Dear TBZ Community,
This has been a very hard week. For me. For many of you. For those of us with family and friends in Israel. For all of us trying to make sense of a world that feels increasingly unstable, violent, and broken.
As missiles continue to fall on Israel – killing civilians, injuring hundreds, forcing families into bomb shelters – my heart aches. I’ve spent hours checking in with loved ones, sending messages to friends and colleagues, holding their fear and exhaustion close to my own.
And I feel afraid. Afraid for my family. Afraid for the people of Israel and the wider region. Afraid for the direction the world appears to be heading. And afraid, too, for our lives here, in this country, where injustice, extremism, and polarization feel ever more pervasive. Where antisemitism is present and real. Where fear seems to be overtaking hope.
And yet, this is what I want to hold close as we move into Shabbat: I have learned, over time, that the question is not whether we are afraid. Fear is a natural human response to danger and uncertainty. The question to ask is: What do we do with our fear?
Do we allow it to determine how we see ourselves and others? Do we let it guide our decisions, our politics, our theology, our view of the world? Do we let it shrink us down, or do we find the courage to respond in a different way?
I think that question lies at the heart of this week’s Torah portion, Parshat Sh’lach L’cha.
Twelve scouts are sent to explore the Promised Land. All twelve see the same landscape: a land flowing with milk and honey, but also a land inhabited by powerful people and fortified cities. All twelve see the same reality. And yet, ten scouts return paralyzed by fear:
וַנְּהִי בְעֵינֵינוּ כַּחֲגָבִים וְכֵן הָיִינוּ בְּעֵינֵיהֶם
We looked like grasshoppers to ourselves, and so we must have looked to them (Numbers 13:33).
Their fear takes over. They stop believing in themselves – in their strength, in their worth, in their ability to act. And their fear spreads quickly to everyone else, leading to panic, hopelessness, and a loss of faith.
But two scouts, Joshua and Caleb, respond differently. They see the same dangers, the same obstacles. But they also see the possibility of promise, of movement, of life. They say something different:
עָלֹה נַעֲלֶה וְיָרַשְׁנוּ אֹתָהּ כִּי־יָכוֹל נוּכַל לָהּ
Let us by all means go up, and we shall gain possession of it, for we shall surely overcome it (Numbers 13:30).
The difference is not in what they saw. The difference is in how they understood themselves in the face of what they saw. And that is a helpful framing for each of us in moments of despair: How do we see ourselves in those moments? In moments of danger and uncertainty?
This week, I am trying, really trying, to hold onto the vision of Joshua and Caleb. But it is not always easy. Grief and fear are real. And the exhaustion of feeling this grief and fear is definitely real.
Fear, when it takes hold of us, can shrink our perspective. It can distort our sense of what is possible. It can lead us to isolate, to harden, to withdraw. It can lead us to forget who we are.
There is a simple story that the Buddhist teacher Pema Chödrön tells:
A friend told her about her elderly parents in Florida. They live in an area where there’s poverty and hardship; the threat of violence seems very real. Their response has been to retreat into a walled community protected by guard dogs and electric gates. It is their hope, of course, that nothing scary will enter.
But over time, they’ve become increasingly afraid to even leave their home. They want to go to the beach or the golf course, but they’re too scared to budge. Even though they pay someone to do their shopping, their feeling of insecurity is getting stronger. Now they’ve become paranoid even about those who are allowed through the gates: the people who fix broken appliances, the gardeners, the plumbers, the electricians. Through their isolation, they are becoming unable to cope with an unpredictable world. (The Places that Scare You: A Guide to Fearlessness in Difficult Times, chapter 2).
This story touches on a concern that is familiar to many of us. Everyone has fears: personal fears and shared fears. We fear for our personal safety, for our families, for our communities. We fear loss. We fear disappointment. We fear the future. We fear for this country. We fear for Israel. We fear for the people of Gaza. We fear for people, everywhere. We fear violence and the loss of humanity.
The Torah is filled with stories of people who were afraid – who were confused, who didn’t know who to trust or how to have faith in the future.
And again and again, God says to them:
אַל תִּירָא
Al Tira – Do not be afraid.
To Abraham. To Issac. To Jacob. To Hagar in the wilderness with her son.
Al Tir’ee – Don’t let your fear erase your vision.
But “do not fear” does not mean “pretend everything is okay.” Perhaps it can be helpful to read it as: Don’t let fear be the only voice in the room. Don’t become grasshoppers in your own eyes.
Today we mark Juneteenth, a day that calls us to remember the long-delayed arrival of freedom for African Americans and to honor the resilience of those who continued to walk toward liberation even when the world told them otherwise. Juneteenth reminds us that even in systems built on violence and fear, people resisted. People claimed their dignity.
This month, we also celebrate Pride. And we look forward to celebrating it together tomorrow at Shabbat Nariya. I also know many are reeling from the news that the Supreme Court has upheld Tennessee’s ban on gender-affirming care for trans youth. For many in our community and beyond – especially transgender children and their families – this ruling is devastating. It sends a chilling message that their lives and dignity are not protected. It adds to the burden of fear and pain for so many already targeted simply for being who they are.
To our LGBTQ+ members: We see you. We love you. We walk with you.
This morning, I took one of my daughters to the dentist. On the way there, I remembered that the dentist we were seeing was from Iran. At the end of the appointment, I asked how her family was – and I told her I was from Israel. We both cried. I told her I was sorry for what her people and her family are going through. She told me the same and shared that she was thinking about the people in Israel. She told me she was afraid. I told her I am afraid too. And then we cried again, and we hugged.
It was a moment of seeing each other’s humanity. And, honestly, it gave me hope.
Hope that maybe, to be a little more like Joshua and Caleb, the work is simply to stay human – to feel fully, to be real in our souls. Maybe if we can see our own humanity, and the humanity of the other, we can start to change the world, one small moment at a time, and not give up.
I pray that all those in fear and in danger find shelter and strength. And I pray that our LGBTQ+ youth know they are beloved, and that we will hold them in their fear. I pray for all who are in danger – for the people of Israel and for all innocents across the region, including the family of my daughter’s dentist in Iran. My thoughts and prayers are especially with the most vulnerable communities in Israel, those without access to bomb shelters or adequate protection, including some Jewish, Bedouin, and Arab towns.
I pray also for the 53 hostages still in captivity in Gaza. We should not forget them amidst this current crisis.
And we should not forget the Palestinian people in Gaza, who continue to suffer immensely from hunger, devastation, and death.
I pray that we can be more like Caleb and Joshua, guided by hope, by faith, by vision. And I pray we stay human in the midst of so much violence.
May this Shabbat bring us moments of stillness, moments of clarity, and above all, moments of connection.
May all those in pain, in fear, or in danger find safety and comfort.
May we have the courage to reach out, the strength to keep walking, and the wisdom to build trust where it is most needed.
May we find the courage to heal, to hope, and to keep walking.
May those who are ill find healing.
May the hostages come home.
May peace and dignity prevail for all.
And may we know that God’s presence dwells within us and between us.
May peace come soon.
.עוֹשֶׂה שָׁלוֹם בִּמְרוֹמָיו, הוּא יַעֲשֶׂה שָׁלוֹם עָלֵינוּ וְעַל כָּל יִשְׂרָאֵל וְעַל כָּל יֹשְׁבֵי תֵבֵל
Oseh shalom bimromav, Hu ya’aseh shalom aleinu Ve’al kol Yisrael Ve’al kol yoshvei tevel.
May the One who creates peace on high, bring peace to us, to all Israel, and to all who dwell on earth.
Shabbat Shalom,
Rav Claudia