Rabbi’s Message: March 31, 2026: Passover Seder

The Passover Seder is one of the most practiced rituals and holy days within Judaism. This is fascinating because one of the most remarkable things about the Passover Seder is that it begins not with answers, but with questions. Before the story of liberation is told, before the plagues or the crossing of the sea, the Haggadah pauses for the Mah Nishtanah — the Four Questions. A child, or anyone willing to take on the role of learner, asks: Why is this night different from all other nights?

In Jewish tradition, this is not a small detail. It is the doorway into the entire evening. We do not begin the Seder with certainty. We begin with curiosity.

Psychologists today are increasingly recognizing something that Jewish tradition has long practiced: curiosity – especially when combined with empathy – is one of the healthiest responses the human mind can have to uncertainty. When we look at the narrative of our ancestors that we repeat each year – the trauma and profound conflict that they endured in Egypt, the unmooring uncertainty that stepping into the wilderness caused – with empathy and then we frame it with curiosity, we train ourselves on how we can see the uncertainty in our world today. 

When the brain encounters something it does not fully understand, it can respond in two ways. Sometimes uncertainty activates fear — the instinct to retreat, to defend, or to rush toward quick conclusions. But curiosity activates something different. It turns the unknown into an invitation to explore.

Research in psychology shows that people who cultivate curiosity tend to tolerate ambiguity more easily, experience less anxiety, and remain more open to learning and connection. Curiosity allows us to stay present with complexity rather than immediately resolving it.¹ In other words, when we create space for it, curiosity transforms uncertainty from something threatening into something that has the potential to be meaningful.

This insight feels especially relevant right now, in a world that often seems full of unanswered questions. Many of us carry concerns about the future — about ourselves, our relationships, our communities, our families, or the wider world. The instinct to seek certainty is natural. We want clarity. We want stability. We want to know what will happen next. But the Seder gently reminds us that growth rarely begins with certainty. Instead, it begins with the courage to ask questions.

Jewish learning honors this posture. The Talmud even teaches, “Much have I learned from my teachers, more from my colleagues, and most from my students.”² Learning deepens not when answers multiply, but when questions do. In the Mussar tradition — the Jewish spiritual practice of ethical self-refinement — curiosity can be closely connected to humility. Humility does not mean thinking less of ourselves; it means recognizing that our understanding is always partial. There is always more to learn, more to notice, more to hear.³

Curiosity becomes a spiritual discipline: the willingness to listen before assuming we already know.

Perhaps that is why the Seder places questions at its very beginning. Not just physical freedom but spiritual liberation, it suggests, begins with curiosity. The willingness to look at our lives and our world and ask what we have not yet noticed. As we approach Passover this year, two questions from the Seder spirit might be worth carrying with us: What questions have I stopped asking about my life because I assume I already know the answers? And perhaps even more gently: What feels different this year — in my life, in my relationships, or in the world around me? These are not questions that demand immediate answers. In fact, their power may lie in allowing us to sit with them for a while. This kind of curiosity invites patience and listening.  It invites the possibility that the story is still unfolding, in every moment, for every generation.

And perhaps this is one of the quiet emotional purposes of Passover. Not simply to remember an ancient story of liberation, but to practice the posture that makes true liberation possible — a mind and heart that remain open, attentive, and willing to ask again:

Why is this night different from all other nights? Because sometimes the path toward freedom begins with nothing more — and nothing less — than the courage to stay curious.

Footnotes

1. Todd B. Kashdan and Paul J. Silvia, “Curiosity and Interest: The Benefits of Thriving on Novelty and Challenge,” Oxford Handbook of Positive Psychology, 2nd ed. (Oxford University Press, 2009); and George Loewenstein, “The Psychology of Curiosity,” Psychological Bulletin 116, no. 1 (1994): 75–98.

2. Babylonian Talmud, Ta’anit 7a.

3. Alan Morinis, Everyday Holiness: The Jewish Spiritual Path of Mussar (Boston: Trumpeter Books, 2007), 46–47.

Reflections from the Temple President

A Passover Memory Across Waters

There are certain Passover memories that stay with us not just as traditions, but as moments that shape how we understand the story itself.

One of mine takes me far from Lake Tahoe—to the shores of the Red Sea. Years ago, when our family was living in Riyadh, we shared a Passover Seder unlike any other. We gathered for a picnic-style Seder with a Muslim family—dear friends—spreading out our meal near the water, looking across the sea that has carried the Passover story for generations.

As we sat together, I remember looking out over the water and thinking about the Israelites’ journey—about courage, uncertainty, and faith. And I remember sharing that moment with my children, recognizing how extraordinary it was: celebrating a deeply Jewish story of freedom alongside friends of another faith, united in friendship, curiosity, and respect.

That experience has stayed with me because it reminds me that the essence of Passover is not confined to one place or one time. It is a story that invites us, in every generation, to find our own meaning.

Here at Lake Tahoe, we are blessed with beauty and a sense of peace that can sometimes make the challenges of the wider world feel far away. But Passover gently calls us to look deeper.

We may not be standing at the Red Sea—but we can stand at the shores of Lake Tahoe, look out across its vast waters, and reflect on what connects us all. The longing for freedom. The importance of community. The responsibility to care for one another. The understanding that each of us, in our own way, is on a journey.

Passover reminds us that we are not meant to walk that journey alone.

As we gather this year around our Seder tables—with family, with friends, with community—I hope we take time for meaningful conversation, for storytelling, and for reflection. May we listen closely, share openly, and find connection in both oursimilarities and our differences.

And as we move through the holiday, I look forward to celebrating together at our Mimosa Cookie Party—a joyful way to mark the final crossing of the Red Sea and to step forward, together, into what comes next.

Wishing each of you a Passover filled with family, friendship, meaningful conversation, and a deep sense of connection.

Chag Sameach.

— Heidi Doyle

President, North Tahoe Hebrew Congregation

Rabbi’s Message: March 24, 2026: “Next Year In Jerusalem”

A five-minute walk from the Tomb of King David and the room traditionally associated with the Last Supper sits an unassuming office, run by my friend Daniel Hasson. Inside, the Jerusalem Intercultural Center quietly serves the intricate mosaic of people who call this city home — a city held sacred by Muslims, Christians, and Jews alike.

As I chatted with Daniel, the Center’s Executive Director, he reflected:

“There is the spiritual Jerusalem that we dream about—and then there is the Jerusalem where people have to catch the bus. It is a spiritual city, but it is also deeply down-to-earth. As the Jewish people, we live our spirituality in daily life, hour by hour. That is true for us here, too.”

The Jerusalem Intercultural Center (JICC) works at that intersection of vision and reality. It supports residents across cultural and religious lines — from Arab Israelis and Palestinians to Haredi (ultra-Orthodox) Jewish communities — helping them access essential, everyday resources. At the same time, it partners with Jerusalem’s municipality to extend services more equitably across the city’s diverse populations.

In this way, JICC acts as a bridge: connecting communities who share common urban challenges with the systems designed to support them. They teach residents how to access their rights, and help city institutions better understand — and serve — the full breadth of Jerusalem’s population.

In a time that often feels defined by intractable conflict, this work is both practical and profound. It is grounded in a simple but radical idea: that every person deserves dignity.

Right now, that mission is especially urgent. For the first time in recent memory, Jerusalem has come under heavy rocket fire. In such moments, access to shelter becomes a matter of life and death. Yet not all communities receive — or trust — the same channels of information. JICC steps into that gap, translating safety protocols into the languages and cultural contexts of the city’s many communities, ensuring that life-saving information is both accessible and actionable. At the same time, they are partnering with the municipality to offer emotional resilience workshops, helping both Haredi and Arab Israeli communities build tools to navigate fear, uncertainty, and trauma.

As Daniel shared with me: “At the end of the day, people need to live their lives with dignity.”

JICC’s work is rooted in that truth. By honoring cultural differences, strengthening communication, and expanding access to vital resources, they are helping to lay the groundwork for something larger: the possibility of peace. Not all at once — but step by step, relationship by relationship, moment by moment.

As we approach Passover  — one of the most widely observed rituals in Jewish life — we prepare to gather around our tables for first and second night Seders, and later, for Mimouna. Each year, we end the Seder with the words: “Next Year in Jerusalem.” We are meant to say these words with hope. Not only as a longing for travel or return, but as a vision of what Jerusalem might yet become. The name “Jerusalem” itself gestures toward wholeness and peace — a city not only dreamed of, but lived in with dignity.

This year, as Jerusalem faces both violence and deep internal strain, I find my hope grounded in the work of organizations like the Jerusalem Intercultural Center — and in people like my friend Daniel, who choose, every day, to build bridges in a place that so often feels divided.

Next Year in Jerusalem.Next year with dignity.Next year with peace.Next year with wholeness — for each and every one of us.

If you would like to join us for our communities’ holiday celebrations, please sign up here.

If you would like to learn more and support this vision of Jerusalem, please click here.

Sermon: Parashat Vayakhel-Pekudei

Rabbi Lauren’s Sermon on March 13, 2026 at Temple Bat Yam

Not a sound overly dramatic, but I’ve been thinking a lot about Job lately. 

