In the Jewish calendar, we are well into the season of teshuvah, translated both as “repentance” and “turning back.” It is a heartbreaking time for deep reflection on our individual and collective moral failures.

In this week’s parsha, Ki Tavo, Moses instructs the Israelites on the curses and blessings that God will bestow upon them based on whether they follow God’s commands. These passages present a system of spiritual physics based upon our behavior. If we do x, we will receive y. If we obey God’s commands, we will be blessed (). If we sin, we will be cursed ().

Those of us with lived experience know that the reality of sin, punishment, merit, and reward is more complicated than our parsha’s formula. First, it does not explain how those who commit egregious moral transgressions still prosper in this world. Second, it implies that any evil that befalls the faithful is a natural consequence of immoral behavior, rather than the inexplicable tragedy we know it to be. Finally, this formula can give us a false sense of control over our lives, leading us to disappointment.

Rashi points to a more complicated way of understanding our parsha. One of the blessings the Israelites will receive for obedience is in : “Blessed shall you be in your comings and blessed shall you be in your goings.” teaches that this verse means that your exit (goings) from this world should be like your entry (comings) into this world – without sin, belo’ cheit (cf. ).

This interpretation raises two important questions. First, Biblical Hebrew has a rich vocabulary for describing sin. Cheit does not describe a severe transgression or rebellion – instead it connotes missing the mark. How can it be that any human being can live without sometimes falling short?

Second, this interpretation reveals a logical contradiction. The reward for following God’s commands is sinlessness. How can it be that the reward, sinlessness, precedes the behavior that merits the reward?

This week’s parsha presents an incomplete picture of sin, punishment, merit, and reward because it does not include teshuvah. If the blessings and curses from our parsha describe spiritual physics, teshuvah is all about spiritual metaphysics.

Engaging in the practice of teshuvah is not simply acknowledging our wrongdoings, making amends with those we have harmed, and committing to live differently in the future. These actions are fundamental components of teshuvah, but there is something much deeper going on.

Millennia ago, David modeled for us the heart-transforming nature of teshuvah. In Psalm 51, he acknowledges his sins, transgressions, and iniquities in a litany of confessions. He asks that God give his soul a good scrub: “Wash me thoroughly of my iniquity, and purify me of my sin” (). He then asks God to create his heart anew, much like a newborn: “Fashion a pure heart for me, O God; create in me a steadfast spirit” (). He then teaches that “True sacrifice to God is a contrite spirit; God, You will not despise a contrite and crushed heart” ().

David teaches that the most important component of teshuvah is a broken heart. The breaking of our heart center is what allows the divine flow to wash over us from within and purify us from sin. Teshuvah is heart-breaking and ego-busting. We have limited to no control over this aspect of the process – we cannot purify our own hearts.

Despite our lack of control, our divine bath doesn’t end with our feeling refreshed. Instead, we must become active participants in our own teshuvah, working to repair relationships with those we have harmed and committing to live differently in the future.

For Ashkenazi communities, the prayers of start this Saturday night. Sephardic communities have already been saying these prayers since the beginning of the Hebrew month of Elul. These prayers are an invitation to go deeper and let our hearts break with our pain for the world and our own individual and collective culpability.

My prayer for us all this year is that we experience the mystical power of teshuvah purifying us from within. And I pray that our purified hearts strengthen us in our renewed commitment to work for a better world in the coming year.

Views expressed in this column are the author’s own and not necessarily those of ľĂľĂČČ. The original article appears in .

works to strengthen interfaith partnerships and civic engagement within American society. ILS is the largest annual gathering of its kind, fostering relationships among faculty, staff, and students and training them in core skills for interfaith work.

This year’s theme, Chords of Democracy, explored the intersection of music and pluralism in American society. Each religious and spiritual community brings its own music to our collective civic conversation – through relationship building, intentional dialogue across difference, and identification of shared values and common goals, our traditions can work in harmony to continue to create a more perfect union.

