This is the d’var Torah I delivered at Congregation Neveh Shalom on Friday, June 19.

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There is something magical about the first truly good strawberry of summer. Not the pale, flavorless ones we buy in January and convince ourselves are acceptable. I mean the strawberries that arrive in June, bright red, perfectly ripe, sweet enough to make you stop mid-bite and say, “Now that tastes like summer.” 

The funny thing about strawberries is that we spend most of the year waiting for them. And when they finally arrive, we have a choice. We can savor them. Or we can immediately start wishing for something else. That tension sits at the heart of Parshat Korach. 

Our portion begins with Korach’s rebellion against Moses and Aaron. Korach gathers a coalition of dissatisfied Israelites and challenges the leadership of the community. What follows is one of the Torah’s most dramatic conflicts: accusations, power struggles, divine judgment, and ultimately a reaffirmation of Aaron’s role as High Priest through the miraculous blossoming of his staff. 

At first glance, Korach’s complaint sounds noble. “All the community is holy,” he argues. And in a sense, he is right. Every Israelite stood at Sinai. Every person possesses dignity and holiness. But the commentators note that Korach’s argument was not truly about holiness. It was about envy. He could not appreciate the role he had because he was consumed by the role he did not have. 

The rabbis teach in Pirkei Avot: “Who is rich? One who rejoices in their portion.” Korach had many gifts. He was respected, influential, and entrusted with sacred responsibilities. Yet instead of appreciating the sweetness already in his hands, he focused on what belonged to someone else. Like standing in a strawberry field and complaining that there aren’t peaches. 

Summer has a way of reminding us of this lesson. The season invites us to slow down, notice, and enjoy what is actually present. The long evenings. Time with family. A walk after dinner. A bowl of fresh berries. These moments may seem small, but they are the ingredients of a meaningful life. 

Korach teaches us what happens when dissatisfaction becomes our default setting. Aaron’s flowering staff teaches the opposite lesson: when we nurture what we have been given, life blossoms. 

As we enter these summer weeks, our challenge is simple. Notice the strawberries. Notice the blessings that have ripened quietly around you. Appreciate the people, opportunities, and moments already in your life. Because joy rarely comes from getting everything we want. More often, it comes from recognizing the sweetness that was there all along. 

Shabbat shalom. 

In nearly every Jewish prayer service, we end with a plea: Oseh shalom bimromav, hu ya’aseh shalom aleinu… “May the One who makes peace in the heavens make peace upon us…” It’s a beautiful, aspirational prayer. But sometimes, it can feel impossibly out of reach. In a world where disagreement often turns to division, and difference into dehumanization, what does it really mean to pray for peace?

Parshat Korach introduces us to one of the most dramatic uprisings in the Torah. Korach, a Levite, challenges Moses and Aaron’s leadership, rallying 250 men of renown to argue: “All the community is holy—why do you raise yourselves above God’s congregation?”

On the surface, Korach’s claim appears rooted in a desire for equality. But as the narrative unfolds, it becomes clear that Korach is less interested in communal sanctity and more focused on personal power. The rebellion ends in tragedy—Korach and his followers are swallowed by the earth, and fire consumes the 250 leaders. The community is left shaken and broken, plagued by fear and mistrust.

In the wake of this upheaval, we return to our daily liturgy: Oseh shalom… We ask God, who orchestrates cosmic harmony, to bring that same peace down to our fractured world. The blessing becomes not just a conclusion to our prayers, but a call to action. In the face of Korach’s divisiveness, the blessing reminds us that true leadership—and true community—comes from seeking peace, not power. It’s not enough to win arguments or secure titles; we must strive to understand the humanity in one another, even when we disagree.

Korach teaches us how quickly a holy community can fracture when ego eclipses empathy. Our charge, then, is to be peace-seekers—to rise from prayer with the intention to build bridges where others dig trenches. This week, let the words oseh shalom be more than ritual. Let it be a lens through which we approach difficult conversations, community tensions, and personal disagreements. May we recognize the divine spark in each other, and may the peace we pray for in heaven begin with the peace we pursue here on earth.

Life as a public servant of sorts can be challenging when you try to please everyone all the time. It’s just not going to happen, and I’ve had to work to accept this over the years in order to manage my expectations. I am characteristically solution-oriented and a people pleaser. Hopefully, that doesn’t come as a surprise to those of you who know me well. But this also means I avoid confrontation at all costs. It sounds like hyperbole, but honestly, I really don’t like confrontation. Of course there are times in my role when I’m asked to enforce a rule or a decision. I’m not the be-all, end-all of Neveh Shalom; I work as part of a team and each team member works together.

Sometimes the team comes to a resolution that will please everyone, and other times, it just isn’t possible. And occasionally there are times when we miss the mark. Luckily those situations aren’t the majority, but that doesn’t necessarily prevent the shame that comes with thinking we got it all wrong. In those moments I’ve learned that part of being a leader is to know when to take a step back to reflect rather than to be immediately on the defensive. I have Moses to thank for setting this example in our Torah portion this week. 

This week we read Parshat Korach, the narrative detailing the revolt of Korach. Korach breaks apart the priesthood and prepares a revolt, while Datan and Aviram, two other troublemakers, begin a revolt of their own. Chaos breaks out in the camp, and those who don’t align themselves with the revolution pull away, which turns out to be solid decision-making as the earth opens up and swallows Korach and his followers.