In the book of Job God, and a heavenly force known as the opposer debate about the nature of human beings. Then, in order to test their theory, they pick a human being and experiment on him. That human being is Job. Job loses everything in this experiment. His wife and children are treated like sacks of grain that one can exchange for another without thought or consideration. In the end, when Job asks why any of this happened, God tells Job that the universe is a mystery to human beings like him. The only choice that Job has is to choose to see his blessings and feel gratitude or to choose to see his curses and, I’m quoting the Bible here, die.

The whole thing is frankly shocking. And I never thought God looked particularly good coming out of this story. So it was always a conundrum to me why it was included in our Bible, the holiest of our texts. The seeming capriciousness of the universe in this narrative can be totally galling. I had always looked at it from a theological perspective, trying to analyze why this kind of laissez-faire theology might be included amongst all of the otherwise interesting and often appealing options within our Bible.

Recently though, I started to switch to a pastoral lens when reading this text. 

So many of us end up experiencing a portion of Job’s lot. Loss without meaning, tragedy without purpose, trauma without rhyme or reason. It is not necessarily a reflection of how bad or good we are. These experiences might be utterly out of our control; nonetheless they can still cause us deep, emotional or even physical damage or loss. Yet, as Rabbi Harry Kushner stated simply, sometimes bad things happen to good people. The best that we can do is try to figure out how we can, like Job, still find the capacity to recognize even the smallest blessings in these moments. 

In this week’s Torah portion, the Israelites finish building their traveling holy space, the Mishkan. The air first fills with smoke and a cloud descends on their beautiful communal, artistic creation. This mysterious cloud inhabits the center of their camp and their newly blessed space until it turns into a pillar of fire by night. It must’ve been terrifying to be an Israelite at that moment. The deep unknowing of what might come, all while living in an unprotected wilderness. The horror of realizing that you need to come to peace with the presence of these raw, destructive forces placed the heart of your community. The terror of uncertainty — from forces without and now within — must have been overwhelming. 

How do we develop distress tolerance or endurance in the face of this kind of existential discomfort? How do human beings learn to endure moments like these — moments when the cloud descends and the future becomes unknowable?

One of the first steps in building distress tolerance is simply learning to name what we feel.

Neuroscientists have discovered that when we put emotions into words—when we say I am afraid, or I am angry, or I am grieving—the brain actually begins to calm itself. The part of the brain that sounds the alarm quiets, and the part that helps us think clearly is able to start to come back online.¹ In other words, naming our feelings does not make us weaker.  It makes us more capable of living with them.

But the work does not stop there. Once we name an emotion, we can ask it a question:

What are you here to teach me?

Fear might be telling us that something we love is at risk. Grief might be reminding us how deeply we are capable of loving and how much things around us are in flux or changing. Jealousy points us towards what we did not even know that we wanted.

As we navigate this modern world, the full rainbow of our emotions are not enemies. They are messengers.

And yet the Mussar tradition reminds us that emotions must also be well-placed and well-sized. Not every fear deserves to rule us. Not every anger deserves to guide our actions. The spiritual work is to listen to our feelings without letting them become our masters. And this, I think, is what both Job and the Israelites are teaching us.

Job cannot explain his suffering. The Israelites cannot control the cloud and fire that suddenly appear in the center of their camp. Both face a terrifying truth: the universe contains forces beyond their understanding.

And yet neither story ends in despair.

Job eventually says:

“The light of God still shines upon my tent.”
(Job 29:3)

And the Israelites learn to move their tents when the cloud moves and to rest when the cloud rests. They do not eliminate uncertainty. They learn how to live with it. They acknowledge the fear. They tolerate the mystery. And slowly, within that uncertainty, they begin to notice something else: Blessing.

The cloud that first looks terrifying becomes guidance. The wilderness that first looks empty becomes a place where a people learn who they are. Job learns how to repair and heal, even in the face of unimaginable uncertainty within the world. Perhaps that is the real spiritual work of moments like these:

Not pretending we are unafraid.

But learning to say:

Yes, I feel fear.
Yes, I feel grief.
Yes, I feel uncertainty.

And then asking:

What might this moment still have to teach me?

Because even in the wilderness, even under a cloud we do not fully understand, the possibility of blessing remains.

Footnotes

1. Matthew D. Lieberman et al., “Putting Feelings Into Words: Affect Labeling Disrupts Amygdala Activity,” Psychological Science 18, no. 5 (2007): 421–428.

2. Lisa Feldman Barrett, How Emotions Are Made: The Secret Life of the Brain (Boston: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2017).

3. Marsha M. Linehan, DBT Skills Training Manual, 2nd ed. (New York: Guilford Press, 2015).

4. Susan David, Emotional Agility (New York: Avery, 2016).

Moshe Chaim Luzzatto, Mesillat Yesharim (The Path of the Just), trans. Rabbi Shraga Silverstein (Jerusalem: Feldheim, 1966).

Rabbi’s Message: March 17, 2026

By Rabbi Lauren Ben-Shoshan

I thought to myself that I have, possibly, been watching too much of Dr. Orna Guralnik’s television show, Couple’s Therapy. Then, as I read the Haftarah for this week, drawn from Book of Isaiah 43, I realized that it reads like a conversation between partners who have lost their way with one another. On one side, God speaks with longing and frustration:

“You have not called upon Me, Jacob…
you have burdened Me with your sins,
you have wearied Me with your iniquities.” (Isaiah 43:22–24)

The language is strikingly relational. In this case, God sounds like a life partner who feels ignored and taken for granted.

The rabbis noticed this tone as well. In the ancient commentary Pesikta de‑Rav Kahana, the relationship between God and Israel is compared explicitly to a marriage strained by distance — a covenant that carries both love and disappointment, and as we read forward, the hope and possibility of repair. Similarly, Song of Songs Rabbah frequently reads the relationship between God and Israel through the metaphor of lovers who sometimes miss one another but remain bound together by deep longing.

In other words, Isaiah is not describing a broken relationship so much as a relationship in conflict. And yet, what is remarkable is what happens next. Instead of giving up on the relationship, God names hope:

“Do not remember the former things…
I am about to do a new thing;
now it springs forth — do you not perceive it?” (Isaiah 43:18–19)

The prophet Isaiah reframes the conflict not as an ending, but as an opportunity for renewal.

Modern therapists often observe that arguments rarely begin with anger. They begin with unspoken longing, with unmet desire. Underneath conflict are usually questions like:

• What do I really want from this relationship?

• What would feeling loved look like to me?

• What do I hope is still possible here?

When we cannot name those desires, we often fall into patterns of blame, withdrawal, or silence. The rabbis understood this dynamic long before modern methodologies around couple’s therapy. In Babylonian Talmud, Berakhot 32b, the sages describe prayer itself as a form of courageous relationship: “A person should always arrange praise before prayer.” In other words, before we ask for what we need, we must remember that the relationship itself is still alive. That wrapping that relationship in gratitude is a starting point. And that prayer, like healthy conversation, is an act of hope.

As the prophetic conversation continues, Isaiah’s vision invites us to consider a powerful question: What happens when we learn to say what we truly desire out loud? The Haftarah suggests that renewal begins when we are ready to move beyond rehearsing past disappointments and begin speaking honestly about what we hope for.

“I am about to do a new thing,” God says.

Not: I am returning things to the way they were. Andnot: I am pretending nothing happened. But rather: I am ready for something new, that can grow from here.

Rabbinic tradition echoes this idea in Midrash Tehillim, which teaches that God continually renews the world “each day as if it were being created anew.” Renewal is not accidental; it is a rhythm of relationship that we have the power to try to establish for connections with both ourselves and others.

For us, this week’s Haftarah offers an invitation. It begins with naming what is wanted, what is desired. It acknowledges what what frustrates us, but it also then moves into the meaningful work of questioning:

• What do I truly long for here?

• What kind of connection am I hoping to build?

• What would repair or renewal actually look like?

These questions require vulnerability. But they also restore something powerful: agency.

When we name our hopes, we become participants in shaping what comes next.

Isaiah reminds us that conflict does not necessarily mean a relationship has failed. Sometimes it simply means the relationship is asking us to speak more honestly about what matters to us in this new season. The covenant between God and Israel endures not because it avoids tension, but because it continues to make space for longing, for forgiveness, and for new beginnings. 

This requires vulnerability and courage to try something new in a new season. And yet, in this Haftarah we see God model this: “I am about to do a new thing,” the Divine tells us. 

As we approach the new season of spring and the holiday of Passover that celebrates it, what new possibility might emerge if we learned to speak — to ourselves, to one another, to our communities, and to the Divine — about what we truly desire? Because hope often begins in a simple place: the courage to say what we are still longing for.

