Traveling with Blessing

As a rabbi, I have many opportunities to offer blessings. One of my favorites is just after loading a bus on its way to camp or a youth group event and reciting a blessing for the travelers before sending them on their way. No matter the trip, traveling always comes with a certain amount of uncertainty. Whether we’re embarking on a family road trip, sending a child off to camp, or even just navigating the busy demands of our daily lives, there’s always that flicker of anxiety: Will we be safe? Will we arrive well? Jewish tradition meets that uncertainty with ritual — particularly with blessing. One of the most beautiful examples of this appears in Parshat Beha’alotcha, reminding us that journeys are not only physical but also spiritual, and that we are never truly traveling alone.

Parshat Beha’alotcha is rich with movement and transition. The parshah opens with the commandment to Aaron to light the menorah and quickly moves into organizing the Levites for service in the Mishkan. But a pivotal moment comes when the Israelites set out from Mount Sinai, their first major journey since receiving the Torah. To mark this moment, we read:

Vayehi binsoa ha’aron vayomer Moshe, kumah Adonai v’yafutzu oyvecha…

“When the Ark would set out, Moses would say: ‘Arise, Adonai, and let your enemies be scattered…’” (Numbers 10:35).

This verse is so significant that it’s set off in the Torah scroll by two inverted letter nuns, framing it almost like parentheses — or perhaps like wings of protection — around the words. Moses’s words over the Ark are among our earliest Jewish travel prayers. They are echoed in Tefilat Haderech, our traditional “Traveler’s Prayer,” which we say before setting out on a journey, asking God to guide us in peace and protect us from danger. But the connection goes deeper: the Ark itself was more than just a physical object being carried — it was a symbol of divine presence, Torah, and purpose, traveling with the people.

We often think about protection as something external: a seatbelt, a map, a vaccine, an insurance policy. But Moses teaches that spiritual protection comes when we consciously invite God — and the values of Torah — into our journeys. The act of blessing transforms our travels from mere movement to meaningful passage. It reminds us that no matter where we go, we carry a sacred purpose with us.

We can cultivate the practice of offering a blessing — whether through formal words like Tefilat Haderech or simply a moment of gratitude or intention. Our lives are full of movement, but Beha’alotcha reminds us that we are never just traveling — we are journeying with blessing. May we go forward like the Ark, carrying the presence of holiness with us, and may all our paths be made safe and meaningful.

Be a Channel of Blessing

Picking up the pieces following horrific event after horrific event, in D.C. and in Boulder and more and more places around the world, it can feel like there are no words. No time to let one wound heal before the next one is ripped open. But for thousands of years, in times of joy and in times of tragedy, we’ve found strength and comfort in being able to bless each other, using the words of our tradition. We all long to feel blessed — to know that we are seen, loved, and protected. And we all hope to offer blessings to others through our words, our presence, and our actions. Parshat Naso contains one of the most beautiful and enduring blessings in all of Torah, the Birkat Kohanim, the Priestly Blessing, which continues to echo through our tradition and our lives today.

Parshat Naso is the longest Torah portion, covering a range of topics. It continues the census begun in Bamidbar, detailing the roles of the Levites, describes the laws of the nazirite, and addresses the ritual for the sotah, the woman suspected of adultery. But in the midst of these detailed and sometimes difficult laws, we find a moment of pure light: God instructs Moses to tell Aaron and his sons how to bless the people. This blessing, just three short verses, transcends time:

Yevarechecha Adonai v’yishmerecha.
May God bless you and protect you.

Ya’er Adonai panav eilecha vichuneka.
May God shine God’s face upon you and be gracious to you.

Yisa Adonai panav eilecha v’yasem lecha shalom.
May God lift God’s face toward you and grant you peace.

The Priestly Blessing is much more than words — it’s a profound statement about the relationship between God, the people, and those who serve as conduits of blessing. Notice that the priests don’t create the blessing; they channel it. God is the source of blessing, but it is through human intermediaries — through people willing to lift their hands, open their hearts, and speak words of goodness — that blessing flows into the world.

Each line of the blessing builds: from physical protection (v’yishmerecha), to inner grace (vichuneka), to the ultimate aspiration of shalom — peace and wholeness. The blessing reminds us that God’s presence is not abstract. It’s felt when we experience safety, when we are shown kindness, and when we rest in the deep calm of peace.

While the priests were the official bearers of blessing in ancient times, today we are all called to be mamlechet kohanim — a kingdom of priests. We are all charged with being vessels of blessing.

What would it look like for each of us to act as channels of blessing this week? To offer protection to someone vulnerable, to show graciousness to someone struggling, to lift our faces and truly see those around us? And perhaps most importantly, to become builders of peace — in our homes, our communities, and our world?

A Minyan and Then Some

There’s a special electricity in the air when a large Jewish gathering comes together — whether it’s the Kotel packed on a festival, a concert hall filled for a Jewish music event, or even a massive Zoom screen of tiny Jewish faces during the pandemic. In the Talmud (Berakhot 58a), we’re taught that upon seeing 600,000 Jews gathered together, we recite the blessing: Baruch… chacham ha-razim — “Blessed is the wise one who knows all secrets.” This rare blessing invites us to reflect on the power of community, diversity, and the holiness that emerges when individuals stand together.