Early on, as Korach and his followers berate Moses and question his authority, Moses can be seen as becoming increasingly agitated and frustrated with his role. The last number of Torah portions have had people complaining for various reasons, and it’s clear that Moses is done. In chapter 16, verses 28 through 30, Moses probably should have stepped back and taken a break. Instead, he lashes out and passes the buck, practically screaming “It’s not my job, I didn’t make the rules! If you’re upset, take it up with God. I’m out!” 

While it may have felt cathartic for Moses to release some tension, it was likely unhelpful for the angry mob to see their leader lose control. I can sympathize with both sides. Leaders often have heavy loads to bear, and every decision can’t be a perfect one. The lesson? Kindness and understanding is the winning combo, whether you’re in charge or not.

I can sympathize with Korach. That’s not to say that what he and his followers did was right, but I know what it’s like to be consumed by strong emotion. If you know me, you know I’m passionate when it comes to certain subjects. One of the hardest things for me to do is stop myself from going all in and throwing everything I have behind a cause when I’m sure that I’m right. On the one hand, I think it’s important to have opinions and make them known. On the other hand, speaking your mind can sometimes rub people the wrong way.

The good news is I’ve learned many tricks over the years to manage this passion. I might ask a friend or colleague who’s with me to give me a sign that I’m in that “zone.” Or if there’s time, I might discuss the situation in advance to get feedback on my emotional level first. I’ve also learned the valuable lesson of being able to excuse myself to catch my breath before doing or saying something I’ll regret. I’m a natural redhead; fury is my language, and occasionally it can be put to good use.

Of course, the electrical charge of acting on emotion can come with consequences, which is clear in our Torah portion this week. This week we read Parshat Korach, the narrative detailing the revolt of Korach, who breaks apart the priesthood and prepares a revolt, while Datan and Aviram, two other troublemakers, begin a revolt of their own. Chaos breaks out in the camp, and those who don’t see a purpose to the fight pull away, which turns out to be solid decision-making, as the earth opens up and swallows Korach and his followers.

As we know from Parshat Noach, God promised never to destroy the entire world again. Clearly, that doesn’t stop God from momentarily becoming outraged and destroying groups of humanity because the rage is too great. That happens this week when Korach and his followers cannot restrain their dissent, and take physical actions to make their story known. Unfortunately, they go well beyond respectful dialogue and dissent.

Regarding this moment, the Talmud in tractate Hullin shares: “The world exists on account of people who are able to restrain themselves during a quarrel.” Rabbi Simcha Bunim, a key figure in Hasidic Judaism in 18th-century Poland, further explains that because Korach and his followers were not able to do that, the earth gave way and swallowed them. It’s a fairly apt metaphor; this is truly what happens when we’re not able to take a pause and gain control. It’s easy to be “swallowed up” in our emotions and personal feelings. It’s easy to temporarily let go of rational thought, despite the consequences. Parshat Korach reminds us that we can disagree without getting swallowed up in the silos of our own thinking.

I am the firstborn child in my family. I am married to a firstborn, my mother is a firstborn, and my daughter is my firstborn. What do we all have in common? We’ve all been asked at various moments in our lives to take care of our younger siblings. That, and we had much stricter rules about what we could and could not do compared to our younger siblings. As a firstborn child, I had to break my parents in. Having never been parents before, I was their “practice” child, like all first children are. They tested discipline strategies and bedtime routines; they learned so much about how to raise a tiny human by trying it all out on me.

When my sister was born, they finally had it down perfectly. Well, not really, but at least they had a basic idea. That’s how Duncan and I felt about our kids. With Shiri I was a nervous wreck about everything when she was an infant. I worried so much that I didn’t really fully enjoy much of that early parenting experience. The second time around, I sort of knew what to expect and was able to relax more. This is all to say there’s quite a bit of baggage that accompanies first children, and that’s evident in the Torah too.

This week we read Parshat Korach, the narrative detailing the revolt of Korach. Korach breaks apart the priesthood and prepares a revolt, while Datan and Aviram, two other troublemakers, begin a revolt of their own. Chaos breaks out in the camp, and those who don’t see a purpose to the fight pull away, which turns out to be solid decision making, as the earth opens up and swallows Korach and his followers.

While this fighting and frustration is happening, we also receive laws about how the nation will live and breathe day to day, including the honoring of the priests for their work on behalf of the people. In chapter 18 God details the list of all the gifts to be offered up to the priests. This list starts with the best wine and oil, followed by all the “firsts.” The priests are to be offered the first fruits of the trees, and even the firstborn from animals and humans, if it is a male. That’s right, firstborn males didn’t get to remain at home; they had to go straight to work.

Like in plenty of other instances, though, there’s a loophole. The Torah offers a ritual that can save the child from this labor and instead allow them to remain with their family. The offering is called Pidyon HaBen, the “redemption of the first born,” and it’s a Torah rite still observed today. The ceremony takes place on the 31^st day of the firstborn male child’s life in which they offer the cohen, the priest, a monetary sum (usually special coins) in exchange for the honor of keeping their child at home. 

Why have we kept this seemingly ridiculous ritual? Perhaps less than a financial necessity, it’s to mark the moment a parent fully recognizes the responsibility and honor of being a parent. In this ritual the monetary amount paid to the priest to keep the child is actually extremely small because of the preciousness of parenthood. Raising a child is certainly costly, but as parents know, being a parent is not about the expense, but the gift of love, learning, and growth of experiencing many firsts together.