Rabbis Message: Ki Tisa and Purim and Uncertainty

This week in the Torah, Moses has ascended the mountain. The people have witnessed revelation unlike anything in human history. And then: silence. For forty days. No update. No reassurance. No visible leader descending the mountain with clarity. The Torah notes: “The people saw that Moses was delayed…” (Exodus 32:1). The Hebrew word in this verse, boshesh, means to tarry or to wait, but it also carries shades of shame and disorientation. The people do not simply grow impatient. They grew unregulated. Their faith, their nervous systems begin to unravel. And so they do something deeply human. They attempted to build certainty during an uncertain time. They gathered gold. They convinced Aaron to do something that they knew was wrong. They declare: “This is your god.” and created the Golden Calf. However, in this instance, I would argue that the Golden Calf is not idolatry. It is anxiety management in the face of trauma and profound uncertainty.

Modern psychology has a term for what the Israelites experience: intolerance of uncertainty. Research consistently shows that it is not necessarily negative outcomes that distress us most — it is the “not knowing”. When our world seems scary, when the future is unclear, the brain’s alarm system activates. We scan for threat. We seek closure. We grasp for something, anything that could be solid. Studies on anxiety disorders have found that people often prefer even a bad answer to no answer at all, because ambiguity keeps the stress response activated.

Silence stretches. The body floods. We reach for relief.

In that light, the Golden Calf becomes tragically recognizable in our modern world. How often, when timelines shift or leaders are absent or outcomes are unclear, do we rush to build our own calves? We doomscroll; we make premature decisions; we fill silence with speculation; we cling to conspiracy or anything that resembles clarity.

The Torah’s ancient wilderness this week, the deep uncertainty that the Israelites felt, suddenly seems contemporary.

Ki Tisa sits in the middle of the wilderness journey. Egypt is behind them. The Promised Land is not yet in view. The beginning of revelation has happened, but the relationship is still forming. It is a profoundly liminal moment. And if we widen the lens from the Torah portion to the holiday we are celebrating this week (and join us for Shabbat ShaPurim and Purim in the Powder!), we see that the Book of Esther is also a story of liminality. God’s name never appears in Esther. The divine presence is hidden. The people live under decree and uncertainty. And yet Mordechai says to Esther, “Mi yodea — Who knows?” (Esther 4:14). Not: “This is the plan.”  Not: “Everything will work out.” But simply: “Who knows?”

In both Ki Tisa and the Book of Esther, the people are asked to live without visible reassurance. The question is not whether uncertainty will come. The question is what we will build in response.

When we feel powerless, we crave control. When we feel afraid, we crave something tangible or something that helps us detatch from the challenging liminality of this moment, moving our minds back to something familiar. In moments of communal anxiety — political instability, collective grief, health fears, or war — our bodies crave what feels immediate and solid. The emotional equivalent of that Golden Calf glitters. Psychologically, building a metaphorical calf often gives short-term relief but long-term damage. False certainty may calm the nervous system briefly, but it fractures trust, weakens resilience, and distances us from deeper sources of strength. In place of this choice, our Torah portion of the week Ki Tisa asks us to pause and ask: What calves am I tempted to build right now?

Psychologists who study resilience and anxiety consistently point to a key capacity: the ability to tolerate uncertainty. This does not mean liking it. It means remaining steady enough to avoid impulsive reaction. Fortunately, in moments like this, Judaism has been training us in this for millennia.

Shabbat teaches us to stop producing and solving, even when the world is incomplete. The Omer – the spiritual season between Passover and Shavuot – teaches us to count patiently toward revelation, day by day.  The wilderness that we read about in the Torah during this season teaches us to live on manna, even if we are only able to collect enough for just today. Building this spiritual endurance in the face of uncertainty is a skill we can acquire. 

So, what else do we do in order to cultivate this spiritual endurance in the face of uncertainty? 

Purim adds something essential to this conversation: joy. Not as denial. Not as a distraction. But intentional joy as resistance to fear. Research in positive psychology suggests that positive emotions broaden our thinking and increase cognitive flexibility. Joy does not eliminate uncertainty, but it increases our capacity to hold it. Purim asks us to engage in all of the ways that we can bring joy into our lives: Feast. Give gifts. Care for the poor. Wear costumes. Laugh.

It is as if this season in Jewish practice is reminding us that when destruction and uncertainty hang in the air, strengthen your nervous system with connection and delight. Joy is not frivolous. It is psychologically protective; it is the mitzvah of the moment to support our own spirits.

I hope to see you at our Purim celebrations soon. 

Rabbi's Message Feb. 24, 2026 - Psalm 22 for Purim

Shalom,

The Hebrew month of Adar is here, we’re supposed to be joyous!  As we learn from Talmud, “Mishenichnas Adar marbim b'simcha - When [the month of] Adar enters, we increase in joy.” (Ta’anit 29a).  It is with the arrival of Spring, its rebirth, and the coming festival of Purim that inspires such joy.  

The Book of Esther describes a reality of a world upside down, about reversals of fortune.  From Haman’s (booo!) fall from power, King Ahasheurus’ pivot to actually lead, and of course Esther’s transformation to own her Jewish identity, twists and turns of fate and destiny fill the Scroll of Esther.  

We are experiencing twists and turns as well.  The tragedies in Truckee in recent weeks, the weather whiplash, the headlines in the news all echo these feelings of uncertainty.  The world feels upside down.  In our Jewish tradition, there is a Psalm connected to the celebration of Purim, Psalm 22>>>.  According to Rabbinic lore, Esther recited this Psalm as she approached the King seeking salvation for her people, our people.  The Psalm depicts a feeling of despair, of loss and tragedy.  Yet, it rises from these depths with a growing confidence in a feeling of redemption, a recognition that better is possible.  

This was Esther’s way of gaining comfort, even confidence.  Where do we turn today?  Each of us must find our own Psalm 22 in our moment.  That individual search is for each of us.  Yet, collectively, as a community, we turn to each other.  We know that relationships, family, community, friends, perhaps even the natural world have the potential to strengthen.  The network of connection, wherever and everywhere we can notice it, is the supportive and connective tissue of being human.  

The story of Purim reminds us that we are connected and not only particularly as the Jewish people.  The celebration of Purim encourages us to share, to offer gifts to those in need (matanot l’evyonim).  It is a time that we can discover again the beauty and joy of life, along with the severity it also brings, when we cherish the human connection.

As Rabbi Lauren shared in community this past Shabbat:

“We cannot undo what has happened. 

We cannot guarantee safety. 

But we can choose what we build in response.

We can build spaces where fear is named rather than denied.
Where children are protected not only by rules, but by community.
Where joy is not postponed until the world feels safe enough.
Where remembrance and resilience stand side by side.”

May this week inspire us to build beauty in our world and the coming festival of Purim bring us together to celebrate the joy!

Shavua Tov,

Rabbi Evon 

Protecting Our Sacred Community: A Shared Responsibility

Those of us who call Lake Tahoe home know how special this place is. We live, work, and play here because of the natural beauty that surrounds us — the mountains, the lake, the quiet moments that remind us to breathe a little deeper. Tahoe often feels like a refuge from the noise and challenges of larger cities. It’s easy to believe that by living here, we’ve stepped away from many of the world’s troubles.

And yet, the reality is that uncertainty exists everywhere. Even in a place as peaceful as Tahoe, we never truly know when danger might strike.

Our tradition teaches, “V’nishmartem me’od l’nafshoteichem” — “You shall guard your souls carefully” (Deuteronomy 4:15). Protecting life is not optional; it is a sacred obligation.

As President of North Tahoe Hebrew Congregation, my highest priority is — and always will be — the safety of our community. This year, our congregation contracted directly with Placer County Sherrif Office for on-site security following the recommendations of security professionals. Most recently, our Board approved an additional $4,100 to ensure deputies from the Placer County Sheriff’s Department are present on site whenever we gather for worship and community events through the end of June. This was not a difficult decision. When we come together for Shabbat, holidays, and special gatherings, everyone deserves to feel safe, welcomed, and at peace.

At the same time, we are a small congregation with limited resources. These necessary expenses place real strain on our operating budget. Looking ahead to our new fiscal year beginning July 1, we anticipate approximately $6,000 more in security costs to maintain a consistent law enforcement presence.

Pirkei Avot reminds us, “Kol Yisrael arevim zeh bazeh” — all of Israel is responsible for one another (Talmud Shevuot 39a). Safety is not the responsibility of one person or one board; it is a communal mitzvah.

Your generosity has always been the foundation of our congregation’s strength. Every gift — large or small — directly supports the safety of our community and helps ensure that our doors remain open, welcoming, and protected. By contributing to our Security Fund, you are helping provide peace of mind for families, seniors, children, and visitors who come to North Tahoe Hebrew Congregation seeking connection, comfort, and spiritual renewal. Your support today also helps us prepare for the year ahead, allowing us to meet anticipated security needs without compromising our programs or services.

If you are able, I invite you to help support our Security Fund by visiting www.tahoetemple.org and noting “Security Fund” with your donation.

Together, we can ensure that North Tahoe Hebrew Congregation remains what it has always been: a sacred, welcoming, and safe home for Jewish life in our beautiful mountain community.

With gratitude and resolve,

Heidi Doyle

President, North Tahoe Hebrew Congregation

Rabbi’s Message: February 17, 2026

A Gentle Note Before You Read

Before we begin, I want to offer a moment of pastoral care and transparency.

