Although this Shabbat we read two parashiyot together, I would like to focus on the first of them: Chukat. Some portions of the Torah revolve around a single central theme. Chukat, however, seems to unfold through a succession of crises. It opens with the Parah Adumah, the mysterious Red Heifer; continues with Miriam's death, the disappearance of the well, the episode at the rock, Aaron's passing, and finally the plague of fiery serpents. At first glance, these appear to be

There is a question I came across recently, although in truth it has lived within me for quite some time, ever since a discussion with my cousin, who lives in the West Bank. The question is simple, yet profound: Who has the right to speak on behalf of the Jewish people? Is it the State of Israel? The Jews who live there? The communities of the Diaspora? Religious leaders? Institutions? Majorities? Minorities? This question lies at the heart of many of the debates of our time.

There is a phrase at the beginning of this week's Torah portion that deserves a closer look. God says to Moses, "Shelach lecha anashim"—"Send men to scout out the land." The command seems straightforward, yet it carries a profound paradox. The Israelites are standing at the threshold of the Promised Land. They have left slavery behind, crossed the wilderness, and are on the verge of fulfilling the dream that began with Abraham when he first heard God's call of Lech Lecha. And

Among the many episodes we encounter in this week's parashah, one of the most intriguing and complex is the crisis that erupts within Moses’ own family. Until this point, the three siblings had appeared as a united leadership team. Miriam had been there from the very beginning of the story: she watched over the basket carrying her baby brother on the waters of the Nile, spoke to Pharaoh’s daughter to ensure that his own mother could nurse him, and after the crossing of the Re

One of the most dangerous transformations of our time happens almost imperceptibly: we stop seeing people and start seeing categories. We no longer encounter complex human beings shaped by stories, pain, contradictions, and invisible struggles. We see labels. Sides. Identities reduced to quick slogans. From there, we judge, condemn, or discard with alarming speed. We live surrounded by voices that demand immediate reaction. Screens that multiply suspicion. Opinions formed

The book of Bemidbar begins in a surprising way. Before the great battles, before the crises of the wilderness, before the complaints and rebellions, the Torah pauses over something that seems almost technical: the organization of the Israelite camp. “אִישׁ עַל־דִּגְלוֹ” “Each person by their banner…” Each tribe had its place. Each group had its flag. Each family carried a visible identity. And all of them encircled the Mishkan, the Sanctuary, standing at the center of

There are parashiyot that seem, at first glance, to speak only about ancient laws — fields, harvests, economic systems, and social contracts. But then, almost unexpectedly, we realize they are actually speaking about us: our obsessions, our fears, and the kind of society we are becoming. Parashat Behar envisions a world in which even the land is entitled to rest. The Sh’mita year interrupts the relentless logic of nonstop production and reminds us of something modern life of

Parashat Emor is unsettling too. And perhaps that is precisely where its power lies. It confronts us with a tension that runs through the entire human experience: it speaks of “whole” bodies and those that are not, of closeness and distance, of who may draw near and who must remain on the margins. At first glance, it appears to present a theology of perfection. But when read in the context of our own lives—marked by fragility, by wounded bodies, by memories that ache and resu

Parashat Acharei Mot brings us back to a biblical moment when Yom Kippur was observed in a way that allows us to almost “see the words” and imagine the scene unfolding before us. The entire people gathered. The High Priest, Aaron, standing before two male goats that appeared identical—one designated for God, the other sent into the wilderness, symbolically carrying the failures of the people. It is striking to imagine that on the holiest day of the year, destiny seemed to be