Freedom through Torah

| Pesah By :  David Hoffman Adjunct Professor of Talmud, JTS Alum (Rabbinical School) Posted On Apr 3, 2026 / 5786 | Holidays
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“The tablets were God’s work, and the writing was God’s writing, incised upon the tablets” (Exod. 32:17). Do not read, “incised,” (harut), rather [read] “freedom” (herut)—for no person is truly free except the one who labors in Torah. (Mishnah Avot 6:2)

[Passover] is the time of our freedom (zeman herutenu). (Passover Liturgy)

Freedom in biblical and rabbinic Judaism is a highly complex idea. Consider the mishnah above. At first glance one might think the law, the Ten Commandments carved on the two tablets, would be limiting, constraining human freedom. Counterintuitively, the Sages argue that true freedom only comes from an engagement with Torah! How might “laboring in Torah” and living a life according to the demands of the Torah induce freedom?

I am reminded of the midrash where God offers the Torah to the nations of the world before offering the Torah to the Israelites. Each of these nations rejects the “gift” of the Torah because it is too constraining (Sifrei Devarim 343:6). While the Rabbis in this mishnah speak of Torah as an experience of freedom, they at other times also speak of “the yoke of heaven” or “the yoke of the mitzvot” when referring to living a life observing the Torah’s commandments. A beast walking under the burden of its yoke is not the imagery Rousseau or Hobbes might employ to describe their notions of a life lived in freedom!

Perhaps more problematic is the complexity present in the Bible’s description of the liberty granted to the Israelites with their redemption from the slavery of Egypt. God commands Moses to go to the Israelites and introduce them to the God of their ancestors with the words, “I am the Lord. I will free you from the labors of the Egyptians and deliver you from their bondage” (Exod. 6:2). And yet God redeems the Israelites from the “house of bondage” and from Pharaoh only to substitute another master: “For it is to Me that the Israelites are servants: they are My servants, whom I freed from the land of Egypt” (Lev. 25:55). Acknowledging at once the irony of this situation as well as its religious meaningfulness, the Rabbis of the Midrash depict God reassuring the Israelites, “You are My servants and not servants to servants!” (Mekhilta Masekhet Bahodesh, 5).

Put simply: What are these often-conflicting notions telling us about biblical and rabbinic conceptions of freedom and its relationship to a life of Torah?

How are we to experience zeman herutenu, the season of our freedom?

Modern western or American notions of freedom challenge some of these biblical and rabbinic definitions of freedom. Isaiah Berlin, in one of his more influential essays, “Two Concepts of Liberty,” made an interesting distinction between two types of freedom—negative and positive. He defined “negative freedom” as the freedom from constraints and coercion. “Positive freedom” constituted the freedom to realize one’s destiny and best interests. Ultimately, Berlin thought positive freedom was susceptible to political abuse and might be a source of oppression for some. He argued that the safest form of freedom was “negative” freedom—the absence of constraints and interference. For many of us, this iteration of freedom has become our ultimate moral value.

However, the rhythm of this season in the Jewish calendar provides an alternative understanding to the value and meaning of zeman herutenu and helps resolve some of the tensions and ambivalence toward freedom in our sources.

With the second night of Passover we begin the count-up to Shavuot, unique among all the festivals in the Torah. Each festival in the Torah has a specific date, in a specific month in the Jewish calendar. Only Shavuot is not anchored in our calendar, and yet we know we celebrate it on the same date every year—always on the fiftieth day after the second day of Passover. Indeed, the Torah mandates that we engage in this counting every year from the second night of Passover to the offering of the grain on the holiday of Shavuot.

The rabbis of the medieval period were the first to articulate that this counting is not exclusively about the offering of the new grain that was brought while the Temple still stood. We count from Passover to Shavuot because these two holidays are conceptually tied to one another. Passover is the holiday of our liberation and freedom. Shavuot, according to the Rabbis, is the holiday of the receiving of the Torah—the holiday where we enter our covenantal relationship with God.