The Truitt Center delegation included first-year multifaith interns Addison Anderson ’28, Omar Khamis ’28, Tess Trayner ’26; second-year multifaith intern Rocco Albano ’26, Associate Chaplain for Jewish life Rabbi Maor Greene, Associate University Chaplain Rev. Julie Tonnesen, and Interim Assistant Sirector for Jewish Life Communications and Development Carly Gray Adler. ľĂľĂČČ learned about the vision, knowledge, and skills of interfaith leadership, while staff learned strategies for fostering learning environments for pluralism, developing student interfaith leadership, and managing conflict.

Brian Pennington, director of the Center for the Study of Religion, Culture, and Society and professor of religious studies also attended the summit. As a recipient of an Interfaith America grant last year, he developed “Bridging Faith and Health,” a religious literacy certificate program for the School of Health Sciences, Brian participated in the summit’s Faith and Health track to explore local communities of faith as public health assets.

“One line that really stuck with me throughout the conference was that pluralism is not just diversity but diversity in action,” said Addison Anderson, on how her own understanding of diversity has evolved. “Each person at that conference or on this campus has a unique story, perspective and belief system that makes our community diverse. Only by highlighting those differences can we build a stronger community and foster mutual respect and understanding.”

Similarly, Tess Trayner describes how they learned that “religious plurality isn’t about tolerating or ignoring difference. It’s about building community with people who may have insurmountable differences and embracing that reality. It means having dialogue on difficult topics, learning to respect, relate, and cooperate across worldviews.”

The Jewish calendar understands the three weeks between the 17th of Tammuz and 9th of Av as a time of intense mourning, when we remember the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem. Because of my childhood experiences, I used to have trouble associating destruction with summer. Not this summer.

During a late June heatwave, I used our local river – the Eno River – as a mikveh. On the Fourth of July, my family and I enjoyed a pool day with splash contests, coin-diving, and a greased watermelon competition. Two days later, our region, like Texas, was inundated in a . Flooding has happened throughout human history. However, with the onset of climate change, the intensity and frequency of flooding has dramatically increased, including just this week in the New York area.

The flooding killed several people including a member of our synagogue. It severely damaged homes, roads, and properties. Our local pool was eight feet underwater. The Eno River has been contaminated from leaked sewage and other pollutants. Riverside trails are closed indefinitely as officials evaluate the damage. I don’t know the next time I will be able to immerse in the Eno River safely.

It has felt like the three weeks started early.

On this first Shabbat of the three weeks, we will read a special haftarah: . Jeremiah was sent by God to warn Judah and Jerusalem of their impending destruction. He had the unenviable task of proclaiming to the people that their lives were about to rupture in ways they could not imagine.

In , God tells Jeremiah,

See, I appoint you on this day
Over nations and kingdoms:
To uproot and to pull down,
To destroy and to overthrow,
To build and to plant.
I used to read Jeremiah as a failed prophet. He was sent to warn Judah and Jerusalem of their impending destruction. Despite his warnings, they did not repent. Jerusalem was destroyed and its leaders taken into exile.

These days, I read Jeremiah differently. It may be that the destruction Jeremiah was tasked with proclaiming was unavoidable. Jeremiah was appointed to tell the truth of the devastation that would befall Jerusalem and to encourage people to find a way to live beyond it. It was never within Jeremiah’s power to avert disaster.

From this perspective, Jeremiah was a wildly successful prophet. He correctly proclaimed doom and hope. He did not deny the truth of the traumatic events facing Jerusalem. But as they unfolded, he was also able to give people hope amid the destruction of everything that they had ever known.

If you transpose the book of Jeremiah onto our times, Jeremiah could be prophesying about the climate crisis. We have all heard the warnings from climate scientists, and yet we have so far been unable to avoid barreling towards irreparable harm to our planet. Jeremiah’s language of “uproot” and “pull down” doesn’t even feel like a metaphor when surveying destruction from flooding.

However, Jeremiah doesn’t just proclaim uprooting, pulling down, destroying, and overthrowing. Jeremiah also encourages Judeans to build and plant. He encourages resilience in the face of unspeakable tragedy. He encourages hope amidst despair.