This week, in Parshat Bamidbar, we open the fourth book of the Torah — the Book of Numbers — with the dramatic moment of the census. God commands Moses to count the Israelite men of military age, tribe by tribe. The tally comes to 603,550, just over the threshold associated with the chacham ha-razim blessing. But this census isn’t just about numbers; it’s about identity and belonging. Each person is counted l’mishpachotam u’l’veit avotam — by their families and their ancestral houses. The parshah also describes the arrangement of the tribes around the Mishkan and assigns specific roles to the Levites, underscoring that every individual and every tribe has a unique place and purpose.

The blessing chacham ha-razim expresses awe at the idea that God knows the inner workings, thoughts, and uniqueness of each person in a vast crowd. The sages teach that just as no two faces are alike, no two minds or souls are alike. It’s easy to look at a massive crowd and see only sameness, but God sees the secrets within — the hopes, struggles, dreams, and doubts that make each person irreplaceable.

The census in Bamidbar is not a cold bureaucratic exercise; it’s an act of love. As Rashi comments, God counts the people because God treasures them, just as someone counts their precious jewels. When we stand in community, whether in the desert, in synagogue, or even virtually, we remind ourselves that we are more than a number — we are part of a tapestry of souls, each known and cherished by God.

This Shabbat, as we read Bamidbar, I invite us to pause and look around at our own community with the eyes of chacham ha-razim. Can we see beyond the surface to recognize the unique stories, struggles, and gifts of each person around us? Can we cherish the differences that strengthen the whole? Even when we gather in numbers far fewer than 600,000, we have the opportunity to bless the divine wisdom that makes each human being a secret worth knowing.

The Power of Pause

There is something profoundly humbling about pausing before a meal to say a blessing. Whether seated at a Shabbat table or unwrapping a snack on a busy afternoon, the simple words “Baruch atah… borei p’ri ha’adamah” remind us that what we consume is not simply the work of our own hands, but part of a sacred partnership with the earth and with God. This week’s double portion, Behar-Bechukotai, invites us to expand that moment of gratitude into a vision of justice, rest, and renewal for the entire society.

In Parshat Behar, we’re introduced to the Shmita year—the sabbatical year—when the land is allowed to rest every seven years, and the Yovel—the jubilee year—after seven cycles of Shmita, when debts are forgiven, slaves are freed, and ancestral land is returned to its original family. These systems are not just about agriculture; they are about economic fairness, social equality, and creating a rhythm of pause and repair. 

Parshat Bechukotai continues by describing the blessings that come with following God’s statutes and the consequences if we turn away. Among the blessings are abundant harvests, peace in the land, and the assurance that God’s presence dwells among the people.

The blessing over the fruits of the earth—borei p’ri ha’adamah—captures the heart of these portions. We acknowledge that the land’s produce is not solely ours to command; it is a gift. When we say Birkat HaMazon after eating, we express gratitude not only for the food on our plates but also for the land of Israel, its covenantal promise, and the divine presence that sustains life. It’s easy to forget the source of our abundance, yet these blessings pull us back into relationship with the earth, with each other, and with God.

Behar and Bechukotai challenge us to ask: How can we build lives and communities that make space for rest, release, and fairness? Shmita and Yovel remind us that none of us truly “owns” the land, our wealth, or even our time; they are entrusted to us, and we are called to steward them with care. As we move through the week, may we find ways to practice release: letting go of control, forgiving debts, sharing resources, and allowing ourselves moments of true rest. 

Counting Up

Every year between Passover and Shavuot, we count the days. While this act is based on a Torah commandment, it can often take on an additional meaning. There are years when that count leads directly to the last day of school, and other years when it might lead to a birthday of a loved one. In 2010, the year I was ordained, the count led directly to my rabbinic ordination, with the ceremony taking place the day before Shavuot. 

Parshat Emor covers a wide range of topics, but a large section focuses on the festivals of the Jewish year — Shabbat, Pesach, Shavuot, Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, and Sukkot. It is here that the Torah lays out not only when we celebrate these holidays, but also why: to sanctify time, to remember our story, and to reconnect to God and one another. Among these mitzvot, we find the commandment of Sefirat HaOmer, the counting of the Omer — a mitzvah we’re engaged in right now, between Pesach and Shavuot.

Each night during this seven-week period, we say the blessing:

Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu melech ha’olam, asher kid’shanu b’mitzvotav v’tzivanu al sefirat ha’omer.

“Blessed are you, God, sovereign of the world, who has sanctified us with your mitzvot and commanded us regarding the counting of the Omer.”

This blessing teaches us something profound: the act of counting — something so simple, so ordinary — becomes holy when we do it with intention and blessing. It’s not about reaching day 49 as fast as we can. It’s about noticing each day as it comes, pausing, reflecting, and marking time with purpose. Through this small nightly ritual, we remember that holiness doesn’t always require grand gestures — sometimes it’s found in small, mindful acts repeated with care.

This week’s parshah, Emor, invites us to reflect on the power of sacred time and sacred action. When days blur together and we often rush from task to task, Emor reminds us that time is not just something we pass through — it’s something we can elevate.

Emor challenges us to look at the mitzvot in our lives — not only the big holidays or life-cycle moments, but the everyday acts of kindness, justice, and mindfulness. Can we bless these ordinary acts with intention? Can we find the sacred in a conversation with a friend, a meal with family, or even just a deep breath before the next busy day begins?