In this week’s message, we engage with Parashat Mishpatim (and Mishnah Ohalot from our Talmud) which includes discussion of miscarriage, pregnancy loss, violence against women, and abortion. These are not abstract topics in Torah and our tradition, and they are not abstract in our lives.

If you are in a tender place right now, please know that it is entirely okay to pause, to skip this message, or to return to it at another time. Listening to ourselves is also a sacred act; and there are resources available to help. Some of these resources are:

• If you are navigating infertility, miscarriage, or stillbirth, compassionate support can be found here: I Was Supposed to Have a Baby — https://iwassupposedtohaveababy.org/

• If you are experiencing domestic or dating violence, confidential Jewish-centered support in Northern California is available through Shalom Bayit: https://shalom-bayit.org/ and Nevada through Jewish Nevada: https://www.jfsalv.org/copy-of-counseling-program 

• If you are processing medical trauma, fear, or lingering distress connected to healthcare experiences, Jewish-grounded resources and guidance are available through the Jewish Trauma Network: https://jewishtrauma.com/

• If you are seeking support related to abortion and reproductive health care, including practical, emotional, and spiritual support rooted in Jewish values, resources are available through the Jewish Abortion Access Coalition and its S.A.F.E. Plan (Support, Advocacy, Funding, Education):  https://www.jewsforabortionaccess.org/ and https://www.jewsforabortionaccess.org/resources-for-repro-care

May this community always be a place where care comes before certainty, and where no one has to carry difficult experiences alone.

Now, let’s get into what the Torah has to say:

This past Shabbat, we read Parashat Mishpatim. It is a Torah portion dense with law, case studies, and moral nuance. It is not romantic. And yet this year, Mishpatim arrived on Valentine’s Day, a day culturally devoted to love, commitment, and care. That coincidence invites a deeper reflection: what happens when relationships turn messy or even dangerous? What does the Torah have to say about the real, embodied complexity of human life? The non-Hallmark parts?

Mishpatim is Torah at its most practical. It does not imagine human beings as perfect abstractions, but as people who live in bodies, in families, in moments of vulnerability and challenge and risk. Among its laws is a brief but powerful case: a pregnant person injured during a struggle, resulting in miscarriage. The Torah’s response is not rhetorical or theological. It is a practical, usable law. And it’s a law that distinguishes clearly between harm to the pregnant person and harm to the pregnancy itself (Exodus 21:22–23).

For generations, Jewish tradition has understood this distinction as meaningful. It is one of the textual foundations for Judaism’s insistence on moral complexity, rather than absolutism, when it comes to pregnancy. Mishpatim teaches that the Torah recognizes gradations of life, responsibility, and harm — and that legal and ethical reasoning must respond to real human situations, not slogans.

This is deeply connected to the core Jewish idea of b’tzelem Elohim, that every human being is created in the image of God. To be made in God’s image is not merely to exist, but to be entrusted with wisdom, agency, and moral responsibility. Jewish tradition has long affirmed that women are full bearers of that divine image, capable of ethical discernment and deserving of trust.

Trust is not a small thing in Judaism. It is the foundation of covenant. To say that women deserve bodily autonomy is not to dismiss the sanctity of life; it is to affirm that those who carry life are already standing on holy ground. Decisions about pregnancy, health, and continuation of life belong first and foremost to the person whose body and soul are most directly involved, guided by medical professionals, Jewish values, and conscience – not by those removed from the intimate realities of sometimes messy but always necessary care.

This understanding is made explicit in later Jewish law. The Mishnah teaches:

“If a woman is in hard labor, the fetus may be dismembered in her womb and removed limb by limb, because her life takes precedence over its life. But once its head has emerged, it may not be touched, for one life may not be set aside for another.”
(Mishnah Ohalot 7:6)

This text is not casual. It is careful, restrained, and morally serious. It affirms that life is sacred — and that there is a fundamental difference between the potential for a life and an existing life itself. The life, health, and dignity of the pregnant person come first. Jewish law does not erase tragedy or heart-breaking difficulty; it responds to it with humility and compassion.

This is why Jewish communities mark Reproductive Shabbat each year: not as a political gesture, but as a religious one. “Repro Shabbat” is a moment to study our own texts, reclaim our moral voice, and remember that Judaism has never reduced pregnancy to a single legal or theological claim. Instead, our tradition asks us to weigh life, suffering, risk, and responsibility with care.

Much of this work in the United States has been stewarded by the National Council of Jewish Women, one of the oldest and most enduring Jewish organizations in American history. Founded in 1893, NCJW reflects a classic strand of American Jewish culture: women translating Jewish values into civic responsibility, education, and advocacy. Across generations, NCJW has championed immigrant aid, child welfare, voting rights, reproductive health, and moral agency — not as a departure from our rooting in the theology of b’tzelem Elohim, but as an expression of it. Indeed, as we approach Purim — a holiday that celebrates how a single woman saved her entire people — we are reminded how deeply Judaism values the full humanity and moral agency of women. Honoring Repro Shabbat is one way American Jewish communities affirm that tradition today.

This week, you are invited to learn more: to study these texts, to ask hard questions, to listen deeply. You are also invited to act in ways that reflect your values—through education, conversation, or support for organizations that uphold dignity and care.

May we continue to approach these sacred questions with humility, courage, and compassion.
May we honor the divine image in every person.
And may our Torah guide us to lift up justice that is rooted in compassion for each and every one of us.

Rabbi's Message - Tu B'Shevat & Yitro - Feb. 3, 2026

Shalom,

“A threefold chord is not readily broken,” wrote Kohelet in the Scroll of Ecclesiastes (4:12).  The bond of community, the network of relationships, and the way we are woven together in life are ever more apparent today.  From the ways in which current events ripple through our lives to the awareness of our interconnectivity learned in the recent pandemic and more, we know being human means not being alone.  

In parashat Yitro this week, Moses’ father-in-law, Yitro (Jethro) pays a visit to our ancestors on their wilderness sojourn.  He provides unsolicited advice to his son-in-law (a precarious thing we know!) that Moses should not do this all alone.  Yitro was referring to the adjudicating and decision making he was bearing for all of the community.  Working together, sharing the burden and responsibility is a lesson Yitro teaches us all.  It is echoed by Kohelet’s words, about the strength and resilience when we work together.

Yesterday marked the New Year for the trees - Tu B’Shevat.  As we celebrate today at NTHC and Thursday at TBY, I am reminded about the lesson of the Great Sequoia Trees.  It is an interesting fact which enables these trees to grow so tall and that fact is that they grow in groves. The tall trees grow rather close together.  In this way, they protect each other from the violent winds and storms.  One does not find singular Sequoia trees because without the protection of their brother and sister trees, the harsh winds would blow a singular tree over.

May we strive to be a chord of many threads, may we share our responsibilities with building community, and may we grow close enough together to be strong and tall like Sequoia Trees.

Shavua Tov & Chag HaIlanot Sameach,

Rabbi Evon 

Song of the Sea: Which God is This? Jan. 27, 2026

Shalom,

That greeting alone, “Shalom—Peace”, is so integral to our Jewish tradition.  We have a middah (soul trait) about pursuing peace (rodef shalom), we have a one about peace in the home (shalom bayit), and striving for a sense of wholeness bears the same root as Shalom (Shleimut).  Multiple times of day, we recite the Oseh Shalom (and other versions like Shalom Rav and Sim Shalom as examples) in our liturgy.  So, Shalom—Peace is integral to our tradition, our Jewish world view, and, hopefully, our way of being in this world.

We see the strife throughout the world, in our beloved Land of Israel and the Middle East, and even in our own nation and we are naturally troubled by the lack of Shalom in our moment.  And, as we approach this Shabbat, the Sabbath of Song—Shabbat Shira, as our Jewish world has developed the custom of a music filled Shabbat a question arises for me.  In the text of the Song of the Sea (Exodus 15) verse three reads, “Adonai, the warrior, Adonai is his name,” and another translation reads, “The Lord is a man of war: the Lord is his name.” (Koren Bible)  In our flight from Egypt, seeking a new reality, and just after experiencing a miraculous escape through the parted sea, we sing out God exclaiming God as a warrior, a God of war, as a Divine judge.

Our textual tradition, while Shalom is pervasive throughout, holds many…many examples of God as violent, warrior-like, and judging.  Look at Psalm 82, the Psalm recited every Tuesday morning in our tradition depicts God as declaring judgment.  It is hard to move through life seeking peace, when our tradition leans also on a seemingly vindictive and judgemental, even violent, God.  

It is moments like this that I turn back to a view I hold about our text and our tradition, even our Jewish memory (read:  history).  The material, the content, of our beloved Jewish tradition is our people’s expression of our lived experience perhaps more so than a detailed account of history, in other words it is our memory.  The Song of the Sea holds, in lyrical presentation, our teacher Moses’ expression of jubilation following a narrow escape.  It is our people’s exclamation what they experienced:  Pharaoh's chariots engulfed in the waters.  The Psalmist in Tuesday’s Psalm is yearning for judgment to reflect a higher justice, one that serves all.