Before destruction comes, it is hard to imagine or prepare for it. But after destruction comes, it can be hard to find hope.

The season of the three weeks is an invitation to find a dynamic balance between hope and despair. Not only can we imagine destruction on a scale we have never seen, we can also imagine what it might look like to build, plant, and thrive after the unimaginable has occurred.

Views expressed in this column are the author’s own and not necessarily those of ľĂľĂČČ. The original article appears in .

In working with my students, I often wrestle with the question of how to create a common set of expectations for my students while also honoring that they are arriving with a diverse range of experiences, backgrounds, skills, personalities and interests. As their supervisor, I must balance setting and upholding shared norms with honoring individual differences.

This week’s Torah reading, , shows how the ancient Israelites also struggled with balancing upholding shared communal norms across personal differences.

The parsha presents a novel legal situation for the nascent Israelite community. A half-Israelite man has profaned God’s name. For a full Israelite, this would mean execution. However, should this outsider be held to the same legal standard?

The answer, conveyed from God by Moses, is a resounding yes. However, this is not the end of the matter. Moses quickly launches into a longer explanation on the law of retribution (). The law of retribution teaches that the punishment should fit the crime: In cases of bodily damage, “an eye for an eye” and “a tooth for a tooth.” In cases of death, “a life for a life.” Moses concludes, “You shall have one law for stranger and citizen alike: I am Adonai your God.” ().

The meaning of this verse seems obvious: It does not matter if a person is a native or foreigner—the law is the same for everyone. However, the ancient practice of the law of retribution and the meaning of Leviticus 24:22 are anything but clear-cut.

From biblical times and through the rabbinic period and beyond, a person would have received damages for an injured eye, tooth, or limb in the form of monetary compensation. This is because not all organs or limbs are of equal value-–after all, would the eye of a blind person hold the same monetary value as one for a person who sees ()? Rabbinic law has a complex system for determining the precise sum and there was no uniform amount of money that would have been paid ()

Saying that the law is the same for the stranger and the citizen alike does not mean that every case has the same result. Instead, it means that the law must be applied equally to everyone. Equal application of the law does not result in uniformity of judgment because every case is different.

In working with my students, I have learned that having a standard set of expectations around participation and performance is crucial. Much of the work of the internship supports the broader work of our multifaith center. ľĂľĂČČ who do not meet these expectations add to the workload of their fellow cohort members and professional staff. If unaddressed, such behavior leads to low-quality work and resentment among the team.

However, my students are all different. A student majoring in communication design can create a quality flier for an event in 15 minutes – a potentially impossible task for a student of a different major. An extroverted student may engage with others more easily, while an introverted student may naturally have keener listening skills. Finally, some students may need adjustments to their expected participation in planning certain religious festivals because of restrictions stemming from their own religious traditions.

Finding a balance between having a common set of expectations and allowing for individual differences is a dynamic process. In supervising students in their multifaith work, finding this balance is essential. Like in Parashat Emor, there is one law for everyone; however, the application of that law will look different in each individual case.

Views expressed in this column are the author’s own and not necessarily those of ľĂľĂČČ. The original article appears in .

My experience reading the news these days is the opposite of looking at my friend’s mirror. I struggle to find a sense of hope, joy, and beauty. I see the world moving further away from caring for the most vulnerable of society – the foreigner, the widow, and the orphan. I do not see myself or my values reflected in the new world order that is forming.

This week’s Torah portion, , reminds me of my friend’s mirror. Buried within a detailed record of every item donated to construct the Mishkan and the high priest’s clothing is a description of a reflective plate on the high priest’s diadem (). The plate was made of the purest gold and had incised upon it, “Holy to Adonai.”

The Zohar says that this gold plate was actually a mirror that reflected the character of anyone who looked at it. Rather than seeing the gold plate as an ancient Near-Eastern fashion item, the Zohar recognizes that the plate does not just label the high priest as holy. Instead, everyone who sees themselves reflected in the plate also sees that they are holy.

