Summer is about to happen here in Southern Arizona, a season suddenly filled with children, who are about to be freed from school and plopped into one of the many summer camp experiences that abound this time of year. If your children or grandchildren aren't leaving soon for camp, either as campers or as counselors in training, or as counselors, they will probably be in some kind of summer day camp activity.

Today there are an the astonishing array of different day camp experiences available. There are baseball camps, swimming camps, art camps, basketball camps, choir camps, history camps, natural history camps, cheer-leading camps, botany camps, science camps, probably even stamp camps, for all I know. I wondered about their prevalence these days: as a kid I remember Jewish day camps, and generic sports day camps, but not this veritable profusion of camps, kids, and college age counselors everywhere. Are there more kids today?

This week we chant the second portion of the book of Numbers, Naso, which includes a remarkable blessing. The Birkat Kohanim, the priestly blessing, is really three distinct brachot, three separate prayers, with which the ancient priests were commanded to bless the people.

From its inception this three-part blessing has had exceptional importance. The Torah quotes God saying, "With this blessing you will place My Name on the people of Israel, samu et shemi"—that is, this very blessing is so important that it conveys God's presence among us, and offers God's protection to us. The blessing was given by the Kohanim, the highest class of priests, those who were entrusted with the service of the Tabernacle and Temple.

That is, to our ancestors, it was exactly this triple-bracha that brought God to us. When the priests chanted it at one of the pilgrimage festivals it conveyed divine acceptance and presence as nothing else could.

This week we read the Torah portion of Bamidbar, the first in the book of Numbers, which is given its English name by the census that occupies a good part of the beginning of the Torah portion. The Hebrew name for this portion, and this book, Bamidbar, means "in the Wilderness". While the name comes from the first words of the book, it has a greater resonance and meaning than simply its lexicographical location. It also speaks of place in a very different and powerful way.

Every time we Jews seek inspiration, it seems, we must head out into the desert. It was true of Abraham and Jacob; it's certainly true of Moses; and after the Exodus it is true as well for the whole people of Israel, who wander for 40 years in the Wilderness of Sinai, the Midbar Sinai, seeking God and revelation.

This week we read the sedrah of Behar-Bechukotai, the double portion at the end of the book of Leviticus. In these final sections of the middle book of the Torah there are interesting oddities—and lessons—both at the beginning and the end of each portion.

Behar begins with the statement that "God spoke to Moses at Mt. Sinai saying", a seemingly unambiguous phrase. And at the end of the opening covenantal section of Bechukotai the Torah reiterates that God gave all the regulations and laws contained here at Mt. Sinai. Finally, Bechukotai concludes the book of Vayikra by telling us "these are the commandments that God commanded Moses for the Israelites on Mt. Sinai".

All well and good. These rules of holiness and personal conduct must have been commanded at Mt. Sinai.

Yet earlier in Leviticus it makes it pretty clear that God has given most of these commandments not at Mt. Sinai itself, but in the Tabernacle in the Wilderness, the Ohel Mo'eid, the Tent of Meeting, as the people wander around. In fact, the whole book of Leviticus is apparently given after we have left Sinai and begun our journey to the Promised Land. Clearly, as Behar begins the Israelites don't actually seem to still be at Mt. Sinai at all.

What gives?

As many of you know, each week my wife Wendy, a professor of British literature and Women's Studies, bakes challah. She began fulfilling this paradigmatic "woman's mitzvah" last fall when our congregation—and our family—tired of the Trader Joe's challah we had been serving and finally refused to eat it. Using the recipe that Julia Tenen, an outstanding challah baker from our congregation, had given her as a gift before she moved to Japan, Wendy immediately began creating lovely loaves that we share with our Temple weekly.

Frankly, like Julia's, it is the best bread in the history of the world, a delicacy appropriate for a deity...

This was a strange week indeed, with the horrible terror attack at the Boston Marathon on Patriot's Day shocking the entire nation and perhaps the world, all in a season when we usually enjoy the lovely spring weather and the early baseball season and when life is typically pretty sweet. Not so much enjoyment this week... And then today there was another killing, a policeman at M.I.T., and the authorities managed to shoot one of the terrorists who later died, and because of the manhunt for the other terrorist all of Boston was pretty much shut down until they found the second suspect. Tonight in Boston some congregations were actually unable to hold Shabbat services because of the manhunt and road and transportation closures.