So, back to my question.  With Shalom so integral to us, how do we hold depictions of Divinity as violent, warrior-like, and of war?  I do not have an answer except to attempt to hold both.  I respond to this apparent contradiction by knowing that our lived experience, our Jewish memory motivates us to seek and pursue peace knowing there is conflict, injustice, and violence still in our world and so our task remains:  Seek and pursue peace.

As we welcome this coming Shabbat, the Sabbath of Song, and notice a violent moment to others born out of our pursuit of freedom replete with a miracle of miracles, may we know gratitude for our freedom and discern ways to alleviate suffering for others, resolve conflict, right injustice, and subdue violence in our world.

Shavua Tov—To a Good, Whole, and More Peaceful Week,

Rabbi Evon  

Remembering the Holocaust: Lessons for our time

A Note from the President for International Holocaust Day

By Heidi Doyle, President, North Tahoe Hebrew Congregation

The Holocaust began in 1933, with state-sponsored persecution that steadily intensified. What followed was a horrifying chain of events—pogroms, deportations, death camps, and the systematic murder of six million Jews and millions of others, targeted simply for who they were. Today, we remember not only the magnitude of this atrocity, but the individual souls behind the numbers. For many in our community, this history is deeply personal. Parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles—lives disrupted or erased. It is our sacred duty never to forget, because memory is the first line of defense against repetition.

Our Torah speaks directly to moments like these. In Leviticus 19:16, we are commanded, “Do not stand idly by while your neighbor’s blood is shed.” This is not a passive teaching. It calls us to action when violence, injustice, and suffering unfold around us. The Torah further reminds us, “You shall love your neighbor as yourself” (Leviticus 19:18)—a mandate to protect the vulnerable and to extend compassion beyond our own immediate circles. These teachings demand that we respond, especially when lives are being lost and the less fortunate are in peril.

As we reflect on events unfolding in our nation and around the world today, North Tahoe Hebrew Congregation stands as the spiritual home of the Tahoe-Truckee Jewish community—a place where Jewish values are lived, taught, and nurtured. Here, we gather not only to pray, but to support one another, to ask hard questions, and to recommit ourselves to justice, dignity, and human decency.

May remembrance move us to responsibility. I look forward to hearing your thoughts at one of the many opportunities we have to gather and be community. May our community continue to be a source of light, moral clarity, and hope—now and for generations to come.

Rabbi's Message - Tuesday's Call for Justice - Psalm 82

Shalom,

Balance as we wade through the tumult of life, our tradition guides, can often be found in the Psalms.  In recent months, I have taken to exploring this part of our sacred text with a renewed interest.  Of the many rhythms of our Jewish tradition is the recitation of a daily Psalm, the same 7 Psalms for each of the 7 days of the week taught to be recited in the ancient Temple in Jerusalem.  As Professor Miriyam Glazer writes in Psalms of the Jewish Liturgy, “We may no longer have the Temple, or the ancient melodies of the Levites or their instrumental scores.  But we do have the words to the Psalms themselves, the very same words the Levites sang.  If we take the time to enter into them, to mull them over, chant them for ourselves, make them our own, reciting this ancient sequence of seven psalms, one per day, can become a powerful - even a life-changing - experience.”  (page 15)

On this 3rd day of the week, for our Jewish weeks begin with Sunday, it is our tradition to recite Psalm 82.  You can read it by clicking here>>>.  In exploring its depth, we can discover a yearning for balance, one not yet realized.  The Psalm depicts a juxtaposition between Divine judgement and our own.  It is a call to strive for more, for better.  As we see the injustice in the world, we must, our tradition is guiding us, feel and be called to work towards a justice on par with that of the Creator.  

Rabbi Sandra Lawson, the Executive Director of Carolina Jews for Justice, wrote about this Psalm, “—a powerful reminder of our sacred responsibility to pursue justice and care for those in need. This psalm challenges us to align our actions with divine values, creating a world rooted in compassion and fairness. As you engage with this psalm, may it inspire you to take meaningful steps toward justice in your daily life. Let’s begin.”

As we move through this week, may we be aware of this sacred charge and may we discover ways big and small that we have the power to create a world full of justice and compassion.

Shavua Tov,

Rabbi Evon

Knowing the Heart of the Stranger — and of One Another

President’s Message

In her moving memoir, Heart of a Stranger, Angela Buchdahl reflects on what it means to belong—to a faith, to a people, and to a community. Drawing on the Torah’s repeated commandment to “know the heart of the stranger,” she reminds us that Jewish life is not only about who we are, but how we make room for others. That message resonates deeply here at North Tahoe Hebrew Congregation.

NTHC has always been a place shaped by welcome. We are a congregation of many paths: lifelong Jews, Jews by choice, interfaith families, seasonal residents, visitors who arrive for a weekend and stay for years. What binds us together is not sameness, but shared values—community, compassion, learning, and connection. Like Rabbi Buchdahl’s story, our story is one of finding holiness not in perfection, but in presence.

One of the book’s most powerful lessons is that belonging is not passive. It is something we create—again and again—through our actions. When we greet someone new at Shabbat services, when we make space for questions and doubt, when we honor different journeys into Jewish life, we are living the mitzvah of welcoming the stranger. And often, as the book reminds us, the “stranger” is not only the person sitting beside us, but the part of ourselves still searching for home.

At NTHC, we know what it means to be a little different—practicing Judaism in a mountain community, far from large urban centers. Yet that uniqueness is our strength. It invites creativity, intimacy, and a deep sense of responsibility for one another. We don’t just attend synagogue together; we show up for one another in times of joy, challenge, and transition.

Heart of a Stranger calls us to lead with empathy, to listen before judging, and to build communities rooted in kindness rather than assumption. These are not abstract ideals—they are values we strive to live every time we gather, whether for Shabbat, learning, service, or celebration. There are many opportunities for you to get involved: volunteer to coordinate a potluck Oneg, own a project that needs attending, join our amazing Board of Directors or simply join us at many of the moments when we gather as community.

May we continue to be a congregation that knows the heart of the stranger because we take the time to truly know one another. And may our doors, our hearts, and our community always remain open.

Heidi Doyle, President

North Tahoe Hebrew Congregation

Vaera - Empowerment - Jan. 13, 2026

Re-Imagined from 2018

Shalom,

I recall vividly my high school physics teacher, Mr. Ruehl.  From the first day of class through my year in AP Physics, we knew amazing wonders awaited each day as we walked into class.  When the lessons on centrifugal force began, Mr. Ruehl stood up front talking about bicycles.  He held in his hand a bike wheel with a handle attached to the axle.  As he continued he spun the wheel.  He talked about great rides, the sights ahead and to the left and right as he sat down on his stool, wheel spinning in his hand.  The presentation had all of us riveted as he sat down, our eyes were glued to the spinning wheel and suddenly he grabbed the rubber of the tire with his hand, stopping its revolutions, and he began to spin around on the stool!  The energy from the wheel transferring to his body upon the stool spun him around as his tale of riding bicycles stopped, he had performed a wonder before our eyes.

This was how a typical day began in our classroom.  Mr. Ruehl always gave us a sign, a wonder or some visual experience which we then set out to understand further.  This week in Torah, we begin the saga of the plagues upon Egypt.  The word itself, in English, imparts negativity, yet the Hebrew informs us of a deeper purpose; Otot and Moftim, signs and wonders are described by Torah.  These wonders were marvelous displays of God’s power before Pharaoh and Egypt.  Many have worked through their scientific and natural explanations of the how, yet as I often understand Torah it is less, or not at all, about the how, but rather the why.  What purpose did these signs and wonders serve in our story?

Moses is the reluctant leader at first, as he claims this week in Torah, “But Moses appealed to the Lord, saying, "The Israelites would not listen to me; how then should Pharaoh heed me, a man of impeded speech!” (Exodus 6:12)  At first, the plagues, these marvels unfolding, work to convince Moses of his ability to become Moshe Rabbenu, Moses our Teacher.  As Exodus continues, the why becomes about motivating Pharaoh to let us go.  And even more, these wonders are displayed before our ancestors, the Israelites, to grasp the power of not only God, but also the power of change beginning to take shape.  It is through these acts, these signs, that we as a people begin to take our future into our own hands.  First Moses rises to the occasion and then our journey from a rag-tag bunch of slaves to a people fleeing and finally to a free people determining our own future.

This past Shabbat, a beautiful group of our Tahoe Jewish Community, of NTHC and TBY, spent time in Tahoe Meadows off Mt. Rose highway snowshoeing and Cross-country skiing.  We discussed the miracles in our lives and the distractions that prevent our witnessing.  We used the story of the burning bush and Moses' ascension to his stature in our tradition as an example of noticing - seeing the signs and the wonders.  We also shared about missed opportunities to see the miraculous, the signs and wonders that fill our lives.  It takes practice, it requires work to embrace living to its fullest and missing the moment will happen.  Yet, if we practice, if we intentionally put effort into recognizing and celebrating our own burning bushes, and the signs and wonders that fill our world, perhaps the hard, the challenge, and the struggle of living will be lessened in its burden.      