Freedom (Passover) without Shavuot (Torah) is incomplete; and Shavuot (Torah) would be impossible without Passover—the holiday that gave us the freedom to enter into this relationship with God. A life of Torah is not a life of freedom. Freedom is not an absolute value for the Rabbis, or for the Bible. Freedom is utilitarian. The freedom of Pesah gives us the opportunity to enter into relationship with God.

Like every human relationship, a relationship with God limits our freedom. Lovers, friends, mothers and daughters, fathers and sons—every human relationship that we freely enter into and continue to be engaged with limits our choices and inevitably comes with responsibilities. And yet we choose to voluntarily enter these relationships. Ultimately, we believe that a life lived in relationship, deeply connected and responsible to someone is more meaningful than a life lived where we may possess the unconstrained freedom to act.

Counting up to Shavuot reminds us that a life lived in relationship with others and with God, with all the attendant responsibilities that flow from these relationships, is more meaningful than a life lived free of constraints. Each day with our counting we are asked to transform our freedom into a covenantal relationship with God that will allow us to create lives rich in responsibility, and thus, meaning.

This commentary was originally published in 2018.

The publication and distribution of the JTS Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee and Harold (z”l) Hassenfeld.

Elijah—and Santa Claus?!

Robbie Harris
Shabbat Hagadol By :  Robert Harris Professor of Bible and Ancient Semitic Languages Posted On Mar 27, 2026 / 5786 | Torah Commentary
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I am certain that I am not the first to point out the similarities between the figures of Elijah the Prophet and Santa Claus…at least in the way those figures have been popularly imagined. Put simply, folklore posits that each of these figures visits individual homes on a religious holiday (Elijah—that old shikkur!—sneaks in to drink wine; Santa, nebekh, has to make do with milk and cookies!). Santa comes in through the roof, eats, distributes his presents, and then leaves; Elijah, while he leaves no presents, does leave his “presence” (!). The question I want to raise here: With no obvious role in the biblical story of the Exodus, how does Elijah manage to get in figuratively, that is—in our Passover observance?

There are numerous points of entry, including the haftarah for this week, which points to the interrelationship between Passover itself and Shabbat Hagadol. Without making a case for precedents and influences, let us note that this haftarah (Malachi 3:4–24) concludes with an explicit reference to Elijah (vv. 23–24): “Lo, I will send the prophet Elijah to you before the coming of the awesome, fearful day of the LORD. He shall reconcile parents with children and children with their parents…” Now, I think that reconciling parents and children is a wonderful task, but that is a subject we shall leave for another day. In rabbinic interpretation, one of Elijah’s responsibilities was held to be in reconciling halachic disputes that occurred in antiquity and concerning which no resolution was ever recorded. It is one such unresolved dispute that provides us with a wonderful point of entry for Elijah into our Passover experience and his mysterious cup of wine

Some modern scholars have taken a kind of anthropological approach to note Elijah’s presence in our liturgies at particular “liminal moments.”[i]  Taken from the Latin limen, or “threshold,” the term was developed by 19th and early 20th century anthropologists, such as Arnold van Gennep and Victor Turner, to refer to rites of passage or moments of transition that were felt to be dangerous. Jewish liturgies created for such moments thus invoked Elijah as a kind of “heavenly protector” to help the participant transition from the “before” to the “after.” A brit milah is one such type of moment (potential danger to the newborn son); Motzei Shabbat is another one (one Jewish belief holds that God takes away at the end of Shabbat, the “second soul” with which God has endowed us at the onset of Shabbat, and the fear is that God will accidentally take away our primary soul, as well).

In this context we must recognize that Passover was often an especially dangerous time for Jews. It takes place during the same season as the one in which Christians mark the crucifixion and was therefore also a time at which—until quite recently— that Christian tradition charged ancient Jews. Christians would take out the responsibility for this upon contemporary Jews living in their midst. Pogroms would often break out during Passover/Christian Holy Week. And so, during the seder, when Jews would go see if Christians were in the vicinity, they invoked Elijah as a protector at that time, as well. Some liturgies incorporate the singing of Eliyahu ha-Navi at this time; others incorporate the tradition of reciting verses such as שְׁפֹךְ חֲמָתְךָ אֶל הַגּוֹיִם אֲשֶׁר לֹא יְדָעוּךָ וְעַל מַמְלָכוֹת אֲשֶׁר בְּשִׁמְךָ לֹא קָרָאוּ, “Pour out Your fury on the nations that do not know You, upon the kingdoms that do not invoke Your name” (Psalm 79:6), which is thus to be understood as what might be recited “when the coast was clear.”