Mirrors have long been an important metaphor in Jewish mystical traditions. Earliest traditions may go all the way back to : God speaks to most prophets in dreams, riddles, and ˛ú˛ąłľłľ˛ą°ů’ałó – this could be translated as either in a vision or in a mirror (cf. ). However, God speaks with Moses mouth-to-mouth (directly) and ˛ú˛ąłľłľ˛ą°ů’ełó, which means clearly or in a clear vision.

Jewish tradition holds that everyone except Moses sees the world in a distorted, incomplete fashion – through a mirror. We all have our own biases, filters, and preconceived notions of the world. We also perceive others as distorted reflections of ourselves, a phenomenon we now call psychological projection.

One of the main goals of Jewish mysticism is to polish our mirror. Through prayer, contemplation, and introspection (), we can come to perceive reality more clearly.

Like my friend’s affirmation mirror, adds a wrinkle to how we might understand the metaphor of mirrors. The mirror-plate does not just reflect our character, but it also adds the written affirmation that we are holy. This affirmation corrects any potential distortion an onlooker may have had about their worthiness – they, too, are holy to God.

Nowadays, the construction of our sacred communities looks different than in Biblical times. For starters, rabbis do not go around wearing reflective gold plates on their heads. However, rabbis and lay leaders alike are still constructing communities in which all who participate can see themselves as holy, valuable, and belonging.

For many of us, it can be challenging to see ourselves reflected in the news today. If a person only determines their self-worth by the media they consume, they will have a distorted sense of self. When societies do not care for the vulnerable or let everyone know that they have inherent worth as human beings, it becomes even more important that communities of faith do so.

It is upon us to build and strengthen communities that reflect our values. We must find ways to continue to affirm to each other and to reassure the vulnerable: “You are loved” and “You are holy.”

Views expressed in this column are the author’s own and not necessarily those of ľĂľĂČČ. The original article appears in .

Many of us have heard the story of the Exodus, but it deserves a closer look. The children of Israel are enslaved in Egypt. Hearing their cries, God rescues them. Freed from Pharaoh, the Israelites are now free to serve God. God graciously offers them laws (i.e., the Torah) that will make their lives and society awesome – yay! This is a great story. However, this may not be the whole story.

How free are the Israelites, really? After all, they’ve gone from being Pharaoh’s slaves to refugees wandering around in the wilderness. They are dependent on God for food, water, protection and direction. In fact, slavery and service are the same word in Hebrew, avodah. This raises an uncomfortable moral question – are Israelites freed from Pharaoh only to become enslaved to God?

Approximately 1600 years ago, three ancient rabbis wrestled with a similar question (). The first rabbi (Rabbi Avdimi bar Ḥama bar Ḥasa) expands on the biblical text and describes how when Israel was standing at Sinai, God “flipped the mountain up over their heads like a tub” and said to them “If you accept the Torah, great! But if not, there will be your burial.” Here the image of the mountain held over the heads of the Israelites shows how desperate their situation was – they would likely die if they did not accept God’s offer.

The second rabbi (Rav Aḥa bar Ya’akov) responds and asks if Israel has been coerced into accepting the covenant. If so, wouldn’t the entire Torah be void? After all, legal agreements entered into under force or duress are invalid. This ľĂľĂČČ questions the entire moral foundation of Jewish law.

The third rabbi (Rava) claims that while the original covenant at Sinai may have been invalid, the Jewish people fully accepted the Torah during the time of Esther (). During those days their acceptance wasn’t motivated by coercion, but gratitude. The reading of this verse may be a stretch for us – in Esther the verse refers Jews joyfully accepting the obligation to observe Purim, not the entire Torah. This rabbi is basically saying, “well yes, the circumstances of the original covenant may have been a tad suspect, but don’t worry, everything is fine now.”

Ever since I learned this ľĂľĂČČ, it has sat with me. As a mostly observant Jew deeply committed to Jewish pluralism, I also think it teaches three lessons for our current times:

First, the ancient rabbis were not afraid to ask hard questions or state uncomfortable truths. These rabbis were responsible for constructing rabbinic Judaism from the ashes of the destruction of the Second Temple. Despite having committed their lives to God and Jewish Law, they brazenly question both.