In a weird way, our Torah portion's name seems particularly appropriate tonight: Acharei Mot is the first of our doubled parshiyot, and that means "After the death..." And that is once again where we find ourselves right now, a little violated, trying to evaluate how we feel after another violent death.

This week we read the double Torah portion of Acharei Mot and Kedoshim, which includes the Holiness Code, a description of the ethical injunctions that lie at the heart of Jewish practice. The code itself includes mitzvot that require us to assist the poor, treat strangers, widows, and orphans with generosity and kindness, and insists on fair business practices. It obligates us to live moral lives.

It's important that this remarkable section comes in the precise center of the middle book of the Torah, Vayikra, Leviticus. Kedoshim, the holiness code, is in the middle of the middle of the Torah—that is, it forms the heart of the heart of our most sacred text. And at that heart is the ethical injunction to love your neighbor as you love yourself.

This week we read the Torah portion of Tazria-Metzora, and you probably know by now that it's not a very tasty Torah portion. The tradition of reading the word for leprosy, Metzora, as motzi shem ra, the use of evil speech or slander. It is an important revision. For in Metzora there is a concept called metzora'at bayit, leprosy of the house. It is puzzling what this means literally, but I think I know why it's here, and why we read this peculiar Torah portion every year. It has much to teach us.

A while back I taught a summer class based on the ChofetzChayim's book Guard Your Tongue. It was, I was told, a rousing success, one of the best-attended Adult Education Academy courses ever here. Of course, some people attended that course in the mistaken belief that it was not a class but simply a chance to exchangelashon hara, gossip; and others thought it would be a workshop in how to exchange lashon hara. But I believe that, in spite of this, my class in lashon hara had a great and profound impact. You see, for several months after that class people would begin confidential conversations with the powerful phrase "I know this is lashon hara, but..."

This week we read the double Torah portion of Tazria-Metzora in the book of Leviticus, and a wholly unappetizing set of Torah portions it is indeed. Metzora, in particular, focuses on the question of leprosy, a dreaded disease of the ancient world. It's true that leprosy was an awful thing, and needed to be eliminated if at all possible, in particular by using the concept of quarantines to isolate it. But exploring what our ancestors believed to be an infectious disease at great length in a Sabbath service could scarcely be called a spiritually meaningful experience.

The rabbis of our tradition recognized this problem long ago, and came up with an ingenious and meaningful reinterpretation: the word Metzora, which means leprosy, was itself, they said, an abbreviation for the term in Hebrew Motzi shem ra—which means slander or evil speech. Their interpretation was based on evidence in the Torah itself: Moses' hand became leprous when he expressed doubt about the willingness of the people to believe in his mission (Exodus 4: 6-7), while Miriam was struck by leprosy when she spoke against Moses (Numbers 12: 1-15). The leper) was a person who spoke badly about others.

This week's portion, the first after Passover's over, is Sh'mini, and it includes a very dramatic and traumatic event. The Tabernacle in the Wilderness has just been consecrated, and the priests, Moses' brother Aaron and his sons, are entering into their office. The Shechinah, God's presence, fills the Tabernacle, and all is well with the people of Israel.

And then, suddenly, disaster strikes. Aaron's eldest sons, newly ordained priests named Nadav and Avihu, offer what is called eish zarah, strange fire to the Lord. They are immediately struck down and devoured by fire, dying before the Lord.

In the aftermath of this tragic shock, Moses consoles Aaron with strange words: "God says, 'Bikrovai ekadesh, By those brought near to Me I am consecrated, and honored before the people.'"

There is no word on whether Aaron accepted this as somehow a just ending for his sons. The text merely says "Vayidom Aharon," Aaron was silent.

One of the truly wonderful aspects of Temple Emanu-El is the rich variety of Shabbat worship you can experience. On just one Friday night in March over 300 people celebrated Shabbat Rocks! with Avanim in the Rubin Family Sanctuary, enjoying the energetic, warm service. Just as we finished, another 50 people joined for the Sabbath with our Adult Choir in the Schlanger Chapel in a more traditional and stately service. And downstairs in our Weiner School Auditorium, 12 members of Kehillah, our Young Adults group, enjoyed Shabbat dinner and services as well.

