A Minyan and Then Some

Eve PosenLeave a comment

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

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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

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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?

Sacred Boundaries, Sacred Commitments

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In our tradition, holiness isn’t something that floats above us in the heavens—it’s rooted in the way we live our lives, especially in our most intimate relationships. Parshat Acharei Mot, one of two parshiyot in this week’s double portion, challenges us to consider what it means to live a life of holiness not just through prayer and ritual, but through how we love, commit, and connect. In a culture that often celebrates freedom without boundaries, this parshah reminds us that some of the most powerful forms of holiness come not from saying “yes,” but from knowing when and how to say “no.”

Acharei Mot begins with the Yom Kippur service, detailing how the High Priest is to enter the Holy of Holies and seek atonement for the people. But the second half shifts dramatically into a list of arayot—forbidden sexual relationships. These laws are blunt and specific, outlining which relationships are prohibited, including those involving close kin, adultery, and other behaviors seen as destructive to the moral fabric of society.

While these verses may feel uncomfortable to read or discuss, especially in modern times, they close with a crucial teaching: “You shall keep my statutes . . . and live by them—va’chai bahem.” (Leviticus 18:5) These mitzvot are not meant to shame or repress, but to uphold life, community, and sacred trust.

There has never been more openness around sexuality and relationships than there is now. Much of that progress has been positive—celebrating love, expanding rights, and affirming dignity for all people. But in a world that often blurs the line between freedom and permissiveness, Acharei Mot reminds us that not all expressions of love are ethical or holy. The Torah’s sexual ethics are rooted in the belief that intimacy carries power—and with power comes responsibility.

There is no blessing for “not doing” something wrong—but there is a blessing for doing something right. At a Jewish wedding, we recite the sheva berachot, and one of those seven blessings thanks God for sanctifying us through mitzvot and commanding us concerning forbidden relationships:

Asher kid’shanu b’mitzvotav v’tzivanu al ha’arayot . . . 

It’s a striking moment: at the height of joy and intimacy, we recall the boundaries that protect the sanctity of the union. Judaism doesn’t just bless love—it blesses committed, ethical, sacred love.

This week, take time to reflect on the relationships in your life—romantic, familial, communal. Are they built on mutual respect and holiness? Do they honor boundaries, consent, and care? Consider how you might bring more intentionality to the way you show love, build trust, and uphold sacred commitments. Holiness isn’t only about what we avoid—it’s about what we build.

Healing Words and Healing Actions

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“Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.” We know this isn’t true. Words can wound deeply—and also heal. In this week’s double portion, Tazria-Metzora, the Torah offers a layered exploration of both the power of words and the potential for healing, inviting us to reflect on speech, gratitude, and the journeys—physical and spiritual—we take toward wholeness.

Parshat Tazria opens with a woman’s recovery after childbirth, detailing a ritual of purification and offerings. In ancient times, childbirth was not only spiritually significant, but perilous. The Torah’s acknowledgment of that danger—followed by the mother’s eventual reintegration into communal and spiritual life—echoes a profound truth: survival itself is sacred. Today, when a parent safely delivers a child, we still carry this awareness. It’s reflected in the blessing of Birkat HaGomel, recited by those who emerge from danger: “Blessed are you . . . who bestows goodness upon the undeserving and has granted me all good.” It’s a powerful reminder that recovery calls not only for relief, but for gratitude.

Later, the parshah transitions into a discussion of tzara’at, a skin affliction often interpreted by the rabbis as a spiritual consequence of lashon hara—harmful speech. This theme continues into Parshat Metzora, where the afflicted person undergoes not only physical inspection and quarantine, but ultimately, a ritual of release and renewal. A live bird is set free, symbolizing reintegration and new beginnings. Like the mother after childbirth, the metzora is welcomed back into community—restored, renewed.

Though tzara’at may no longer appear on our skin, its lessons linger. Harmful speech still isolates. Gossip still wounds. But just as the body can heal, so too can relationships, when we take responsibility and seek repair. And just as we recite Birkat HaGomel for physical healing, perhaps we might imagine a blessing for the restoration of our words—when our speech turns from tearing down to building up.

Our siddur offers us such a model. Each morning, we begin Pesukei d’Zimra with Baruch She’amar—“Blessed is the One who spoke, and the world came into being.” God’s speech is not destructive, but creative. It builds worlds. If we are made in the divine image, then our words, too, can create. They can comfort, connect, and bless.

So this week, what if we treated our words and our health as equally sacred? What if we offered gratitude not only for physical healing, but for the chance to speak kindly, to start fresh, to repair what was broken? In doing so, we echo both Birkat HaGomel and Baruch She’amar—giving thanks for survival, and honoring the creative holiness within every word.

May our speech be life-giving, our gratitude expansive, and our healing—physical and spiritual—a source of blessing for ourselves and others.