Returning to idea of Elijah as a mediator, we need to look at a central passage concerning God’s promises to the Israelite nation while it was still suffering under Egyptian bondage:

Say, therefore, to the Israelite people: I am the LORD. I will free you from the labors of the Egyptians and deliver you from their bondage. I will redeem you with an outstretched arm and through extraordinary chastisements. And I will take you to be My people, and I will be your God. And you shall know that I, the LORD, am your God who freed you from the labors of the Egyptians (Exodus 6:6-7).

In various midrashim (e.g., Talmud Yerushalmi Pesahim 10:1), the sages consider this passage to be the passage of the arba leshonot ge’ulah, “four expressions of redemption,” because it was felt that by means of the four verbs contained in this passage, God had promised redemption Israel four times. Now, you may recall that the Mishnah (Pesahim 10:1) ruled that a person should drink no fewer than four cups of wine during the seder (וְלֹא יִפְחֲתוּ לוֹ מֵאַרְבַּע כּוֹסוֹת שֶׁל יַיִן). Moreover, according to some authorities, this requirement was based on the arba leshonot ge’ulah passage from the Book of Exodus. However, other Sages pointed to the verse that immediately follows this passage (Exodus 6:8) and which contains an additional “expression of redemption,” והבאתי: “I will bring you into the land which I swore to give to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, and I will give it to you for a possession, I the LORD.” According to the logic of these sages, even though God has not yet brought the entire Jewish people into the Land, none should drink fewer than FIVE cups of wine at the seder to commemorate what were, in effect, not four but five expressions of redemption!

Now, if one thinks about a dispute such as this one, with one rabbinic position holding that one should drink no fewer than four cups, and the other position holding that one should drink no fewer than five cups, one can see that, despite the dispute, both sides agree that four cups should be drunk. And that becomes the halacha: we drink four cups of wine—and pour the fifth, but do not drink. And that fifth cup becomes the “Cup of Elijah,” not because Elijah comes to each celebrating Jewish home and drinks some wine from “his” cup, but because of the role the figure of Elijah plays, according to rabbinic lore, when two groups of opposing rabbis cannot agree on what the halacha is, but know they must establish a rule to follow. And that role is established by a midrash on the verse from Malachi that we read as part of the haftorah for Shabbat Hagadol, and that I cited earlier: “Lo, I will send the prophet Elijah to you before the coming of the awesome, fearful day of the LORD.  He shall reconcile parents with children and children with their parents…” (Mal. 3:23–24). In this sense, the reconciliation that Elijah is to bring about is not between literal family members, but members of the broader rabbinic family. Moreover, even the Aramaic word that is found in the Talmud to mark such irreconcilable disputes ( תיקו literally, “let it—the dispute—stand”) was taken to be an acronym for Malachi’s promise of a deliverance that would be heralded by the Prophet Elijah: תשבי יתרץ קושיות ובעיות tishbi yitaretz qushiyot u-va’ayot, “Elijah will resolve difficulties and problems.”

And now that we have traced the route through which Elijah visits our seder, I will close this essay not with additional analysis, but with a prayer: May we soon come to live in a world that merits Elijah’s arrival, a world that is marked not by strife but by amity. And may we welcome Elijah into our seder both with honest and ritualized memory of terrible experiences the Jewish people have endured, but also with the hope that one day—soon, we hope!—we may experience peace and reconciliation.


[i] See Lawrence A. Hoffman, Beyond the Text: a Holistic Approach to Liturgy (Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 1987), pp. 20–45 (for the role of Elijah, see pp. 24–27; on liminality, see pp. 42–43).

The publication and distribution of the JTS Parashah Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (z”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (z”l).

