inertia: the [effort itself] serves the will of [the sacred].
This allegorical approach lays the foundation for Mussar, a profound Jewish path of ethics and character development. It recognizes that even unintentionally, our thoughts, words and actions can shed spiritual blood. (Jewishly, slander and gossip, even if true, are the same as murder.) The "inner accuser" represents not only harsh self-judgment, guilt and shame, but also the unhealed parts of ourselves that impel us to act out – unresolved anger, resentment, impatience, hubris and other natural human foibles.

Thus, in addition to doing our utmost to repair harms we cause, we also must take great care to heal our own thoughts, speech and actions. In this effort, we must not judge ourselves so harshly that we become passive and inert, paralyzed by our own self-critique. But neither, however, must we let ourselves off the hook by instinctive self-defense and self-justification.

Put another way, when our travels in life arouse deeply negative thoughts about ourselves or another, they can be like a mob chasing us. Our refuge is not to ignore them or pretend them away, but to use them as impulses to purify our thoughts, speech and actions as best we can.

I couldn't imagine a more potent orientation of mind, heart and spirit as we begin the long turn toward the High Holy Days nine weeks ahead. 
]]><![CDATA[Rabbi's Corner: July 2026 – We Hold These Truths]]>Wed, 01 Jul 2026 04:00:00 GMThttps://www.congregationshirami.org/blog/rabbis-corner-july-2026-we-hold-these-truths
In a hot Philadelphia boarding house, Thomas Jefferson wrote the Declaration of Independence that still reverberates 250 years later: "We hold these truths to be self-evident...." 

​If truths were self-evident in 1776, then we can expect to find them long before – including in Jewish wisdom many centuries earlier.
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By Rabbi David Evan Markus

During this 250th anniversary of our country's founding, the U.S. faces a pitched battle over power and values. Whatever our beliefs or politics, all of us are affected.

When societal going gets tough, I try to get going by aspiring to a long view of history. History, after all, has seen so much more than even the most impactful singular moment, however all-encompassing it seems.

In that spirit, I dedicate this month's column (far longer than usual) to this 250th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence, a secular masterpiece whose "self-evident" truths animated Judaism long before and animate it still.

​I do so not with a political bent, nor to claim 1776 wisdom for Jewish (or even Judeo-Christian) life, but to uplift values that these perilous times urgently need us to reaffirm with all we are. That, I believe, is the most fitting tribute we can offer our community, country and posterity.
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As a constitutional lawyer and public servant, I view the Declaration of Independence and the U.S. Constitution as wholly secular documents. Their views of power, and power's rightful limits, echo across time and culture. Their principles reshaped the world. Dozens of nations, diverse in almost every way, looked to these founding documents as models for their own. To this day, children learn them and memorize them.
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To be sure, the secular Declaration and Constitution both allude to divinity. The framers, while deeply skeptical of politicizing religion into uncheckable power, nevertheless held deep and abiding spiritual principles that animated their service. Most of the framers were Christian (or at least Deist), many were Freemasons (as am I), and a keystone of both systems is moral rectitude animated by a Great Architect of the Universe.

As a rabbi and community servant-leader, I view Judaism (and every wisdom tradition) as a specific expression of ultimate truths that transcend the particularities of time and culture. Religions might express these truths differently, deriving them from different theologies and symbolic contexts, but the ultimate truths themselves are much the same.

There's a reason why, and perhaps we sense it in our own life experience. Perhaps we have experienced for ourselves there is no such thing as "Jewish love" or "Christian love" or "Muslim love" or "Buddhist love": there is only love refracted through different conceptual and symbolic systems. So too for grace, compassion, integrity, humility, gratitude, resilience, charity, discipline, wisdom, balance, beauty and most everything else of enduring value.

Put another way, universal teachings are just that – universal, independently arising across times and cultures, and withstanding the test of time. Therefore, it is dubious for any system – by definition borne of its own originating time and context – to insist that it alone can corner the global market on ultimate truth.
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​If so, then we should expect that the Declaration's "truths" should find parallels in Jewish wisdom dating back many centuries earlier.

​This observation is not to claim the Declaration to be a "Judeo-Christian" document, or claim it "for" Judaism (either on its own terms or as Christianity's elder sibling). It is essential to me, and to our nation's best future, to view this nation's founding documents through an existentially secular lens. 

