Parashat Devarim – Shabbat Chazon: Words to Keep Us Grounded

These are the words that Moses spoke…” 

With this words begins the final book of the Torah—a book that is not just a collection of commandments or legal instructions, but the voice of a leader nearing the end of his journey, looking ahead with the hope of leaving an indelible mark. These are words born from a lifetime of teaching, trials, and transformation—words that seek to make a new beginning possible.

This reading holds special significance as it arrives on the threshold of Tishah B’Av, the deepest day of mourning for our people, when we remember the destruction of the Temple and the ruins—both physical and spiritual—that loss left behind. But it is also a moment to reflect on the internal causes, the fractures that allowed such tragedy to happen, and the hope we can still hold onto.

It’s striking to consider that the one who in his youth felt incapable of speaking with strength and clarity, who doubted his ability to express the divine message, becomes today the firm and decisive voice guiding an entire generation. That transformation teaches us that true speech often arises from silence, from inner struggle, and steadfast commitment. Fear of speaking is not the end, but the start of the path toward finding an authentic voice.

There’s a teaching that says: if you feel impeded in speech, study the Torah and you will be healed—just as Moses, who studied the entire Torah, overcame his limitations.

This moment invites us to reclaim that ability. When words seem to run dry, when reality is too harsh, when pain and fear freeze us, we can choose to speak, to resist, to affirm that another world is possible. Speaking of redemption is not naïve or wishful thinking—it’s a profound form of resistance against the despair surrounding us.

This Shabbat has a special name: Shabbat Chazon, the “Shabbat of Vision,” named for the vision of the prophet Isaiah. Tradition tells us that despite the mourning ahead, we can glimpse an image of redemption—a vision of what might be if we learn to listen and speak other words.

The prophet offers a poignant, almost impossible image: the lame will leap like a deer, the mute will shout for joy, deserts will burst forth with rivers and life. This vision is not mere poetic longing—it’s a call to believe transformation can happen, even when all signs suggest otherwise. Faith becomes the courage to imagine and build that possibility.

In this light, we also remember the death of a symbolic leader whose life embodied the tireless pursuit of peace and unity.

The death of Aaron the Kohen, which falls on the first day of Av, takes place right in this period. Aaron was not only the High Priest—he was the weaver of peace, the one who sought to mend what was broken, to build bridges over chasms. The Mishnah teaches: “Be a disciple of Aaron; love peace and pursue it” (Pirkei Avot 1:12). His absence was more than a biographical fact; it was symbolic. When Aaron’s voice fell silent, something of the communal soul began to fade.

Perhaps that is why we begin the month of Av with his passing—because the void left by a leader of peace is felt in every social crack, every argument that turns to rupture, every difference that hardens into hate. And this is where Tishah B’Av begins—not with fire, but with distance; not with destruction, but with disconnection.

The parashah reminds us of the errors of a generation that, despite witnessing miracles, broke from within. The sending of the spies, the fears that paralyzed, the constant complaining, the lack of faith—all appear in Moses’ speech. But if we listen carefully, there’s something deeper: the lack of trust in one another, the weakening of social fabric, the loss of derech eretz—basic respect for the other.

We did not lose the Beit HaMikdash to external enemies alone, but because something wore down from inside. When the voice that makes peace is silenced, when differences are trivialized, when criticism becomes destructive rather than constructive, then... we don’t need an empire to bring us down. We fall on our own.

Today, the memory of that leader challenges us. It calls us to reclaim his legacy—not only in memory but in daily practice: to be builders of peace, bridge makers, seekers of dialogue when all seems to lead to division. His example urges us not to resign ourselves to voices that separate, but to nurture those that unite, listen, and embrace.

Our history is marked by moments when words failed to stop destruction and silence became an accomplice to fracture. That is why the time of mourning on Tishah B’Av is also a time to learn to speak differently—to rediscover the language that heals and connects.

That’s why we read these words now. Because Tishah B’Av is not an end. It is a pause amid ruins, a moment to listen. Sometimes it takes losing Aaron’s voice to ask ourselves what kind of voices we are cultivating—those that separate or those that unite? Those that accuse or those that embrace?

Shabbat Devarim is a call—to speak differently, to remember that every word can build up or tear down, to become disciples of Aaron even in dark days.

Because as long as there are words that heal, there is a future.

Today, we live in uncertain times, prolonged conflicts, open wounds. Violence, hatred, and indifference seem to gain strength. But right in the middle of this darkness comes the invitation not to stay silent. Because within each of us lies the power to give voice to hope, to carry a message that builds rather than destroys.

The words we choose have power. They can be seeds of division or bridges for reconciliation. In these days when we remember loss and mourning, we are called to be mindful of how we use our words—and to choose them for healing and rebuilding.

Devarim—words and deeds. Two sides of the same coin showing us that with both, we build and rebuild.

It may not be easy, and sometimes we may feel too weak to keep speaking and acting. But it is precisely when despair lurks that transformation gains meaning. Redemption is not a gift given freely; it is a collective task, a daily resistance.

The voice that once faded can be reborn. The mute can shout for joy. And the desert, though arid and devastated, can bloom again.

This Shabbat Chazon, beyond the pain we acknowledge, challenges us to be bearers of that renewed voice, not to lose word or hope. To build together, with every word and deed, a future where the memory of loss becomes a living commitment to peace and justice.

May each of us find the strength to speak and act with courage and love, always seeking understanding within community. Knowing when to yield even what seems essential, so that something better can emerge. May our words be the roots that nurture new life and the future of our Jewish community here in Utica and in the world we long for.

Shabbat Shalom and have an easy, uplifting fast.

Rabbi Gustavo Geier