From Anxiety to Action: Telling the Story of the World We Want

| Pesah Posted On Mar 23, 2026 / 5786 | Monday Webinar Seasons of Responsibility

Part of the Learning Series, Seasons of Responsibility: Interreligious Conversations on Environmental Justice and Repair

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With Rabbi Laura Bellows, Director of Spiritual Activism & Education, Dayenu: A Jewish Call to Climate Action, and Joe Blumberg, Rabbinical Student, JTS

At the heart of Passover is a question that feels urgent today: how do we move forward when the future feels uncertain and frightening? This session explores the Crossing of the Sea through midrash and contemporary thought, treating imagination as a muscle that must be strengthened in times of crisis. As we conclude Seasons of Responsibility, we’ll shift focus from individual anxiety to collective responsibility, inviting participants to consider how shared storytelling, community, and action help bring the world we long for into being.

About the Speakers

Rabbi Laura Bellows works to build climate-resilient, spiritually-rooted, justice-seeking communities centered in Jewish wisdom. She has served as a curriculum and ritual designer, outdoor experiential educator, program manager, artist, and facilitator in Jewish and inter-religious spaces. Laura studied Environmental Studies at Oberlin College and was ordained at Hebrew College, where she recently lead Prozdor and Teen Learning programs. She moonlights as a soferet (scribe) and freelance rabbi for couples and communities throughout the Boston area. 

Joe Blumberg is a fourth-year rabbinical student at the Jewish Theological Seminary, and the Senior Rabbinic Fellow at B’nai Jeshurun on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. He previously worked as an educator at Brown RISD Hillel and spent a year as a Fulbright scholar in Jerusalem, where he also studied at the Pardes Institute of Jewish Studies. Joe was a 2022-2023 rabbinical student fellow at Dayenu: A Jewish Call to Climate Action, where he advised Jewish communities on their climate justice work. He has served as a teacher and prayer leader around the country, most recently as a rabbinic intern at Congregation Shearith Israel in Dallas, Texas, and Beth Israel Congregation in Bath, Maine. Joe holds a B.A. in American History from Yale. 

About the Series

Across Jewish, Christian, Muslim, and Hindu traditions, spring is a season of reflection, renewal, and ethical commitment. Grounded in holidays from Tu Bishvat and Lent to Ramadan, Holi, and Passover, this interreligious series explores responsibility, repair, and leadership in the face of urgent ecological challenges. Together, participants consider how religious wisdom can inspire ethical action and collective hope. 

Relationships and Commitments: Land Beyond Ownership

Behar | Monday Webinar Seasons of Responsibility | Interreligious Natural World

Part of the Learning Series, Seasons of Responsibility: Interreligious Conversations on Environmental Justice and Repair

Sources | Presentation

There are ways to exist in harmony with all of creation that cultivate the soul and a relationship with the Divine. Hussein Rashid and Rabbi Gordon Tucker bring Muslim and Jewish texts into dialogue to explore how religious traditions resist transactional relationships with the earth and with one another. Drawing on the sabbatical vision from Leviticus and a Muslim sources on overtaxation, they reflect on restraint, renewal, and the dangers of extraction. Timed with converging sacred moments—the beginning of the Jewish calendar, Persian New Year, and the close of Ramadan—this session offers a shared language for ethical living in a fragile world.

About the Speakers

Hussein Rashid, PhD, is a free range academic, currently affiliated with Union Theological Seminary. He is a board member of the Interfaith Center of New York. He specializes in working on Muslims in US popular culture and Shi’i theologies of justice. He has served in various academic and culturally creative capacities, most recently as Project Director of The Arts of Devotion at the Smithsonian’s National Muslim of Asian Art. He has taught at Virginia Theological Seminary and Reconstructionist Rabbinical College. He is also a producer of the PBS Digital Series American Muslim Stories and of the award-winning New York Times op-doc The Secret of Muslims in the US.