Second, the rabbis are not interested in a Judaism that is characterized by coercion. While it is true that they believed all Jews are bound by Jewish law, there is a difference between voluntarily taking on an obligation and being coerced into agreeing to do something you don’t want to do. The ancient rabbis believed that Torah was both an obligation and a gift from God. Torah was and is meant to bless the Jewish people and, by extension, the world.

Third and relatedly, I believe the ancient rabbis would want us, Jews and non-Jews alike, to engage with Torah from places of curiosity, gratitude, connection, joy and wonder. Those new to Judaism may not know this, but in today’s pluralistic Jewish world, we are all Jews by choice. We make choices about which Jewish rituals and traditions we choose to practice. We choose how we understand the concept of obligation or even if this language speaks to us at all. Although our conceptions of Judaism are radically different from those of the ancient rabbis, I cannot imagine that they would want us to engage in Jewish rituals and practices simply because we feel like we would be bad Jews if we did not. We Jews should do Judaism because we love it.

My hope for everyone attending this conference is that we can explore various religious and spiritual traditions in the spirit of the ancient rabbis. I encourage you to ask hard questions with generosity of spirit – doing so is a sign of respect. I invite you to engage or not engage in activities as makes sense for where you are in your life right now. While I encourage you to attend as many conference events as possible, you don’t need to do so from a place of guilt. Instead, I invite you to engage from a place of curiosity, gratitude, and joy. Finally, I encourage you to make conscious choices about how you participate and show up as yourselves in this conference. I hope that our time and presence together will be a gigantic blessing for us all. Shabbat shalom.

I value robust policy debates that respectfully engage with a diversity of opinions. I do not expect that everyone in this country will accept my understanding of gender. However, over the past few years, I have observed the normalization of hateful rhetoric against trans / non-binary folks masquerading as policy debate.

Many of the students I serve are also genderqueer. Others are immigrants or budding climate activists. I find myself at a loss for words. I can’t tell them that everything will work out okay, because I don’t know that it will. The darkness we are experiencing is palpable.

This week’s parsha, , contains a lot of darkness and night. Darkness can be a source of fear, anxiety, and despair. However, darkness can also be a source of safety, hope, and freedom. Here are some passages with darkness or night:

• Locusts that darken the land ()
• A plague of darkness so thick it can be touched ()
• God telling Moses that God will go out around midnight among the Egyptians ()
• Israelites instructed to eat Passover sacrifice during the night () and burn leftovers by morning ()
• In the middle of the night God struck down the firstborns in Egypt, Pharaoh rose in the night and summoned Moses and Aaron in the night ().
• Finally, describing Passover: “That was for Adonai a night of vigil to bring them out of the land of Egypt; that same night is Adonai’s, one of vigil for all the children of Israel throughout the ages.” ()

The symbolic meaning of darkness and night in these passages is complex. On the one hand, darkness brings Egypt’s suffering, culminating in the death of all firstborns in Egypt, many of whom were innocent (; ). On the other hand, darkness brings freedom for the children of Israel. Darkness symbolizes uncertainty and change. It represents the grave, the womb, or both.

It is tempting to read the Passover story as an allegory, assigning contemporary figures into ancient roles. However, doing so elides the precarity of the moment: when living in dark times, there is no way to know what will happen. The night can lead to our destruction or our liberation.

My prayer for all of us experiencing darkness in these times is that like God and the children of Israel, we keep vigil. I pray that we gather together, honoring and celebrating who we are even as we continue to engage in respectful dialogue across lines of difference. I pray that we work for the safety of the most vulnerable of our society. And I pray that these dark times will eventually lead to freedom for us all.

Views expressed in this column are the author’s own and not necessarily those of ľĂľĂČČ. The original article appears in .

