This is the d’var Torah I delivered at Congregation Neveh Shalom on Friday, June 5, 2026.

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Next week marks 12 years since Duncan, a 9-month-old Shiri, and I visited Portland for the first time. I’m sure Carolyn Weinstein remembers having to put Shiri’s car seat in her car so she could drive us around and give us the lay of the land. In between looking for a house and checking out what would be our new community, we snuck away to visit the International Rose Test Garden.  As an outside observer, they were magnificent.  What I did not know was how much work they require. Roses need pruning. They need attention. They need care. Left entirely to themselves, they would still flower, but not nearly as beautifully and plentifully as they do in Washington Park.

One of the surprising things about roses is that the healthiest blooms often come after a gardener cuts them back. Growth requires a kind of humility. The rose cannot become what it is meant to be if it insists on holding onto every branch.

Parshat Be’haalotecha is filled with moments that challenge our assumptions about leadership, greatness, and humility. The Israelites continue their journey through the wilderness. The menorah is lit. The Levites are consecrated. The people complain about the manna and long for Egypt. Seventy elders are appointed to help Moses carry the burden of leadership. And at the end of the parshah, Miriam and Aaron speak critically of Moses, leading to one of the Torah’s most remarkable descriptions of his character.

The Torah tells us: “Now Moses was exceedingly humble, more than any person on the face of the earth” (Numbers 12:3).

What is striking is where this verse appears. It comes not after a great triumph, but in the middle of criticism. And Moses doesn’t defend himself. He doesn’t lash out. He doesn’t demand recognition. His humility is not weakness; it’s confidence rooted in purpose, rather than ego.

Like a rose, Moses does not need every branch of self-importance to remain intact. He understands that leadership is not about being admired. It’s about serving something larger than oneself.

Humility is often misunderstood. We think it means making ourselves small. Jewish tradition disagrees. True humility means knowing exactly who you are—your gifts, your strengths, your limitations, and placing them in service of others.

The rose does not humbly apologize for being beautiful. It simply blooms.

As we move through this week, may we embrace the humility of the rose and of Moses. And supposedly his toeses. I’m sure you didn’t expect me to get through a whole drash about Moses and roses without Singing in the Rain. Anyway, may we be willing to let go of what no longer serves us. May we focus less on proving ourselves and more on growing into the people we are called to become. And may we remember that the most beautiful blossoms often emerge from hearts rooted in quiet strength and humble purpose.

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.

Do you ever see shapes in the clouds? Despite the persistent gray for a significant portion of the year, the Pacific Northwest has an incredible variety of weather conditions, including cloud formations. We often see the vibrant colors of the trees against a gloomy (or my favorite, “doomy”) background. Some days there’s so much fog we can barely see ahead of us, but other days the clouds are moving quite quickly as though on a mission to get somewhere before we make it to our own destination. 

It’s easy to get lost in sky-gazing. Watching clouds puts me at peace. Finding shapes and watching their movements grounds me between the heavens and the earth. Having your “head in the clouds” is usually associated with the impractical or unimportant, but to me, it’s those contemplative moments of feeling at one with nature that are more important now than ever. This concept of cloud-watching, in a literal sense, is central to our Torah reading this week as well. 

Our parshah this week, Beha’alotcha, lands us with Aaron and Moses as they get into the daily requirements of their jobs. This section of the text begins with instructions for the purification of the Levites as they do their holy work in the Tabernacle. We read about the first Passover sacrifice in the wilderness and how to make up the celebration of Passover if we somehow miss the holiday. Finally, Moses’s family – his father-in-law, wife, and children – return to join him and the rest of the Israelite nation on their journey through the wilderness.

The magic in Beha’alotekha comes as the order to march is given. When the Torah talks of the Tabernacle, the Mishkan, it teaches us that God’s presence hovers over it in a cloud. The narrative suggests that the cloud symbolizes God ascending and descending upon the camp, and this cloud would determine the movement of the march as well as when and where to make and break camp. Cloud up, time to move; cloud down, time to rest. 

If it feels like a struggle to find God today, you’re not alone. However, I’d argue that even if we’re not necessarily on the move like the Israelites, couldn’t the clouds still serve the purpose they did in the Torah? Their ever-changing shapes remind us to look up and pay attention to the world and to nature. Their movement across the sky reminds us to be open to change. Their rain and fog and mist remind us of our water cycle and connect us to our past and future. These are perhaps a few ways we can still be aware of God’s presence.