Gordon Tucker headshot

As vice chancellor for Religious Life and Engagement, Rabbi Gordon Tucker focuses on enhancing Jewish life at JTS, enriching our study of Judaism with the joy and deep understanding that only lived experience can provide. A leading scholar and interpreter of Conservative Judaism, he also articulates the enduring power of JTS’s compelling approach to Jewish law and Jewish life, while strengthening JTS’s religious leadership through partnerships with organizations in the Conservative Movement and beyond.

About the Series

Across Jewish, Christian, Muslim, and Hindu traditions, spring is a season of reflection, renewal, and ethical commitment. Grounded in holidays from Tu Bishvat and Lent to Ramadan, Holi, and Passover, this interreligious series explores responsibility, repair, and leadership in the face of urgent ecological challenges. Together, participants consider how religious wisdom can inspire ethical action and collective hope. 

A Covenant of Salt

Vayikra By :  Tim Daniel Bernard JTS Alum (Rabbinical School) Posted On Mar 20, 2026 / 5786 | Torah Commentary
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Covenant is a central concept in Judaism. The Torah and later tradition make clear that the people Israel have a special relationship with God, and Jews have acquired the epithet “the chosen people” (though Jewish particularism need not preclude other peoples having their own unique relationships with God). Rabbi David Hartman, z”l, titled his exposition of Jewish theology A Living Covenant. Rabbi David Wolpe, in a speech at JTS, proposed highlighting the mainstream ideological approach of Conservative Judaism by rebranding it as “Covenantal Judaism.”

There are several distinct covenants with God in the Tanakh, including with Noah and all humanity; with Abraham and his descendants; with the Jewish people through the giving of the Torah; with Aaron and his priestly descendants; and with David and his royal House.

And in our parashah, the (somewhat lesser-known!) covenant of salt:

וְכָל־קָרְבַּ֣ן מִנְחָתְךָ֮ בַּמֶּ֣לַח תִּמְלָח֒ וְלֹ֣א תַשְׁבִּ֗ית מֶ֚לַח בְּרִ֣ית אֱ-לֹהֶ֔יךָ מֵעַ֖ל מִנְחָתֶ֑ךָ עַ֥ל כָּל־קָרְבָּנְךָ֖ תַּקְרִ֥יב מֶֽלַח׃

You shall season your every offering of meal with salt; you shall not omit from your meal offering the salt of your covenant with God; with all your offerings you must offer salt. (Lev. 2:13)

The law here is clear: the grain offering and all other (i.e. animal) sacrifices have to be made with salt. The use of the word covenant (berit) is puzzling and an exploration of this phrase can teach us about the nature of covenants with God and beyond.

A similar phrase (berit melakh, rather than melakh berit) appears two other times in the Bible:

All the sacred gifts that the Israelites set aside for God I give to you, to your sons, and to the daughters that are with you, as a due for all time. It shall be an everlasting covenant of salt before God for you and for your offspring as well. (Num. 18:19)

Surely you know that the God of Israel gave David kingship over Israel forever—to him and his sons—by a covenant of salt. (2 Chron. 13:5)

Unlike in our parashah, in these contexts the subject matter isn’t about salt at all—so what is this “covenant of salt” in Numbers and Chronicles?

Ramban suggests on our verse in Leviticus that the phrase refers to the requirement for salt in sacrifices as a covenant itself, and that the other verses are compared to it to emphasize their long endurance:

“because there is a sacrificial covenant, the Torah also uses this covenant as a model for other covenants, as both the priestly covenant (Numbers 18:19) and the Davidic covenant (2 Chronicles 13:5) are called “covenant of salt” because they are upheld just as the sacrificial covenant of salt.” (Sefaria Community translation by Zev Prahl)

The notion of an enduring covenant—one that continues through the generations in particular—is important in both Numbers (where the verse specifically discusses Aaron’s descendants) and in Chronicles (where this is part of a demand by David’s great-grandson, Abijah, that a challenger submit to his authority). But it’s not immediately clear why this “covenant” of salt on sacrifices is so quintessentially enduring.