We also must not view the Declaration or Constitution as a perfect document, or imagine that the framers were demigods. They embedded slavery and structural racism as national cancers. Women would not win a constitutional right to vote for nearly 150 years after Philadelphia. And no system can be better than the leaders entrusted to preserve, protect and defend it.

Instead, I mean this: If the Declaration – lofty but imperfect – rightly could claim "truths to be self-evident," then we should be able to find those truths expressed long before 1776. If not, then those "truths" could not be fully true much less "self-evident."

Indeed so. Many centuries before Jefferson put quill to parchment, Judaism expressed the Declaration's core themes in terms both quintessentially Jewish and, by their nature, also universal. Like the framers, Judaism has not perfectly lived those principles, and today there remains a long journey ahead. Even so, those "truths" shape the Jewish birthright:
​​We hold these truths to be self-evident:
The Declaration's claim of core truth without authority – by reason from first principles – was radical but not unprecedented. Biblically it harkens all the way back to Abraham: a Voice told him to "Go forth from [his] land" (Gen. 12:1), but first he needed to discern for himself the Oneness we feebly call God (Sefer HaYashar, Noah 19). Aristotle's "unmoved mover" idea held similarly in 350 BCE (Metaphysics, Book 12), but the Abraham of Jewish tradition got there 1,500 years earlier.
​That all men (people) are created equal;
Equality is baked into Judaism. Torah's very first chapter recites that every human is created in the divine image (Gen. 1:27), so all must be fundamentally equal. Torah requires one law for all equally (Ex. 12:49). By the time the framers railed against the inequality of noble birth, Talmud had taught 1,500 years earlier that superior ancestry cannot exist because all share one common ancestry (B.T. Sanhedrin 38a).
That they are endowed by their Creator
The Creator breathed life into humanity (Gen. 2:7), just a little lower than the angels (Ps. 8:6). In Jewish wisdom, all human skill, wisdom, splendor and salvation are the result of divine endowment (Ex. 28:3 Ex. 35:31, Ex. 36:1, Ps. 18:33-36, Isa. 61:10, Ezek. 16:14).
With certain inalienable rights;
Torah does not speak of "rights" (the expression arose far later) but rather duties (mitzvot) and prohibitions that protect core human interests to the same effect. Much of Torah commands equal justice, charity (such as leaving field corners ungleaned), and other bases for individual and collective justice.
That among these are Life,
"Choose life," pleads Torah, "so that you may live" (Deut. 30:19). Torah bans murder, the first of the Ten Commandments' prohibitions (Ex. 20:13). Someone who destroys a single life is like one who destroys a whole world (M. Sanhedrin 4:5). Jewish wisdom functionally banned capital punishment 2,000 years ago (B.T. Sanhedrin 71a).
Liberty,
Judaism's north star is liberation from bondage, whether ancient slavery or modern subjugation. Torah reminds us so 36 times, lest we be lured back to inhumanity's shackles (B.T. Bava Metzia 59b). While the language of political "liberty" (like "rights") came later, Torah calls us to "[p]roclaim liberty throughout the land for all its inhabitants" (Lev. 25:10).
And the pursuit of Happiness;
By just living, "You will enjoy the fruit of your labors, be happy and prosper" (Ps. 128:2). Joy is a core Jewish good: it arises in gratitude for our lot (Pirkei Avot 4:1) and festivals of religious liberty (Deut. 16:14).
That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among (humanity),
In Jewish wisdom, government is a necessity to enforce duties and responsibilities (B.T. Sanhedrin 56a), and to protect against the worst impulses lest the strong swallow the weak like fish (Pirkei Avot 3:2, B.T. Avodah Zara 4a).
Deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed....
Democracy is such a core Jewish concept that, in Jewish lore, even God consulted the angels before creation (Gen. Rabbah 8:1) and had Moses consult the people before selecting a builder for the Mishkan: "a community leader cannot stand without being selected by the community" (B.T. Berakhot 55a). Once Jews were allowed to collect taxes, only a public election by universal suffrage could select the tax collector (Shulhan Arukh, C.M. 163:1). And government must be just: government that itself acts as the strong to swallow the weak, that defies the public good (Nachmanides, Gen. 34:13), cannot stand.
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On this 250th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence, we can find its core principles in the core of Jewish tradition – and, I believe, in the core of cousin wisdom traditions. We can "hold these truths to be self-evident" only because they inhere in the fabric of Western civilization and morality itself.