Mr. Ruehl gave me and my classmates the ability to search for understanding, to gain confidence in our knowledge, and its power.  Torah works to unfold the Exodus story in a way that builds for us an understanding of ourselves and the confidence to become Am Yisrael, the People of Israel.  As we journey once again through our epic story of freedom and self-discovery, we have the opportunity once again to move from reluctant, as Moses, to individuals, and a people, empowered with self-knowledge, confidence and understanding by noticing and embracing the miraculousness of our world, of simply being alive! 

May we see the signs and wonders of the Divine around us daily and may we embrace the power we have to shape our lives.

Shavua Tov,

Rabbi Evon

NTHC Religious School Report (from Dec 2025)

NTHC Religious School Report to the Congregation

Semester One Wrap Up: September-December 2025 (Tishrei-Kislev 5786)

Our Underlying Philosophy about Jewish Education: Learning as a Way of Living

At its core, Jewish education is not merely about the transmission of information, but about the cultivation of a way of life informed by the wisdom of the past 4,000-5,000 years of our people. From our earliest rabbinic sources, learning is understood as the foundation upon which Jewish continuity, ethical responsibility, and spiritual vitality rest. The Mishnah teaches, “Talmud Torah k’neged kulam” — the study of Torah is equal to all other mitzvot combined (Pirkei Avot 1:2). This is not because learning is an abstract ideal, but because it shapes how we act, how we relate to one another, and how we understand our place in the world. Nor is this only about the rigor of studying Torah texts in a literal fashion, but so much more about learning in a Jewish context, writ large.  Jewish education seeks to form people who can live with intention, compassion, curiosity, and courage — individuals who know how to ask good questions, wrestle with complexity, and bring holiness into ordinary moments.  In our community, we strive to create positive Jewish experiences in a positive Jewish environment and to raise young Jews with whom we want to share the Earth.

The Torah itself frames education as a relational and embodied process. “You shall teach these words diligently to your children, and speak of them when you sit in your house, when you walk on the way, when you lie down and when you rise up” (Deuteronomy 6:7). Learning is meant to accompany us everywhere — in our homes, in our travels, in our cycles of rest and renewal and growth. Jewish education, therefore, is not confined to a classroom alone. It is meant to illuminate lived experience, shaping how we celebrate time, build community, respond to challenge, and cultivate joy.

From Fear to Reconnection: Our Post-COVID Educational Arc of the Past Few Years

Over the past several years, Jewish education — like so much of communal life — has been shaped by the long shadow of COVID. In those early seasons, fear, disruption, and isolation required us to focus first on safety and survival. Jewish wisdom understands this instinct deeply: pikuach nefesh, the preservation of life, overrides almost every other commandment (Yoma 85b). Protecting one another was itself a sacred act.

As we slowly emerge from that period, however, Jewish tradition urges us not to remain frozen in fear. “Choose life,” the Torah commands — not only biological survival, but a life of meaning, relationship, and blessing (Deuteronomy 30:19). In the wake of prolonged disconnection, our educational vision has become increasingly intentional about restoring what was most diminished: joy, the values that inform our lives, explorations of embodied practice, and a sense of belonging, especially for our younger members. For many of them, we are rebuilding from scratch and, step by step, we are building Jewish learning as something warm, relational, and shared — rooted not only in knowledge, but in trust and presence. The ability to have meaningful relationships with other Jewish children was hampered by COVID. The children young enough to be a part of our religious school now were significantly impacted at a critical developmental time and rebuilding from that is a slow but steady process and the typical, long tested curriculum has needed to be altered.

Joy, Practice, and Place: Jewish Wisdom in the Tahoe Basin

Throughout the past few years, our evolving curriculum reflects a conscious turn toward integrating Jewish joy, Jewish values, and community-building with Jewish practice, so that learning speaks directly to the lives our students are living here in the Tahoe Basin. The sages remind us, “It is not study that is the essence, but action” (Pirkei Avot 1:17). Learning must lead somewhere — it must shape how we show up for one another, how we mark time, how we respond to beauty and challenge, and how we build resilient, caring communities. It is experiential. Judaism has always been a tradition that adapts wisdom to place. Whether in the desert, the city, or the mountains, Jewish life asks: How do we sanctify the world as it is? By grounding Jewish learning in ritual, seasonal rhythms, storytelling, prayer, and ethical reflection, we invite students to explore their own lives — family, friendship, fear, gratitude, courage — through the lens of Jewish wisdom. Joy (simcha) is not treated as an add-on, but as a religious value in its own right; as the Psalmist says, “Serve the Eternal with joy.” (Psalm 100:2)

Post-Covid, Jewish education becomes a bridge — between ancient texts and contemporary lives, between inherited tradition and lived experience, between individual growth and communal responsibility. Our goal is not only that students know Judaism, but that they experience it as something that helps them live more fully, lovingly, and wisely — right here, in this place, at this moment in time.

As time moves us forward, further and further away from the emotional and spiritual challenges from Covid, our curriculum this year gently returns to one that grounds our students in the traditions, customs, practices, and Hebrew skills that we have seen in pre-pandemic years. Below is a summary of our learning journey this past semester:

Overview: 

Our Guiding Question for the Year: How do we celebrate in Judaism?

Over the course of the fall semester, students entered Jewish life through time, story, ritual, and relationship. Each month layered new skills and understandings onto what came before, helping learners experience Judaism not only as something to study, but as something to live, practice, and carry home.

September: Beginning the Year with Intention

The year began, appropriately, with beginnings. Through Rosh HaShanah and the High Holidays, students were invited into the Jewish understanding of time as sacred, cyclical, and filled with possibility. As they crafted pomegranates — cutting, shaping, and assembling each piece — they learned that Jewish symbols are never only decorative. A pomegranate holds many meanings at once: abundance, sweetness, the seeds for mitzvot, and hope for the year ahead.

Hebrew learning was woven directly into this experience. Students practiced letters not in isolation, but as part of forming words that mattered — placing each letter in the correct right-to-left order and discovering that language itself carries a worldview. On the reverse side of their creations, students wrote personal hopes and blessings, linking ritual language with inner reflection. 

The stories of Creation from our sacred text framed the moment: just as the world is shaped day by day, so too, is a year, a community, and a person. The semester opened with a sense of belonging, joy, and the shared work of beginning again.

October: Torah as Story, Structure, and Cycle

October deepened students’ relationship with Torah — first as a physical object, and then as a living narrative. By constructing their own Torah scrolls, students explored what it means for a text to be sacred. They noticed how a Torah is held, rolled, and protected, and discussed why this story has been carried by the Jewish people for generations.

As students encountered a range of Jewish values through quotes and teachings, they were encouraged to respond, question, and articulate what they believe Judaism asks of us. Torah became not only something received, but something engaged. Visiting the sanctuary and examining the community’s Torah scrolls brought learning into sacred space, reinforcing continuity between classroom and communal life.

In the following weeks, Torah expanded from object to content. Students explored how the Torah is organized into five books and how different stories cluster around themes of creation, struggle, law, leadership, and relationship. Retelling these stories through comics, illustrations, and drama allowed students to interpret Torah creatively, discovering that sacred texts invite imagination as well as study.

This textual exploration then widened into time itself. By building a Jewish calendar together, students traced the rhythm of the year — holidays and their symbols, natural seasons, and months unfolding in a cycle of learning. Hebrew letters associated with learning and teaching (as the root for both words is the same, as Lamed-Mem-Daled) anchored the idea that Jewish life is not a straight line, but a continual cycle of growth and meaning making.

November: Shabbat, Peace, and the Heart of Prayer

In November, Jewish learning moved firmly into the home. Shabbat became a lived practice rather than an abstract idea. Through hands-on exploration of ritual objects, students learned how Jewish families mark time, welcome rest, and say goodbye to the holy day. Reenacting candle lighting, Kiddush, and Havdalah helped students imagine themselves as active participants in Jewish ritual.

The concept of Shalom was explored not only as a greeting, but as a skill. Through cooperative challenges and reflection, students experienced how peace is built through patience, listening, emotional awareness, and teamwork. Jewish values were no longer only discussed—they were practiced in real time.

Prayer learning shifted the focus inward. Students explored kavanah – intention – and discovered that prayer can take many forms: gratitude, wonder, request, and reflection. By studying the structure of the prayerbook and noticing how modern liturgy invites personal meaning, students learned that prayer is both inherited and personal. Writing their own gratitude prayers for Thanksgiving allowed Jewish practice to travel home, bridging synagogue, school, and family table.

December: Light, Courage, and Jewish Identity

As the days grew darker, learning turned toward light — both literal and metaphorical. Students explored what it means to be Jewish in a complex and sometimes challenging world. Through morning blessings, particularly She’asani Yisrael, students reflected honestly on pride, gratitude, fear, and belonging. Journaling provided a private space for these reflections, with the understanding that courage begins with naming what is true.