I suspect that as covenants broadly have a link to salt, the word “covenant” was added in Leviticus because the emphatic requirement regarding salt brought this link to the author’s mind. So, what is the connection between salt and covenants that endure? One quite intuitive suggestion is that it is due to salt’s preservative qualities. The Midrash on the passage from Numbers states:

“The covenant was made with Aaron with something that is not just healthy [i.e. resistant to decay], but maintains the health of other things.” (Sifrei BemidbarKorahpis. 118, ed. Horovitz)

Similarly, on 2 Chron 13:5, the Metzudat David commentary of David Altschuler explains the phrase “covenant of salt”:

“The establishment of the enduring covenant [with David’s house] is like salt, in that it endures and does not rot.”

Salt is in fact mentioned in reference to covenants in several ancient Near Eastern sources beyond the Bible, and this may well be because “its preservative qualities made it the ideal symbol of the perdurability of a covenant.” (Jacob Milgrom, Leviticus 1-16, 191)

Salt also played a less figurative role in some ancient covenants as it was a key ingredient in meals that were eaten on the establishment of a pact:

What is fundamental is that “the communion partaking of salt is a sign of friendship and a symbol of communality.” [from Wilhelm Rudolph’s  Handbuch zum Alten Testament volume on Ezra and Nehemia] The same was true for the Greeks and Romans. . . .

Binding mutual commitments result from the hospitality of table fellowship. … The “covenant of salt” transfers to the divine covenant the notion of hospitality associated with table fellowship, with its subsequent commitment to loyalty and solicitude; Israel is to keep its covenantal obligations, although God, too, is to provide for the election and rights of the covenantal partner  . . . . (Hermann Eising, Theological Dictionary of the Old Testament, s.v. salt)

Sitting down and eating a proper meal together (salt seems to make the meal “proper” in some of the ancient world) forms a bond. And it’s worth noting that the priestly families literally shared sacrificial meals with God! Biblical scholars often compare the covenant between God and Israel to political arrangements between leaders of greater and lesser powers. That kind of geopolitical framing can obscure the personal, even intimate nature of these covenants. (Indeed, political leaders today still have state banquets as acts of foreign relations.)

A kabbalistic connection between salt and covenant can also be found in Rabbenu Bahya (on Lev. 2:13), who conceptualizes salt as the product of sea water and the heat of the sun. Therefore,

“In the essence of salt is the power of water and the power of fire, which signify two of the [Divine] attributes on which the world is established: the attribute of Compassion (midat rahamim) and the attribute of Justice (midat hadin), and for this reason . . . it is called “the salt of your covenant with God” . . . . And just like [the Rabbis] said [in Midrash Bereshit Rabbah], God saw that it [humanity] could not endure with Justice [alone], so God combined it with the attribute of Compassion. Relatedly, salt preserves and destroys, it preserves meat for a long time and gives flavor to food, and it also destroys, as vegetation cannot grow in a place that is very salty.”

This commentary serves to highlight two important features of covenants: that they are very powerful forces, and that they must be held in balance to harness their forces for benefit and not for harm. The illustration given by Bahya is instructive: that God had to compromise on God’s initial plan to allow a place for humans in the world. The notion that both parties have to compromise in order to have a successful relationship is familiar from human relationships, but radical when ascribed to divine ones!

Covenant is a form of committed relationship—and the facets of the covenants revealed by the efforts of commentators traditional and modern to explain this curious reference in our parashah can be instructive to us as we think about the relationships in our own lives (including our relationships with God). How will we make them endure? Will they have impact beyond our own lifetimes? What intimate activities seal and reseal our commitments—especially during a time when physical proximity is limited? How can we keep them in balance and thereby harness their power instead of being consumed by it?

The Ben Ish Hai notes that there was a custom amongst the Jews of Baghdad to put salt on the dish that they used to gather pieces of bread whilst searching for hametz before Pesah. One of the reasons he suggests for this tradition is that it might be an omen for fulfilling this mitzvah for many years to come as the Torah refers to salt as an “eternal covenant.” (Halakhot, Year 1, Tzav, 6)

As we prepare for our upcoming sedarim, when we hope to sit down for a ceremonial meal together with some of those with whom we are in relationship, and as we continue to celebrate the ongoing relationship that God established with our ancestors, may we remember (perhaps as we taste the salt water) to reconsider, reseal, and strengthen all the covenants in our lives.

