Over the past few weeks, I’ve had the privilege of sitting in rooms with elected officials who genuinely want to build stronger relationships with the Jewish community. It may go without saying, but I’m grateful for every invitation. Relationships matter, showing up matters, and conversation matters. 

But what isn’t as obvious about these meetings is what happens before anyone says a word. In those first few seconds of silence, there’s an unspoken tension in the room. Everyone knows that, sooner or later, the conversation may turn to Israel, to Jew hate, and to Jewish safety. 

And as I have sat in those meetings, I have realized that my heart is asking a different question altogether: Do you see me? Not as “the Jewish voice.” Not as someone expected to explain or defend every headline. Not as a stand-in for a government thousands of miles away. 

Do you see me? See a rabbi? See a mother? 

See someone who worries every day about the safety of her congregation and the security of her children—not because of anything they have done, but because they are Jews and history tells us we must take this seriously. 

See someone whose Judaism teaches that every human being is created b’tzelem Elohim, in the image of God. 

See someone who cares deeply about humanity. 

See someone whose compassion is not limited by borders, politics, or religion. 

See me. 

Because before we can have an honest conversation about Israel, or antisemitism, or anything else, we must begin with something even more fundamental. We must recognize one another’s humanity. 

Parashat Re’eh opens with one simple command: Re’eh. See. Not agree. Not persuade. Not convince. Just see. 

Rashi notices something remarkable. Moses begins in the singular “Re’eh,” meaning “you see,” but immediately shifts to the plural: “lifneichem,” – “before all of you.” 

Why the shift? Because every community begins with an individual. Before there can be a “we,” there must first be an “I.” Before there can be covenant, every one of us bears responsibility for how we choose to see another human being. 

I hear Rashi offering an even deeper truth: Every “we” begins when we have the courage to truly see an “I.” 

There’s a difference between asking me about Israel and asking me to defend my own humanity. There’s a difference between debating the policies of a government and questioning whether Jews deserve to live in safety. There’s a difference between political disagreement and moral recognition. Those distinctions matter; when they disappear, something sacred is lost. 

My connection to Israel didn’t begin with a modern government. It began with Torah, with God’s promise to Abraham and with David’s songs of Jerusalem. With generations of Jews who turned toward Zion in prayer, who ended every Passover with “Next year in Jerusalem,” and who carried that hope across continents and centuries. 

The modern State of Israel, on the other hand, is a nation, like Iran, Mexico, China, or the United States of America, with leaders and policies that can and should be debated. That doesn’t change the fact that the Jewish connection to the Land of Israel is older than any government. It’s woven into our covenant, our liturgy, our memory, and our identity. To ask a Jew to sever Judaism from Zion is not simply to ask us to change a political opinion. It’s to ask us to rewrite Jewish memory itself. 

Let me be equally clear about something else. My love for the Jewish people does not diminish my concern for innocent Palestinians. My commitment to Jewish safety does not require me to ignore the suffering of others. I refuse that false choice. 

Torah has never demanded that we love our own by denying someone else’s humanity. It demands something much harder. It asks us to hold moral complexity without surrendering moral clarity. 

And moral clarity begins here: I should not have to prove that I deserve safety because I am a Jew. I should not have to distance myself from my people before my fear is taken seriously. I should not have to apologize for loving the place toward which my people have prayed for thousands of years. Those are not conditions we place on other communities. They should not be placed on Jews. 

Words matter, not because they solve every problem, but because they shape what we are willing to normalize. When violence against civilians is excused, when terrorism is softened into something understandable, when Jews are expected to explain why our fear deserves recognition…when those things happen, we are already losing something far more important than a political argument. We are losing our vision. 

A society that stops seeing Jews as fully human is a society already in moral danger. Not because Jews are unique, but because the moment any people must first justify their humanity before they are granted dignity, we have abandoned one of the Torah’s most fundamental truths: every human being is created in the image of God. 

Perhaps that is why Moses begins this week’s parshah with a single word. Re’eh. See. Every failure of justice begins with a failure of vision. The moment we stop seeing another person’s humanity, we become capable of asking them to defend things no one else is asked to defend. 