Hanukkah offers a layered story: miracle and history, celebration and struggle. Acting out the Hanukkah narrative and then examining its historical context invited students to consider difficult questions — when to fit in, when to stand apart, and what it means to be visibly Jewish. A Shin-Shin guest (on Shnat Shirut, the year of service from the Jewish Agency) expanded these conversations into global Jewish peoplehood, making Jewish identity feel both local and worldwide.

The semester concluded with a joyful Hanukkah celebration centered on food, ritual, and togetherness. As students cooked, lit candles, and sang, they reflected on the metaphor of flame — spark, fuel, and oxygen — and considered what sustains their own Jewish lives. The year ended not only with light, but with intention: an understanding that Judaism is something we actively fuel through practice, courage, and care.

Integrated Hebrew Learning Reflection:

Throughout the semester, Hebrew letters and words were introduced not as isolated decoding exercises, but as living vessels of meaning that support ritual, reflection, and belonging. Students encountered Hebrew through a wide variety of modalities — visual, tactile, auditory, and embodied — practicing all of the Hebrew Aleph-Bet letters while crafting ritual objects, assembling holiday decorations, building calendars, reading blessings, journaling intentions, and participating in communal prayer. Vocabulary was carefully chosen to align with each unit’s thematic focus, so that words such as Rosh, Torah, Shabbat, Shalom, Kavanah, Chag Urim, and Hanukkah became anchors for lived Jewish experience rather than abstract terms. By repeatedly encountering letters and words in meaningful contexts — often returning to the same vocabulary across multiple weeks — students developed familiarity, confidence, and a growing sense that Hebrew is a language they can inhabit. The purpose of this approach was not fluency for its own sake, but relationship: helping students experience the skill of Hebrew as the connective tissue linking text, ritual, identity, and community, and empowering them to participate more fully in Jewish life with understanding and intention.

Overarching Learning Reflection:

By the end of the semester, students had not simply learned about Judaism — they practiced it. They learned to read Hebrew as a language of meaning, to experience ritual as something embodied, to approach prayer with intention, and to understand Jewish identity as both joyful and resilient. Each month built toward a deeper sense of connection: to text, to time, to one another, and to themselves as growing Jewish individuals.

Rabbi’s Message, January 5, 2026

“Last Words and Living Legacies”

Based on Rabbi’s Lauren’s Sermon for Parashat Vayechi & 1 Kings 2:1–12

(Want to experience more fabulous sermons in person? We would love to see you at Shabbat!)

In both this week’s Torah portion and its haftarah, we are invited into a holy and tender space: the final moments of a life ends. Jacob — now called Israel — lies on his deathbed, surrounded by his children. King David, aging and aware that his time is drawing to a close, summons his anointed successor, Solomon. These are the final moments of a life, as recorded by our sacred texts.

The Torah records:

“Jacob called his sons and said: Gather, and I will tell you what will befall you in the days to come.” (Genesis 49:1)

The haftarah of 1 Kings echoes this moment almost exactly:

“When David’s days drew near to death, he charged his son Solomon, saying…”
(1 Kings 2:1)

Two great ancestors. Two sets of final words. And a shared, urgent question beneath them:

What truly lasts when we no longer can act?

What is striking is what neither Jacob nor David focuses on. Jacob does not distribute wealth. David does not summarize accomplishments. Instead, Jacob offers blessings and moral discernment, tribe by tribe — naming strengths, dangers, unfinished work. His words are deeply personal, sometimes uncomfortable, often tender. Legacy, here, is not flattery; it is truth spoken with love. Likewise, David does not say, “Remember me.” He says:

“Be strong and show yourself a man. Keep the charge of the Eternal your God: walking in God’s ways, keeping God’s laws, commandments, ordinances, and testimonies…” (1 Kings 2:2–3)

David understands something essential: 

Legacy is not what we leave behind — it is what we leave alive in others.

One of the most counterintuitive truths about legacy — confirmed both by Jewish tradition and modern psychology — is this:

You do not build a legacy at the end of life. You build it as you live.

Jacob’s blessings are possible only because he has spent decades living, wrestling, failing, reconciling, and returning. David’s charge to Solomon emerges from a life shaped — sometimes painfully — by teshuvah, moral reckoning, and working towards accountability.

Jewish tradition insists on regular reflection, not heroic last acts. Each year, we take a Cheshbon hanefesh,  a moral accounting of the soul. This was never meant to happen only at the end of life, but weekly, monthly, seasonally, yearly (especially at Yom Kippur). And Shabbat itself is a legacy practice: a recurring pause that asks us, again and again, Are we living toward what matters most? Are we honoring the holiness within ourselves and others?

This rhythm matters not just spiritually, but psychologically as well. Contemporary research on meaning and legacy shows that people experience a stronger presence of meaning when they engage in ongoing reflection tied to values, rather than episodic self-assessment (Steger et al., 2006). Meaning, like legacy, is cumulative, and often not as dramatic as we sometimes think. Similarly, developmental psychologist Erik Erikson identified generativity — the commitment to nurturing others and contributing beyond oneself — as a central task of adulthood. Importantly, generativity is sustained through repeated relational acts, not grand gestures (Erikson, Childhood and Society). It’s the small mitzvot that shape our days, the kindness shown, the volunteer hours clocked, the help offered when needed. 

Jacob and David tried and failed and tried again to model exactly this. As they could clearly see the end of their lives, they understood their failures and weaknesses, but they also hoped to pass on modeling of resilience in the face of difficulty, caution and care with the challenges that a complicated life can bring, and the resilience and reconciliation that trying to always return to living by our values requires. 

The blessings and advice given in both this week’s Torah and haftarah portions may not always be comfortable, but in this case, I would like to think that compassionate honesty and loving concern guides this moment for both Jacob and David. I would like to think that for them, legacy requires truth-telling without cruelty and love without denial of reality and responsibility. Psychologist Dan McAdams, whose work on narrative identity shows how we construct meaning through life stories, emphasizes that healthy legacy formation depends on integrated narratives — stories that include both failure and growth, rupture and repair (The Redemptive Self, 2006). Jacob and David model this type of integration. They neither erase harm nor withhold blessing. They each teach their children how to carry both.

David’s words to Solomon are often read as stern, even harsh. But read carefully, they are less about control and more about continuity; as David says:

“So that the Eternal may fulfill the promise God spoke concerning me…” (1 Kings 2:4)

David understands that his legacy will not survive through charisma, military strength, or poetic brilliance. It will survive only if Solomon embodies the values David learned — sometimes the hard way.

Modern psychology echoes this insight. Studies on values transmission show that children and students internalize values not through instruction alone, but through modeled behavior repeated over time (Grusec & Goodnow, 1994). David is not asking Solomon to imitate him.
He is asking him to live toward their covenant with the Divine, the connection of values that ties Jacob through to David to us today.

Most of us will not have deathbed speeches recorded in sacred texts. But Vayechi insists that our legacy is being written now, quietly, repeatedly, relationally. Through the actions we take each day, through the rituals of love and care and holiness that we build each week, and through the practice – not perfection – of our values lived in the real world. 

When we consider legacy, our rabbis teach in Pirkei Avot:

“It is not upon you to complete the work—but neither are you free to desist from it.” (Pirkei Avot 2:16)

Jacob and David do not complete the work. But they did their best to hand it forward. To their children, and through the generations, to us here in this moment. 

As we move through this week, I invite you to a simple legacy practice. Ask yourself:

1. What value am I practicing repeatedly enough that it might outlive me?

2. Who is learning — explicitly or implicitly — from how I live?

3. If my life were distilled into a few sentences, what would they be teaching?

This week, our sacred texts remind us of this gift of legacy: not the anxiety of final words, but the gift of another week to align and realign with the values that speak deeply to us, in our hearts and souls. May we live so that when our words are eventually spoken by others, they are not explanations — but gifts of honest and compassionate legacies.

Wishing you a Shavuah Tov, a good week,

Rabbi Lauren

Rabbi Lauren will be going on Family Leave starting this week, as she and her family usher her mother, Jill Blasingame, to her final rest. She will be taking shloshim with her family.

Perceiving & Living, Vayechi’s Message for 2026

Shalom,

I was recently recollecting an amazing birthday cake a community member of ours made for their child’s party several years ago.  It was a Brown Bear cake, as in the children’s book by Bill Martin and Eric Carle and the cake itself was a true masterpiece.  This memory sparked my mind to think about the book’s ability to support children’s vocabulary, language, and sequencing among many other important skills.  It also helped me see the way the volume aids young people’s development of perspective and learning to recognize that we all have our own perception; this fosters awareness and connection.  

This brings me to a new understanding of this week’s Torah portion, Vayechi.  It concludes the Book of Genesis, and perhaps even launches us into the experience as a growing people as we descend into the experience in Egypt.  Our ancestor Jacob dies at the beginning of the portion.  We are in Egypt and his son Joseph is running the Pharaoh’s country.  As we proceed to carry Jacob’s remains back to the Land of Israel for burial, a powerful moment of perceiving differently occurs.  Joseph’s brothers, the tribes, get anxious of their brother’s potential retribution for their deed of tossing him into the pit earlier in our story.  There is a moment the brothers’ are described as “seeing” something and our sages in the Midrash elucidate a powerful message.