There are certain moments of childhood that I will never forget. Many of them are positive, built on love and joyful celebration. Of course there are a few (and thankfully only a few) that I will never forget because of the yucky, negative feeling I had in that moment. I distinctly remember a moment when my piano teacher pulled my ponytail to make me sit up straighter, which is probably the reason I stopped learning piano. I remember the first time I got a bad burn from having my fingers too close to a fire. I’m sure you have your list as well. While the negative memories are filled with interactions that felt bad or shameful, the positive memories from throughout my life left me with amazing sensory moments. The smells, the feelings, they all bring back a sense of love and connection, especially when it comes to distinctly Jewish memories. Those Jewish memories are why I became a rabbi, because being in shul and “doing Jewish” offered a sense of peace, beauty, and wholeness.

As I walk into my tenth High Holidays this fall at Neveh Shalom, you probably know by now that one of my main goals in my rabbinate is instilling a love of Judaism built on everyone feeling safe, joyful, and welcomed in our community, and that starts with our youngest congregants, because that’s when those positive (or negative) memories are made. If you’ve seen the carts of fidget toys or noticed a child playing with Wikki Stix, stickers, or puzzles, it’s with this purpose in mind. There are more ways to keep children engaged in services than just scolding them for being noisy. They’re the future leaders of our Jewish community, and they should remember the positive feelings they had being part of it. And this doesn’t stop at children; it’s equally important to make adults feel loved and welcomed, whether that means changing the wording and pacing of prayers and announcements, or creating new programs or connective opportunities so that no one feels left out. But why is this so critical? One answer is in this week’s Torah portion.

Our parshah this week, Beha’alotcha, lands us with Aaron and Moses as they get into their daily requirements of their jobs. This section of text begins with instructions for the purification of the Levites in their holy work in the Tabernacle. We read about the first Passover sacrifice in the wilderness and how to celebrate Passover if we miss it the first time around. Then the text turns toward the Tabernacle itself, the Mishkan, and teaches us that God’s presence hovers over it in a cloud. Finally, Moses’s family – his father-in-law, wife, and children – return to join him and the rest of the Israelite nation on their journey through the wilderness.

In chapter 8, verse 19 we’re in the midst of the work Aaron and his sons should do for the priesthood and the Israelites. God instructs Aaron to perform the service for the Israelites at the Tent of Meeting, among the people, so that the Israelites, who are not usually permitted to be in the holy space, can feel connection without facing a plague for violating the rules. One medieval commentator suggests that this verse offers the message: “May all their visits to the sanctuary be for reasons of joy and not calamity. May all their memories of these visits be pleasant ones.”

Amen! Our work here is to support a positive, welcoming, loving environment where all who enter feel they belong. My fellow clergy and I may sound like broken records on this subject, but it’s some of the most important work we do. It’s how we make those positive memories happen and pave the way for an active, engaged, dedicated new generation.

As we continue to weather the Covid years, I’ve found myself wondering which of the lessons I’ve learned will stick with me. Will I carry with me the lessons of resiliency or will the need to have a completely stocked pantry be what sticks? Will I return to the comfort of rigid planning, or can I carry with me a more go-with-the-flow attitude I’ve had to adopt? And, how will I keep myself from forgetting? 

During the early stages of the pandemic, I was quite mesmerized by historical fiction about the 1918 pandemic, which brought a certain comfort knowing that even as awful as it was then, I was born into a world where the nasty scars from it have all but disappeared. I also read it to get a glimpse into what might become part of our everyday lives in the wake of a societal rebirth.

Habits are often formed in response to specific circumstances, but then change as the world around us changes. If I want to hold on to any of the good habits I’ve developed throughout these years, I’ll need to do some active work to keep them alive. This is a lesson as old as Torah.

Our parshah this week, Beha’alotcha, lands us with Aaron and Moses as they get into the daily requirements of their jobs. This section of text begins with instructions for the purification of the Levites as they do their holy work in the Tabernacle. We read about the first Passover sacrifice in the wilderness and how to celebrate Passover if we miss it the first time around. Then the text turns toward the Tabernacle, the Mishkan, and teaches us that God’s presence hovers over it in a cloud. Finally, Moses’s family – his father-in-law, wife, and children – return to join him and the rest of the Israelite nation on their journey through the wilderness.

At this moment, the Israelites have left Egypt and the story of Passover is both fresh in their minds and a world away in this first new moon of the second year following the Exodus. God notes this moment and then instructs Moses and the nation on how to reenact the story of the Exodus so that they would not forget. Keep in mind, the nation is still in the desert. They’re a mere 12 months removed from slavery, and yet that story, the miracle of crossing the sea and the wonderment of God, might no longer be fresh in their minds. Therefore they must review the story before it is too distant a memory to really be carried on.

If you try to glean something from an experience after the experience is over, you might miss quite a bit. At this point we’re not quite out of the pandemic, but hopefully far from the height of it. This is the time to remember the lessons we’ve learned. This is the time to make some habits permanent.