Dear TBZ Community,
Earlier this week, we stood together at Sinai, receiving Torah anew on Shavuot. One teaching from that day has stayed with me: the first word of the Ten Commandments, אָנֹכִי (Anochi, “I”) is understood by our rabbis (Shabbat 105a:3) as an acronym:
רַבִּי יוֹחָנָן דִּידֵיהּ אָמַר: ״אָנֹכִי״, נוֹטָרִיקוֹן: אֲנָא נַפְשִׁי כְּתַבִית יְהַבִית
Ana Nafshi ketivat yehavit: “I Myself wrote and gave.”
(Ana: I; Nafshi: Myself, my soul; ketivat: wrote; yehavit: gave.)
But in my learning, I encountered another understanding: “I give Myself in Torah.” God doesn’t just give instruction, God gives God’s own presence. Torah becomes the unfolding of an intimate relationship. To study Torah, to live Torah, is to open ourselves to receiving God—and for God to be fully present in our lives.
But what does it mean to receive God? How do we even attempt to be recipients of God and Torah, especially in times of deep pain and brokenness?
This week alone, we’ve witnessed yet another violent attack against Jews, this time in Boulder; ongoing injustices in our country, too many to name; 608 days since the hostages were taken, with 56 still in captivity, as the bodies of Judi Weinstein and Gadi Haggai were recovered this week; and the unrelenting toll of the war in Gaza, bringing immense devastation and suffering to Palestinians. And there is still so much more.
In the face of all this, I ask: How is God giving Godself in our world today? How do we remain open to that gift of Presence?
Last Friday, I experienced one such moment. I walked with dozens of clergy in the Prayers for Liberty march, retracing in reverse Paul Revere’s historic route: 12 miles from Lexington to Boston. We didn’t ride horses, but we walked deliberately for justice, for democracy, for dignity, for the soul of our nation.
Before the march, over 290 clergy, representing different religions and faiths across Massachusetts, signed a letter to our Congressional delegation, urging support for the Protecting Sensitive Locations Act, to safeguard houses of worship and vulnerable communities from fear and intimidation.
At mile five, in Arlington, I had the privilege of offering a prayer:
We are here because we believe:
that every person is created b’tzelem Elohim, in the image of God.
And we refuse to look away.
I stand here today not only as a rabbi,
but as a child of Chile who grew up under the weight of dictatorship,
who knows what it means to live in fear
and what it means to be silenced.
But I also know what it means to resist.
I witnessed people of faith, arm in arm, standing up to dictatorship.
And so, here I am again: standing with my brothers and sisters of faith,
to stand up for the values of justice, democracy, compassion, and love.
(You can read my full prayer below.)
In a time when religion is too often used to divide, we, faith leaders from many denominations, walked to reclaim faith as a force for compassion and courage. And in that walking, I felt a profound sense of God giving Godself to us: a moment of revelation, almost like Sinai.
This week’s Torah portion, Nasso, contains the Priestly Blessing: words of peace and wholeness that parents traditionally speak over their children, and that we at TBZ extend to each other each Shabbat.
Before the blessing, the Torah says (Numbers 6:23):
דַּבֵּר אֶל־אַהֲרֹן וְאֶל־בָּנָיו לֵאמֹר כֹּה תְבָרְכוּ אֶת־בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל אָמוֹר לָהֶם
Speak to Aaron and his sons: Thus shall you bless the people of Israel. Say to them…
אמור להם. שֶׁיִּהְיוּ כֻלָּם שׁוֹמְעִים
“Say to them”—so that all may hear the blessing,
אמור. מָלֵא — לֹא תְבָרְכֵם בְּחִפָּזוֹן וּבַהֲלוּת, אֶלָּא בְכַוָּנָה וּבְלֵב שָׁלֵם
and: “Do not bless them hastily or carelessly, but with intention and a full heart.”