These truths might be "self-evident" but they are not self-executing. As this nation's flaws and foibles painfully prove, they need us – all of us – to reaffirm these truths and reclaim them. They need us to dig deep for the wisdom, strength, resilience and courage to breathe life into them – to bind this nation's wounds, and thereby also our own.
]]><![CDATA[(Don't) Sound the Alarm (P. Pinhas)]]>Sun, 28 Jun 2026 11:00:00 GMThttps://www.congregationshirami.org/blog/dont-sound-the-alarm-p-pinhas
This week marks 10 weeks until Rosh Hashanah. Torah, always uncannily on time, reminds us this week about Rosh Hashanah and the shofar.

For a practice so symbolic, so core, so cellular in resonance and impact, it's odd that Torah does not tell us why we connect Rosh Hashanah with shofar. And Torah also left it to tradition, 2,000 years ago, to not blow shofar on Shabbat.

Why? The answers have to do with alarms.
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By Rabbi David Evan Markus 
Parashat Pinhas 5786 (2026)

This week marks 10 weeks until Rosh Hashanah. Exactly on time (and long before we feel ready), Torah's weekly cycle has begun dropping High Holy Day hints to begin rousing us.

This week's portion recaps the Jewish spiritual calendar, including Torah's fateful words that on Rosh Hashanah we "observe a sacred occasion: [we] do no form of labor – it is a day for the teru'ah" call of the shofar (Numbers 29:1).

Teru'ah is one of the shofar's three central sound patterns – the one with nine fast piercing blasts. But the Hebrew word teru'ah (תְּרוּעָה) itself means "alarm."

"Alarm" isn't a word we tend to associate with Rosh Hashanah – but it's right there and always has been. As it turns out, "alarm" is apt for the deep spirituality of the High Holy Days – if we understand the kind of "alarm" we're talking about.

In one sense, the shofar is an alarm clock waking us from yearlong sleep. Maimonides put it this way: "It's as if the shofar is saying, Sleepers: wake from your sleep! Slumberers: rise from your slumber! Search your deeds! Search your souls! Return in repentance! Remember your Creator!" (Mishneh Torah, Hilkhot Teshuvah 3:4).

If you've felt a shofar blast in your kishkes, you know intuitively what Maimonides means. An otherworldly sound pierces routine, rivets awareness, triggers memory, softens defenses, and evokes emotion. If at first we're emotionally or spiritually groggy, if our inner walls grew back since last year, shofar blasts aspire to wake us up and tear walls down.
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In another sense, the shofar is a fire alarm. When we hear the wail of a smoke detector, instinctively we do more than pay attention. We know that we must act – and quickly. The stakes are too high to ignore or tarry. 

Put simply, a fire alarm is not a mere suggestion or kind invitation. It's an urgent command: MOVE!

So too with the shofar. We must answer our souls, and urgently. The meaning and quality of our lives turn on it  As Plato put it, "An unexamined life is not worth living." More recently, the idea has been expressed this way:
Annual renewal is necessary if life is to retain its freshness and novelty, [to avoid being] locked in[to] lives [that] seem repetitive and dull. Rosh Hashanah is an opportunity for us to make a quantum leap to a new plateau of sacred consciousness that will inspire our lives for the coming year. To accomplish this, however, we cannot rely only on the words of our prayers, because words carry specific meanings for us that are limited by the knowledge and experiences we have accrued in our lives. In order to break out..., we use the blasts and wails of the shofar, which transcend the confines of verbal language.
Renewing our lives is urgent, so we need more than routine language: we need something beyond language. The shofar alarm's urgency transcends language and compels us to take leaps – to break free.

Why, then, don't we traditionally blow shofar on Shabbat? As also occurred in 2023, Rosh Hashanah 2026 begins on Shabbat. We will sound shofar just before we light the Shabbat and festival candles on Erev Rosh Hashanah (this year, September 11), and then again more extensively on Rosh Hashanah Day 2 (this year, September 13) – but not on Shabbat during Rosh Hashanah Day 1 (September 12).

The reason, at its core, is that Shabbat isn't about alarms. Shabbat is for gentle reset, delight and celebration. Shabbat isn't for jolts, urgency or pleading. Shabbat evokes ease and not difficulty, rest and not work. Neither kind of "alarm" – the jolting kind, or the urgent kind – is consistent with Shabbat.