Within a fairly typical month we also had a Kabbalistic Shabbat, a Simply Shabbat Outreach Service, and our Passover Hike service in the Desert, as well as Northwest Shabbat services. Saturday morning our services included b'nai mitzvah, youth-oriented Shabbat No'ar services, Project Ezra Torah readers, and Wandering Jews' hikes, Northwest morning services, plus other special Shabbatot. You can certainly find something for yourself on the Sabbath here!

This week's Torah portions are chosen especially for reading on the holiday of Passover. In addition to the usual suspects for Torah readings for Pesach—the last plagues, the Passover sacrifice, the crossing of the Sea of Reeds and the washing away of the Egyptian army and its chariots, Moses's great Song at the Sea—there is one unusual special Torah reading, and we'll chant it this coming Saturday. It's from the portion of Ki Tisa in Exodus, and it includes one of the more mystical and puzzling sections of the Torah. Moses asks that God's presence be revealed to him directly, and God replies, "You shall not see My face and live."

"You shall not see My face and live": the power and presence of the Divine is too much for even the greatest of our ancestors to be allowed to fully encounter it. God invites—commands—Moses to hide his own face in the cleft of a rock, and then God allows the divine presence to pass behind Moses. In other words, Moshe rabeinu, our great teacher Moses who supposedly knows God panim el panim, face to face, actually only gets the back of God...

This week’s Torah portion is the second in the Book of Leviticus, Tzav, the section that establishes the rules for the various sacrifices offered in the Tabernacle in the Wilderness, the Mishkan, and in the Temple in Jerusalem.  There are many different types of sacrifices commanded: burnt offerings, guilt offerings, sin offerings, and so on.  But one group of sacrificial offerings stands out: the offerings of peace, the zevach shlamim.  And among this higher category of offerings one in particular rises even higher: the zevach haTodah, the thanksgiving offering. 

The rabbis thought so highly of thanksgiving to God that they are quoted in the Talmud saying that when the Messiah comes all sacrifices will have completed their mission, and all will be discontinued, with one exception: the thanksgiving offering.  That sacrifice will last forever.  Even in a perfect world we must remember to give thanks, to be grateful for what we have. 

One of the most distinctive qualities of Jews everywhere in the world has always been our ability to disagree and remain in dialogue.  That is, we argue but stick together.  Jewish families are typically loud, contentious, and verbally energetic.  Jewish organizations are active, engaged, and often contentious.  But we have an ability, after thousands of years of overcoming adversity, to pull together in spite of our many, many differences.  Most of the time.

I was reflecting on this fact of Jewish life the last few days.  In truth, both in our homes and in our organizational life, we often sound like we are engaged in something closer to courtroom combat than the loving and harmonious lives that we aspire to living.  This friction is something typical of every Jewish group I have ever had the privilege of being a part of, and to someone not initiated into the verbal thrust-and-parry natural to Jews it can seem that there is real animosity when the situation is quite different than that at heart.  It’s just that in Jewish life everyone considers himself or herself to be an expert on, well, everything, and when you get more than one maven in a room at the same time he or she is each certain to be certain that they are right about everything, or at least whatever it is you are talking about at the moment.

This verbal vigor is a great shock to those not raised in loud Jewish homes, and it inevitably leads some people to conclude that Jews are the most difficult, contentious lot ever formed by God.  And that’s not counting how it is to be part of a Jewish organization or organizational leadership, which frequently seems a great deal like herding cats… 

But the real point is not that we Jews can argue; everyone knows that.  It’s that in spite of these arguments we are able to overcome our differences and work together to accomplish really great things.  And that underneath the dispute of the moment we fully understand that we are not really fully breiges with anyone, that we intend to remain in conversation and dialogue and community no matter what we may say in the heat of the moment.  Real Jewish identity means understanding that we can disagree and yet remain connected. 

This week we begin reading the middle book of the Torah, Vayikra or Leviticus. Vayikra presents an entirely new challenge to the first-time student of Torah: how do we find relevance in a portion that reflects religious practices that have been obsolete for nearly 2000 years?

The rites of the sacrificial cult that flourished in the days of the Tabernacle in the Wilderness and the Temple in Jerusalem have been replaced for nearly two millennia by prayer, study, and a variety of other religious actions (mitzvot). Vayikra is a how-to book on korbanot, sacrifices. What then can we take from a parsha replete with the ways to slaughter animals, the proper division of their bodies for placing on the altar, and the different categories of sacrifices so offered?