In a way these words echo Anochi. Just as God gives God’s very self in Torah, so too do we give something of ourselves when we bless one another. A true blessing is not rushed. It is presence. It is connection. It is sacred exchange, heart to heart, soul to soul.
When we bless, we mirror the Divine act of Anochi. We, too, say: I give myself. Not through grand gestures, but by showing up fully – with love, with attention, with purpose.
More urgently than ever, we must open our hearts to the gift of Torah, God’s presence in our lives, and to the gift of blessing. The blessings we can offer each other as acts of resistance, defiance, and hope. Every blessing we give becomes an act of possibility and healing.
יְבָרֶכְךָ ה’ וְיִשְׁמְרֶךָ
May Adonai bless you and protect you
יָאֵר ה’ פָּנָיו אֵלֶיךָ וִיחֻנֶּךָּ
May Adonai deal kindly and graciously with you
יִשָּׂא ה’ פָּנָיו אֵלֶיךָ וְיָשֵׂם לְךָ שָׁלוֹם
May Adonai bestow God’s favor upon you and grant you peace
Ken yehi ratzon – may this be your will.
May this Shabbat bring us peace, strength, and clarity.
May we find the courage to heal, to hope, and to keep walking.
May we receive and give blessings—with intention and full hearts.
May those who are ill find healing.
May the hostages come home.
May the suffering in Israel and Gaza come to an end.
May peace and dignity prevail for all.
And may we know that God’s presence dwells within us and between us.
Shabbat Shalom
Rav Claudia
Prayer for Liberty
Rabbi Claudia Kreiman
Ribbono Shel Olam—Master of the Universe,
God of the vulnerable and the strong,
God of Miriam who danced in freedom, and of Moses who stood before Pharaoh—
We turn to You today because we must.
Because the pain is too great, the injustice too cruel, the silence too dangerous.
Torah teaches:
וְגֵר לֹא תִלְחָץ וְאַתֶּם יְדַעְתֶּם אֶת־נֶפֶשׁ הַגֵּר כִּי־גֵרִים הֱיִיתֶם בְּאֶרֶץ מִצְרָיִם
“You shall not oppress a stranger, for you know the soul of the stranger—because you were strangers in the land of Egypt” (Exodus 23:9).
No oprimirás al extranjero, porque ustedes conocen el alma del extranjero.
We gather here as people of many faiths and stories,
but we are united in our deep knowing:
That cruelty is not policy.
That dehumanization is not justice.
That the image of God shines in every face.
We are here because we believe:
that every person is created b’tzelem Elohim, in the image of God.
And we refuse to look away.
I stand here today not only as a rabbi,
but as a child of Chile who grew up under the weight of dictatorship,
who knows what it means to live in fear
and what it means to be silenced.
But I also know what it means to resist.
I witnessed people of faith, arm in arm, standing up to dictatorship.
And so, here I am again: standing with my brothers and sisters of faith,
to stand up for the values of justice, democracy, compassion, and love.
Yo crecí en dictadura y sé del miedo de una sociedad que vive en opresión.
Pero también sé de la esperanza que uno no pierde cuando está en comunidad,
caminando con hermanos de fe.
True faith means showing up: for the detained, for the deported, for the disappeared.
God, we ask You:
Strengthen our hearts.
Let our prayers be loud enough to break open the gates of detention.
Let our tears mix with Yours: tears for the children in custody,
for the parents in anguish,
for the souls lost in the desert of bureaucracy and cruelty.
We echo the words of the prophet Isaiah:
“Is this not the fast I choose? To unlock the chains of wickedness…
to let the oppressed go free and break every yoke?” (Isaiah 58:6)
Yes, God—this is the fast we choose.
This is the prayer we lift:
Not words alone, but action.
Not silence, but solidarity.
May we be worthy partners in the work of redemption.
Let this prayer not end only with “Amen,”
but with courage.
With organizing.
With love.
Que nuestra fe nos dé fuerza.
Que nuestra compasión nos guíe.
Que nunca tengamos miedo de luchar por la justicia.
Amen.