So on Shabbat, instead of hearing the physical shofar blast of alarm, we remember it. Rosh Hashanah is the Day of Remembrance (יוֹם הַזִּיכָּרוֹן / Yom Ha-Zikaron) (Lev. 23:24) partly for this reason. Rather than a physical jolt, on Shabbat we tune in deeply to inner peace, subtlety and nuance – all encoded in the memory and imagination of the shofar (Vayikra Rabbah 29:12; B.T. Rosh Hashanah 29b) for which an alarm might be distracting or overwhelming.

For spiritualists and mystics, it's an opportunity for a special kind of inner spiritual stillness that, Jewishly speaking, is most easily heard and felt on Shabbat (J.T. Rosh Hashanah 4:1.2). We might even hear the primordial silence from which Creation began when all was Infinite Oneness – the Creation whose anniversary is, yes, Rosh Hashanah.

Zohar, the Book of Splendor, puts it this way (Zohar Addenda, 1:25.195):
בָּר מְשָׁבְּתָא דְּאִית בֵּיהּ נִיחָא, וְלֵית בֵּיהּ דִּינָא כְּלָל. דְאִתְגַלְיָיא עַתִּיקָא קַדִּישָׁא חֵידוּ וְטָבָאן לְכוּלְהוּ עִלָּאִין
[We blow shofar] except on Shabbat, which is for spiritual rest rather than any harsh judgment. On Shabbat, the Holy Timeless One reveals joy and goodness to all realms.
A Shabbat of special joy and goodness, a Rosh Hashanah of joy and goodness. They're just up ahead – if we let ourselves truly listen.
]]><![CDATA[When We Lose It (P. Hukkat-Balak)]]>Sun, 21 Jun 2026 12:40:05 GMThttps://www.congregationshirami.org/blog/when-we-lose-it-p-hukkat-balak
Just about all humans have the propensity to lose it. Something gets our goat. Something rubs us wrong. Something deep inside ferments and bubbles over. A slow burn suddenly flames out. 

When we judge harshly, or lose our temper, or lash out, it can seem like we are responding first and foremost to whatever "something" has our immediate attention – whatever offense, real or imagined, might provoke us in the moment.

In those moments, however, the emotional and spiritual reality can be hidden from us – unless we seek it with all our integrity and courage.
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By Rabbi David Evan Markus
Hukkat-Balak 5786 (2026)

These times are anxious and angry.  From politics to social media to highways, tempers seem to run hot and patience runs short.  Far more than before, more and more people seep in more conflict, complexity, judgment, impulsivity and outrage.

It's not normal – what's normal about this era's over-abundance of outrages and excesses? – but increasingly they can come to feel routine.  Grievance and impatience seem to touch most everything – chance encounters, relationships, work contexts, community dynamics, politics from local or global, and much else in between.

Amidst genuine injustice, anxiety and anger can be healthy. Anger can be jet fuel to propel introspection, self-care and change. Dr. King was justifiably angry; most prophets were justifiably angry.  But as Alan Morinis reminds us in his book Everyday Holiness, there is a big difference between holy anger that impels us to right wrongs, and hostility that can't see beyond itself.

When we forget the difference in the heat of the moment, often it's because something else is afoot – and often it takes all our integrity and courage to see what it really is.

In this week's Torah portion, Moses lost it.  He was tired of ceaseless complaints, worn down by bickering and endless needs, and furious about faithless rebels claiming morality.  When the people complained of thirst, God told Moses to speak to a rock so that it would gush with water as the next of God's many miracles.  Instead, in pique and hostility, Moses struck the rock and barked at the people (Numbers 20:10):
שִׁמְעוּ־נָא֙ הַמֹּרִ֔ים
​הֲמִן־הַסֶּ֣לַע הַזֶּ֔ה נוֹצִ֥יא לָכֶ֖ם מָֽיִם׃
​Listen up, you rebels,
​will we get water for you out of this rock?”
For Moses' outburst, his self-aggrandizement rather than abiding faith, God told Moses that he too would not enter the land.  The holiest and most humble of people lost it, and lost his future.