So before you ask me to explain Israel, before you ask me to defend my attachment to the land that has shaped my people’s story, before you ask me to prove that my fear is legitimate, see me. See a rabbi. See a mother. See a Jew. See a human being. Then we can begin the conversation. That is where blessing begins. With one word: re’eh. See. 

Have you ever had second thoughts about deciding whether to lend a hand, give a donation, or volunteer your time? Not because you didn’t want to help, but because the moment required something more: intention, choice, and sometimes even discomfort. Parshat Re’eh meets us in precisely that space—the moment of decision—and asks us not just to see the world, but to respond to it.

Parshat Re’eh opens with a powerful proposition: “See, I set before you today a blessing and a curse.” (Deut. 11:26) What follows is a wide-ranging vision for the society the Israelites are meant to build in the Promised Land. It includes laws about worship, kashrut, festivals, and, centrally, economic justice. The Torah demands that we open our hands and our hearts: “If there is a needy person among you … do not harden your heart or shut your hand … but you shall surely open your hand.” (Deut. 15:7–8)

This call to generosity is more than social advice; it’s a mitzvah. And with mitzvot, we offer blessings not only over food or prayer, but also over acts of justice. Before giving tzedakah, many say:

“Baruch atah Adonai Eloheinu, melech ha’olam, asher kid’shanu b’mitzvotav v’tzivanu al ha’tzedakah.”

Blessed are you … who sanctified us with commandments and commanded us regarding tzedakah.

This blessing reminds us that giving isn’t optional. It’s not just charity, it’s a sacred act that brings holiness into the world. The Torah doesn’t say we should give when it’s convenient, or when we feel emotionally moved. It says, “You shall surely open your hand.” The double verb in Hebrew “patoach tiftach” emphasizes urgency and wholeheartedness.

Re’eh means “see.” See the needs of others, see the blessings in your own life, and then act. Sometimes it’s a little too easy to turn away, but Parshat Re’eh calls us to live with open eyes and open hands. This week, may we not only see the path of blessing, but choose to walk it generously, justly, and with hearts wide open.

Do you have a summer birthday like Matan and I do? Or a birthday that often falls during winter or spring break in school? As an early August birthday, I never quite fit into the “have a party and be celebrated” norm. In fact, I don’t recall ever having a traditional birthday party on my actual birthday as a kid. For many summers, I was at camp, so I didn’t even celebrate with my family. True, camp traditions can be fun too, but I couldn’t help feeling like I was missing out on some essential part of childhood. The good news is it doesn’t matter quite as much as an adult, and I have a whole new enjoyment and appreciation for my birthday celebrations now. 

Certain times of the year call for parties. There’s something powerful about having these milestone gathering moments. Celebrating becomes about more than the event; it’s about being in one another’s presence. The Torah this week establishes this quite helpfully.  

In our Torah portion this week, Parshat Re’eh, we hear about the importance of having this type of village surrounding us. In our parshah we learn of the blessings and curses that will come with observance (or lack thereof) of the mitzvot we’re given. We receive some final warnings about following the laws against idolatry, laws for keeping kosher, and the importance of treating each other as equals. Finally, we receive some more information on our three pilgrimage festivals: Passover, Shavuot, and Sukkot. 

The meaning behind the “pilgrimage” festivals is self-explanatory. Instead of celebrating at home, we were to travel and celebrate communally. Why do we have this commandment not to stay home, but to gather as a people for these festivals? The Torah answers this question by suggesting that celebrating together automatically increases the significance of these holidays. If we’re not around each other, what if we forget the importance of these festivals or forget them altogether? 

In other words, celebrations are meant to be had together, and multiple times a year. It’s a helpful reminder that while there are holidays that don’t require a minyan or a congregational event, gathering together, especially when it’s “out of season,” can elevate our tradition in ways that go beyond the prescribed rituals. With that in mind, I’ll see you at Shabbat services. 