This week’s parsha famously recounts Jacob’s name change. After wrestling with a shadowy divine opponent all night, Jacob demands that his angel opponent bless him. It does so, renaming Jacob Israel. Jacob’s new name reveals to all who encounter him a core part of his identity: he has struggled and prevailed against human and divine opponents ().

For all that this encounter reveals, much remains hidden. Exactly who was Jacob’s shadowy divine opponent? Jacob makes inquiries, asking, “Pray, tell me, what is your name?” The divine being demurs, asking Jacob, “Why have you asked me this – for my name?” ()

I had always understood Jacob’s question to be evidence of his impudence. Unsatisfied with having received such a powerful blessing of a new identity, Jacob pushes for more. Manoach has a similar conversation with an angel who elaborates, “My name is [too] wonderful.”  (). Manoach cannot know it.

reveals that Jacob’s question and the angel’s response may not reflect Jacob’s impudence, but rather his ignorance. Rav in the name of Rabbi Yosei Bar Dostai teaches a midrash about the nature of angels’ names based on two other biblical verses.

In , [God] appoints the number of the stars, gives names to each. Here, stars are understood as angels, part of the heavenly host. However, in , the prophet asks his audience to Lift up your eyes high and see, who created these? The One who sends out their host by number, who calls each by name.

At first glance, these verses appear to be saying the same thing: God gives names to the angels / stars / heavenly hosts. However, the wording of these verses is slightly different: in Psalm 147:4, God gives names (plural) to each, but in Isaiah 40:26, God calls each by name (singular). Because God has given both a name and names to each divine being, the only logical rabbinic conclusion is that each angel must have multiple names.

This midrash concludes that the angel couldn’t tell Manoach (or Jacob) its name because the angel itself did not know what its name would be changed into. further clarifies, explaining that angels have no fixed names. Instead, angels’ names change depending on the service God has sent them to perform. Angels themselves do not know their future names nor, by extension, their future identities.

This unusual feature of angel names has me thinking about how we approach our own professional identities. In my work mentoring college students, I often encounter students trying to figure out what career they wish to pursue. We often tell college students to follow their passions. However, what if our professional identities were less determined by our personal passions and more by what the present moment demands of us?

Like Jacob, we can find real power in struggling and coming to know who we are more deeply. However, there is also power in not knowing our own identity. An angel’s lack of a fixed identity is what allows it to adapt to each new moment of service.

Our world will continue to change in profound ways we cannot anticipate. Rather than knowing exactly who we are, not having a fixed identity may allow us to serve the world better. Like angels, we can adapt who we are to meet the moment in blessing.

Views expressed in this column are the author’s own and not necessarily those of ľĂľĂČČ. The original article appears

Traditionally, the two big themes of Sukkot are vulnerability and joy. We embrace the vulnerability of our human existence by dwelling in a temporary home – our sukkah. The holiday is also called z’man simchateinu, the season of our joy. These two themes of vulnerability and joy work together – by being in touch with the vulnerability of our human existence, we can experience a deeper sense of joy.

Joy and vulnerability are also key themes in the book of Kohelet (Ecclesiastes), . Kohelet opens with a full-blown existential crisis: “Utter futility!—said Koheleth—Utter futility! All is futile! What real value is there for a person in all the gains they make beneath the sun?” ().

Kohelet eventually accepts (or resigns himself) to the fate of humanity. He describes in , “Only this, I have found, is a real good: that one should eat and drink and get pleasure with all the gains they make under the sun, during the numbered days of life that God has given them; for that is their portion.” Kohelet learns to find joy alongside vulnerability.

The problem for many of us today is that Kohelet’s existential angst (and its resolution) are founded on a false premise. In , Kohelet observes, “One generation goes, another comes, But the earth remains the same forever.” Kohelet believes that humanity cannot fundamentally change existence on earth. However, living with the catastrophic effects of global warming, we now know this to be untrue.

There is a Midrash (ancient interpretation) that addresses humanity’s destructive potential. states:

“Look at God’s work – for who can straighten what He has twisted? (). When the Blessed Holy One created the first human, He took him and led him round all the trees of the Garden of Eden and said to him: ‘Look at My works, how beautiful and praiseworthy they are! And all that I have created, it was for you that I created it. Pay attention that you do not corrupt and destroy My world: if you corrupt it, there is no one to repair it after you.'”