This commentary was originally published in 2020.

The publication and distribution of the JTS Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (z”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (z”l).

America at 250: Jewish Ideas and the American Experiment

| America at 250 Monday Webinar

As the United States approaches its 250th anniversary, this series explores the rich and surprising intersections between Jewish thought and American life. From baseball and youth culture to constitutional law, storytelling, and democratic theory, leading scholars reveal how Jewish ideas, texts, and experiences have shaped—and been shaped by—the American experiment.


Sources for each session will be shared here.


The Give and Take of Strength

Pekudei Shabbat Hahodesh Vayak-hel By :  Eliezer B. Diamond z”l Rabbi Judah Nadich Professor of Talmud and Rabbinics Posted On Mar 13, 2026 / 5786 | Torah Commentary
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We wish to honor our recently deceased teacher by perpetuating his legacy in this teaching.

Rituals of closure are common in both the secular and religious realms. An example of the first is the sounding of retreat and the lowering of the flag marking the end of the official duty day on military installations. An instance of the second is the siyyum, a liturgical ritual and festive meal that is occasioned by the completion of the study of a Talmudic tractate. Closure rituals relate not only to the past but to the future as well. On the one hand, the temporal demarcation of a past event facilitates the emergence of its distinct identity, internal coherence, and significance, thereby providing insight, understanding, and, at times, a sense of accomplishment. At the same time, by declaring an end, a closure ritual creates space in which one can—and must—begin anew; the past is to be neither prison nor refuge.

Immediately after the final verse of Shemot, the book of Exodus, is chanted this coming Shabbat we will call out to the reader, “Hazak, hazak, venit-hazek”, which might be translated as, “Be strong, be strong, and we will take strength from you.” (For some reason, it has not become the custom to modify the above declaration and use the gender appropriate “hizkihizki” when a woman is reading the Torah.) The “hazak” declaration is a closure ritual, a performative parallel to the graphic demarcation in the Torah scroll of Shemot’s conclusion by means of four blank lines. It announces that the first part of the national saga has come to a close with the construction and completion of the Mishkan, the Tabernacle. In that endeavor all of Israel was united in dedication to a common goal; each contribution of resources, talent, and effort was vital, while none was sufficient.

The Mishkan was of course of no worth without the presence of its designated occupant: the Shekhinah, the Divine Presence. “For over the Tabernacle the cloud of the Lord rested by day, and fire would appear in [the cloud] by night in view of all the house of Israel in their journeys” (Exod. 40:38). With the advent of the Shekhinah’s presence the inert structure is animated and a new story begins: “The Lord called to Moses and spoke to him from the Tent of Meeting” (Lev. 1:1). Shemot’s static image of the Mishkan as a place of rest is replaced with Vayikra’s dynamic one: the Mishkan is to be a place where God and humanity meet, where God and Moses converse and where Aaron is to enter the Holy of Holies on Yom Kippur.

Clearly, a closure ritual is appropriate as we conclude the reading of Shemot. But why choose “hazak” as the ritual? Why the need to urge the reader to be strong and to wish strength for ourselves? A moment of completion is a complex one. We may feel sad that the end has come. In addition, in the moment of completion we often allow ourselves to feel the exhaustion that we have denied in the pursuit of closure, rendering us unready and perhaps unwilling to face the next challenge that lies before us.

So too, with the completion of Shemot. The reading ends with a crescendo, and yet it will be followed by the blessing recited at the end of every aliyah. We the listeners are afraid that, as with the seven lean cows who ate the seven fat ones in Pharaoh’s dream, the drama and power of the words we have heard will be swallowed up by the ordinariness of the blessing that follows. We also know that more lies ahead, including the tragic death of Aaron’s sons, (Lev. 10:1–2) which will mar the dedication of the building the construction of which has been described so lovingly in Shemot. Therefore, we need strength. We need to be saved from the depression that accompanies endings and we need strength to face and navigate the stories that will follow.