The last few years have certainly highlighted the differences between communal space and personal space, and community needs versus individual needs. We wore masks at the beginning of COVID19 to protect others, with the understanding that it took partnership in mask-wearing to care for one another. As we moved through the pandemic, with the help of vaccines and ever-growing knowledge about the effects of the virus, we had new decisions to make to maintain the balance between meeting our needs and the needs of the community. 

We read Parshat Re’eh this week, as the Torah races to the finish line of its lessons. In our parshah we learn about the blessings and curses that will come with the observance (or lack thereof) of the mitzvot we’re given. We receive some final warnings about following the laws against idolatry, laws for keeping kosher, and the importance of treating each other as equals. Finally, we receive additional information on our three pilgrimage festivals.

In the midst of this text, we read about a question of centralized sacrifice. Does sacrifice have to happen at an agreed-upon place, or can it be scattered in various places throughout the area? Most of what we learn about sacrifices is tied to the Temple in the post-Torah time. The standard of practice meant coming together for the three pilgrimage festivals, with the assumption that the other sacrifices for well-being, thanksgiving, and more were done in the small cities where everyone lived. This practice was around even before the Temple was built.

In chapter 12, verse 8 we learn that “we should not act as we do now, every man as they please.” The idea is that sacrifice should not be a spur-of-the-moment activity that could be done anywhere. They should be done in the tent of meeting. Yet this cautionary line implies that before this moment, sacrifice perhaps was happening whenever required and inspired around the Israelite encampments. I don’t think Parshat Re’eh is suggesting a prohibition against having private moments of connection; instead, we’re prohibited from having only those moments.

This is the challenge of community time and space. On the one hand, we are often better served coming together, and Judaism dictates moments of togetherness as we mourn, celebrate, and grow. On the other hand, there are also moments that feel personal and sacred, that we don’t want to share with anyone but God. Judaism is a religion of both communal gathering and connection as well as individual prayer. This balance is part of what makes us the people we are. 

Over the last number of years as I’ve worked on routines and strategies for keeping my life and my family’s lives in order, I’ve noticed a peculiar and often frustrating phenomenon. I’ll finish doing something like laundry – the entire act from washing, drying, folding and putting it away – only to notice that it’s still not done because someone has changed clothes or there was one lone sock left on the floor and now not clean. Or I’ll do the grocery shopping, making a meticulous list for each place I need to visit and each item to pick up, then get home and put the food away before realizing the one item I forgot. Chores never really end, but these situations enhance that feeling even more.

Beyond these trivial tasks of everyday life, there are bigger problems that remind me of this cycle too. Look how far we’ve come in pushing down Covid numbers, only to have monkeypox consume the news. The work in just about every field is never done. 

We read Parshat Re’eh this week, as the Torah races to the finish line of its lessons. In our parshah we learn about the blessings and curses that will come with the observance (or lack thereof) of the mitzvot we’re given. We receive some final warnings about following the laws against idolatry, laws for keeping kosher, and the importance of treating each other as equals. Finally, we receive some more information on our three pilgrimage festivals.

The core of the laws given in Parshat Re’eh focus on taking care of one another. As we know, living in a community requires us to care for others, and knowing that need is ever present can be exhausting. Chapter 15, verse 11 states it outright: “For there will never cease to be needy ones in your land.” Knowing that this is overwhelming thought, the Babylonian Talmud, Tractate Pesachim 113a, teaches “better to flay carcasses in the marketplace than to depend on public assistance because you feel the available work is beneath your dignity.” In other words, each of us has an obligation to do our part to help ourselves as a way of lightening the never-ending load on the community.

Our communal structure needs to be built on the understanding that while we may dream of a time when there are no more needy, the reality is that there will always be a need. Instead of finding that notion overwhelming and wanting to quit, we’re reminded to set up assistance programs and strategies for support that lighten the load while encouraging growth and self-sufficiency. 

The work will never be done, there will always be another load of laundry, another medical conundrum, or societal problem, but the way through it is to plan each and every day to finish that day’s portion so we can rest up and start again tomorrow.