“When Joseph’s brothers saw that their father was dead, they said, “What if Joseph still bears a grudge against us and pays us back for all the wrong that we did to him!”” (Genesis 50:15)

Midrash Tanhuma describes the “seeing” as leading to a certain perception with the following imagination:

What did they see that frightened them? As they were returning from the burial of their father, they saw their brother go to the pit into which they had hurled him, in order to bless it. He blessed the pit with the benediction “Blessed be the place where God performed a miracle for me,” just as any man is required to pronounce a blessing at the place where a miracle had been performed on his behalf. When they beheld this they cried out: Now that our father is dead, Joseph will hate us and will fully requite us for all the evil which we did unto him. (Midrash Tanhuma Vayechi 17:5)

Joseph, according to this midrash, takes a moment of Hakarat HaTov (our Mussar tradition’s understating of Gratitude which best translates as:  Recognizing the Good).  The brothers, however, perceive something different.  They worry that he is recalling their horrible treatment of him, and their deeds.

Ultimately, the brothers all reconcile.  The Midrash goes on to describe this episode as demonstrating the way Torah is designed and crafted for the purpose of peace, peace in the family and in our world.  The name of our portion, Vayechi, means and he lived, as in “And Jacob lived…” (Gensis 47:28).  

Living is often about perceiving.  It is a journey of recognizing that we all have our own perception.  As children, we develop the awareness that each mind, each human sees things differently (as Joseph and his brothers demonstrate).  Our charge, our challenge, and perhaps even our potential, is to know that perception is always at work.  The responsibility inherent is to learn about one another’s perceptions, to ask, with an open heart, how others perceive, rather than assuming as Joseph’s brothers did.

In our moment in history, the world is full of disparate perceptions.  We all experience the overflow of information in our unique ways.  Let us ask one another how we perceive with the intention of learning, for maybe that helps us live towards the midrash’s view of Torah as a guide for peace.

Shavua Tov & Happy New Year - May we all Realize Peace, Health, and Blessing in 2026,

Rabbi Evon

Rabbi’s Message, December 23, 2025

Happy Winter Break! This is a version of the sermon that I gave on Friday night; I would love to see you at our next Shabbat gathering!

It was a joy to celebrate Hanukkah with our communities this past week; however I want to acknowledge that the welcoming of Hanukkah this year has been fraught with grief, and that the choice to exercise the courage that it takes to wrestle with our peoplehood and still choose joy and peace has not been a simple one. And, in response, as with so many moments that I find confusing or upsetting, I love to re-root myself in the beauty and complexity of our past — not to escape the present, but to steady myself in it — to see if there is wisdom to harvest there for us in our time.

Many years ago, Queen Salome Alexandra – the queen of the Hasmonean dynasty, established by the Maccabees, who we celebrate at Hanukkah – stood at her beloved husband’s bedside. Israel was in the midst of war, and they stood at the edge of the next great battle. As Josephus, the Jewish-Roman Empirical Historian records in his book Antiquities: when she learned that he was dying in the midst of all of this strife, “She came to him weeping and lamenting … and said to him, ‘To whom do you thus leave me and my children…?’” (1) And “So he gave her the following advice… that she should conceal his death from the soldiers until she captured that fortress. After this, she should go triumphantly and victoriously to Jerusalem and put some of her authority into the hands of the Pharisees; for they would commend her for the honor she had done them…” (2)

And so, in 76 BCE, Queen Salome Alexandra’s reign began in war and in secret, amidst massive external conflict, and equally intense internal conflict between the Sadducees — aligned with priestly power — and the Pharisees, who represented the intellectual and spiritual stream that eventually gave birth to the rabbinic tradition.

Josephus records that upon taking the crown, Queen Salome acted swiftly to de-escalate the violence that had scarred the land. Where war had been her husband’s legacy, she restored peace by reintegrating those who had been alienated, especially the sages and the Pharisees — whose voices had been suppressed under previous leadership. The Pharisees, whom Josephus describes as esteemed for their attention to law and devotion to tradition, became central to the administration of justice and public life under her guidance.

She appointed her son Hyrcanus II as High Priest, head of the Sadducees, placing the spiritual and legal authority of the land firmly in the hands of those devoted to study, justice, and Torah tradition, as best she could. The Sanhedrin — once a fractured assembly — was reorganized and empowered. In doing so, Queen Salome fostered a shared focus on what was just and what was whole. Her Hebrew name found in rabbinic literature, Shelamziyyon, means “Peace of Zion,” a name that subtly reveals her mission: not domination, but settlement; not victory, but wholeness. (3)

Over two thousand years later, we look back not merely on her political reforms, but on what they invite us to see: that leadership, especially in times of fissure, is not only about who wins, but about how we return and re-dedicate ourselves to a shared table; how do we repair what has happened and rebuild shalom bayit — peace in the home, peace in the community, peace in our hearts. 

The very word Hanukkah — from the Hebrew ḥanuk­kah — means “dedication.” It recalls how, in 164 BCE, after years of Hellenistic oppression and desecration of the Holy Temple, the Maccabees returned to Jerusalem and rededicated the sacred altar. (4) They did not throw it out or destroy it to rebuild from scratch, as can be so tempting sometimes. Rather, the Maccabees – the founders of the Hasmonean Dynasty – chose repair and rededication.

But what does “rededication” really do in our lives? How does the ritual work of rededication impact us? Modern psychology helps deepen our understanding of ritual: rituals are not just actions done, but embodied emotional frameworks that regulate our hearts and souls, anchor meaning across generations, and connect individuals across time and place. They offer predictability in an unpredictable world, calming anxiety, reaffirming group identity, and transforming memory into embodied practice. (5)

In our menorah lighting over the past holiday, notice how each candle adds light. Each night’s candle is not simply a repetition of the last, but an incremental recommitment: to memory, to hope, and to collective life. We rededicate ourselves year after year — not because we are static people with a single moment of ease and perfection, but because, as dynamic beings wrestling with life’s hard moments, repeated affirmations root and re-root us in what matters most. 

Ritual also does something profound in the human psyche. It helps us regulate our emotional world — especially the parts of our history that are painful or complex — by giving them form, rhythm, and pattern. In lighting candles, in singing songs, in recalling miracles and struggles, we wire those memories into the shapes of meaning. We transform fear into devoted care, fragmentation into belonging, and chaos into shared narrative. (6)

And so we might imagine: Did Queen Salome Alexandra feel this same need for ritual dedication? Surrounded by factions — Sadducee, Pharisee, court intrigue, competing children — she nonetheless focused on repair and renewal, on strengthening the institutions that held the Jewish people together, on revitalizing law, scholarship, and equitable justice. She might not have had the same box of candles to light that looked exactly like ours in her rituals, but her leadership reminds us that Hanukkah – re-dedication – is not only established with oil and candles, but with the daily work of tending our hearts and our spirits, keeping them oriented toward goodness and justice.

As we stood together before Hanukkah’s growing flames, and we entered what Heschel called ‘a palace in time,’ Shabbat, we are grateful for the rituals that connect us to our past and to one another in the present; we are honored to be a part of the continual hanukkah – rededication – that anchors us in our values that outlive a single victory or tragedy; and we appreciate the spark of awe that the holiday lights reflect as we rededicate ourselves to the wisdom and strength of our people, one moment, one choice, one candle at a time.

(1)  Josephus, Antiquities XIII, §398–399

(2) Josephus, Antiquities XIII, §400–401

(3)  https://www.myjewishlearning.com/article/salome-alexandra/

(4)  https://www.history.com/articles/hanukkah

(5) https://faculty.haas.berkeley.edu/jschroeder/Publications/Hobson%20et%20al%20Psychology%20of%20Rituals.pdf

(6) https://faculty.haas.berkeley.edu/jschroeder/Publications/Hobson%20et%20al%20Psychology%20of%20Rituals.pdf

A Hanukkah Message from the President of North Tahoe Hebrew Congregation

By Heidi Doyle

Someone once joked that Hanukkah is the holiday where we celebrate a miracle by eating foods that require extra napkins. If that’s true, then perhaps it’s also a reminder that joy can be a little messy, a little imperfect—and still deeply meaningful.

As we gather to light the Hanukkah candles this year, we do so at a time when our world feels heavy with uncertainty, conflict, and division. Many of us carry concern for loved ones near and far, and we are keenly aware of the challenges facing our global community. Yet Hanukkah reminds us that even a small light, when nurtured and protected, can shine far beyond what we ever imagined.

Here at North Tahoe Hebrew Congregation, our light is strong and everlasting. It shines through our commitment to family, friendship, Jewish values, and Torah. It glows in our shared meals, our prayers, our learning, and our moments of laughter together. By embracing what truly matters—connection, compassion, and community—we create a sacred space filled with joy and meaning, not only for today, but for the future we are building together.

May this season of light bring warmth to your homes, peace to your hearts, and renewed hope for the year ahead. I wish you and your loved ones a joyful Hanukkah and a healthy, happy New Year. I look forward to seeing you at our upcoming synagogue events as we continue to celebrate, learn, and shine together.

Chag Hanukkah Sameach!