Yet let us ask further: Why do we not simply declare, “Let us all be strong”? Why single out the reader? A teaching of Rabbi Eliyahu Dessler, the mid-20th century author of Mikhtav Me’eliyahu, a collection of mussar essaysprovides enlightenment. As we all know, says Rabbi Dessler, there are takers and givers. It turns out, however, that some give in order to take and some take in order to give. Suppose that someone agrees to donate a million dollars to a synagogue but then attaches all sorts of conditions to his gift, conditions that serve the needs of his ego but not those of the congregation. This man is giving in order to take; he’s a giving taker. On the other hand, let’s imagine a dedicated doctor who works night and day to spare his patients from illness and pain. One day, he tells his patients that he is suffering from exhaustion and will be taking a week’s vacation. Only a fool or an ingrate would see this as selfishness. This doctor is taking in order to give; he is a taking giver.

So too with us and our Torah reader. She is our Moses, declaring God’s word to the congregation. Reading Torah is a demanding and exacting task, even for those who have years of experience. (Not incidentally, Vayak-hel Pekudei is the second longest of the weekly Torah readings.) The reading is over, the reader is exhausted. We say: you give us inspiration through your chanting of the Torah. We wish you strength, both out of love for you and because we rely on your strength. You can give to us only if we also give to you.

We want our leaders to give us what we need and desire. Too often we are oblivious to their needs and to the limits of their time and energy. They want to give but unless we give too they will ultimately have nothing to give us. Let us make our leaders strong, through love, encouragement, and material assistance, so that we can be strengthened by them.

This commentary was originally published in 2018.

The publication and distribution of the JTS Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (z”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (z”l).

Seasons of Reckoning: The Practice of Moral Accounting

Posted On Mar 9, 2026 / 5786 | Monday Webinar Seasons of Responsibility | Natural World Social Justice

Sources | Presentation

From our Learning Series: Seasons of Responsibility
Join us for a timely conversation co-sponsored by the Center for Earth Ethics at Union Theological Seminary. Featuring Karenna Gore and Rabbi Burton L. Visotzky, this program explores how traditions of moral reflection can guide us.
In partnership with the Center for Earth Ethics

About the Speaker

Karenna Gore is the founder and executive director of the Center for Earth Ethics and teaching professor of practice of earth ethics at Union Theological Seminary in New York. Karenna formed CEE in 2015 to address the moral and spiritual dimensions of the climate crisis. Working at the intersection of faith, ethics, and ecology, she guides the Center’s public programs, educational initiatives, and movement-building. She is an adjunct faculty member at the Columbia Climate School.

Burton L. Visotzky

Rabbi Burton L. Visotzky, PhD, serves as Appleman Professor Emiritus of Midrash and Interreligious Studies at JTS, where he joined the faculty upon his ordination in 1977. Visotzky served as a dean of the Kekst Graduate School and founding rabbi of the egalitarian Women’s League Seminary Synagogue.
He currently serves as the Louis Stein Director of the Finkelstein Institute for Religious and Social Studies at JTS, programming on public policy. Visotzky also directs JTS’s Milstein Center for Interreligious Dialogue. He serves on the Steering Committee of “The Plan of Action for Religious Leaders … to Prevent Incitement to Atrocity Crimes,” for the UN Under-Secretary General for Genocide Prevention. In addition, Visotzky serves on the United Nations Inter-Agency Task-Force’s Multi-Faith Advisory Council. He is a life-member of the Council on Foreign Relations. Rabbi Visotzky participates in interreligious engagement in places as diverse as Washington, Jerusalem, Rome, Warsaw, Vienna, Madrid, Cairo, Doha, Marrakech, Fez, and Abu Dhabi.

About the Series

Across Jewish, Christian, Muslim, and Hindu traditions, spring is a season of reflection, renewal, and ethical commitment. Grounded in holidays from Tu Bishvat and Lent to Ramadan, Holi, and Passover, this interreligious series explores responsibility, repair, and leadership in the face of urgent ecological challenges. Together, participants consider how religious wisdom can inspire ethical action and collective hope.