Why? To answer that question, we must go back a few sentences, and discover that everyone was affected by something they weren't talking about (Numbers 20:1-10):
וַתָּמָת שָׁם מִרְיָם וַתִּקָּבֵר שָׁם: וְלֹא־הָיָה מַיִם לָעֵדָה וַיִּקָּהֲלוּ עַל־מֹשֶׁה וְעַל־אַהֲרֹן: וַיָּרֶב הָעָם עִם־מֹשֶׁה וַיֹּאמְרוּ לֵאמֹר ... לָמָה הֶעֱלִיתֻנוּ מִמִּצְרַיִם לְהָבִיא אֹתָנוּ אֶל־הַמָּקוֹם הָרָע הַזֶּה לֹא מְקוֹם זֶרַע וּתְאֵנָה וְגֶפֶן וְרִמּוֹן וּמַיִם אַיִן לִשְׁתּוֹת: ... וַיְדַבֵּר יהו''ה אֶל־מֹשֶׁה לֵּאמֹר: קַח אֶת־הַמַּטֶּה וְהַקְהֵל אֶת־הָעֵדָה אַתָּה וְאַהֲרֹן אָחִיךָ וְדִבַּרְתֶּם אֶל־הַסֶּלַע לְעֵינֵיהֶם וְנָתַן מֵימָיו וְהוֹצֵאתָ לָהֶם מַיִם מִן־הַסֶּלַע וְהִשְׁקִיתָ אֶת־הָעֵדָה וְאֶת־בְּעִירָם: וַיִּקַּח מֹשֶׁה אֶת־הַמַּטֶּה מִלִּפְנֵי יהו''ה כַּאֲשֶׁר צִוָּהוּ: וַיַּקְהִלוּ מֹשֶׁה וְאַהֲרֹן אֶת־הַקָּהָל אֶל־פְּנֵי הַסָּלַע וַיֹּאמֶר לָהֶם שִׁמְעוּ־נָא הַמֹּרִים הֲמִן־הַסֶּלַע הַזֶּה נוֹצִיא לָכֶם מָיִם
Miriam died there and was buried there.  There was no water for the people.  They congregated against Moses and Aaron, quarreling, ... "Why did you raise us up from Egypt to bring us to this evil place without seeds, figs, vines or pomegranates, without water to drink?"  YHVH spoke to Moses saying, "Take your staff, assemble the people – you and Aaron – and speak to the rock before their eyes, and it will give forth water before their eyes, so you can give water to the congregation and their livestock."  Moses took the staff from before YHVH as God commanded; Moses and Aaron gathered the congregation before the rock and said to them, "Listen up, you rebels, ​will we get water for you out of this rock?”
Miriam had died.  Everyone was feeling grief, but Torah says nothing about time to grieve. Folks were out of sorts – the people, and also Moses and Aaron, Miriam's brothers.  Moses was in such straits that when he called the people "rebels" (מֹּרִים), he used a Hebrew word with the exact same letters as... Miriam (מִרְיָם).  Talk about Freudian slips!*

– (*I made this observation myself, and only later discovered that Dr. Ora Horn Prouser, dean of the Academy for Jewish Religion, published it long ago in Torah: A Women's Commentary.)

A past hurt that wasn't grieved became really the only thing Moses could fully see and feel.  The people went thirsty but could only lament. Put just a bit different, Moses and the people reacted not mainly to what was happening now (thirst) but to what happened before (loss).

​When we lose it, when anger ferments into hostility, often it's due to something unrelated.  The details are deeply personal to each of us.  It might be an ungrieved loss, a sharp feeling that seems familiar but rooted in something different, an inner hardness that crept up on us, something suppressed, a nostalgic lament for better times long ago, a diminished sense of self, a fear of losing control or standing, or a fear of the future. 

We might not be aware of it in real time.  We might be so focused on the sharpness of our current emotion – and justifying it – that we fail to see its true source rooted partly in stuff entirely different.  It's not that anger always is unhealthy – not at all – but that anger that becomes hard and hostile often is about something else.

Much has changed in our world in just the last decade.  Many wrongs have gone unrighted. It's scary, and to boot there are forces that feed off fears and manipulate them.  I suspect that is why there's so much vitriol nowadays.  I suspect that's why folks are more prone to lose it.

What can we do?  When we lose it, we can be gentle with ourselves and each other, bringing compassion to both the object of ire and the people who act out.  (Compassion isn't the same as validation.)  We can summon the wisdom to know that what triggers people isn't just (or even primarily) what's happening now but deeper-seated things in personal and collective pasts that tend to hide in darkness, hidden even from ourselves.

In this very recognition, in acknowledging even the possibility, there can be spaciousness and a path toward inner integrity, healing and wholeness. 

​Rosh Hashanah is in 11 weeks.  The long, slow turn begins.
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