The Midrash transforms a verse from Kohelet into the existential question of our time: if we destroy our planet, who will repair it? Future generations must live with the consequences of our behavior.

My hope for us all celebrating Sukkot this year is not that we dwell in a place of guilt, anxiety, despair, or numbness. have shown that we must work with our feelings, rather than avoiding them or becoming stuck in them. Our feelings about the climate crisis must be welcome guests in our Sukkah.

This year, I hope we experience a deeper sense of our own vulnerability. We are connected to this earth and dependent on it for survival. Like Kohelet, I hope that embracing our vulnerability leads to joy. There is certainly much work to do in repairing the world. I pray that the joy we experience during Sukkot strengthens our resolve to do our part in caring for our planet in the year to come.

Views expressed in this column are the author’s own and not necessarily those of ľĂľĂČČ. The original article appears .

Sixteen years ago, I enrolled in a Christian seminary to become a Presbyterian pastor. I had dreamed for many years about serving God and my community in this role. I never could have imagined that beginning seminary would catalyze my leaving Christianity for good.

Writing today as a Conservative rabbi, I feel deeply satisfied with how my spiritual journey has unfolded. I feel blessed to practice Judaism and belong to the Jewish people, even holding a place of leadership. However, for many years I still carried a sense of personal and professional failure around my experience in seminary. How could I have been so wrong about my own spirituality? I was not even in the right religion. By almost every standard of measure available to me at the time, I had failed.

This week’s Parsha, Eikev, teaches us how to integrate failure and shattered dreams into the stories we tell about ourselves. In Deuteronomy 10:1-2, Moses describes how God instructed him to carve two new tablets like those that Moses had broken.

The name Deuteronomy (from Greek) means “second law” and features Moses retelling the stories of the Israelites wandering in the desert. The original story of the Golden Calf occurs earlier in Exodus. After returning from Mount Sinai to learn that the Israelites had abandoned God in favor of an idol, Moses angrily shatters the tablets inscribed by God. He must carve new ones. In that story, the broken tablets serve as a potent symbol of Israel’s failure to follow God’s ways.

In Deuteronomy 10:2, the symbolic meaning of the broken tablets is more complex. God instructs Moses to put the tablets into the ark: “I will inscribe on the tablets the commandments that were on the first tablets that you smashed, and you shall deposit them in the ark.” Does this mean only the two new tablets, or does it also include the fragments of the old tablets? While the biblical text is unclear, traditions in the Talmud are not (see Berakhot 8b; Bava Batra 14b; Menachot 99a). The Talmud explains that the command is for Moses to place both the new, unbroken tablets and the pieces of the old, shattered tablets together into the ark. God still sees both pairs of tablets – shattered and whole – as holy.

This second account of the fate of the broken tablets shows us how to embrace our failures. Not only should we learn and grow from them, but we also may need to retell and reframe those same experiences. Before the incident of the Golden Calf, the Israelites may have thought that they needed to follow God’s commandments perfectly for God to love them and bless them. Instead, after their failure, the Israelites practice teshuvah (“repentance” or “return”) and learn that God’s fundamental nature is compassion.

Although not always obvious at the time, broken dreams open us to new perspectives and opportunities. Handled with humility, our failures can deepen our relationships with others.

In my own life, I have slowly learned to retell the story of my failing to become a pastor. With the help of dear friends and teachers, I have come to see that period of my life as one marked by integrity and courage. What I had initially experienced as a failure was, in fact, a crucial piece of a profound spiritual success – my becoming Jewish. I was able to integrate this old, shattered dream of mine into the broader story of my life.

What are we to do with the broken pieces of our lives? The Torah teaches us that we are to hold these shattered dreams close to our hearts and cherish them. They are a crucial part of what makes us who we are.

Views expressed in this column are the author’s own and not necessarily those of ľĂľĂČČ.