It’s been an interesting month—hard in some ways, reflective in others. In navigating these ups and downs, I’ve found myself rediscovering the Psalms. These timeless words have offered comfort, guidance, and a sense of connection.

When I need grounding and spiritual comfort, I look to our tradition. In the Jewish tradition, we have a psalm for every day of the week, known as the Shir Shel Yom (Song of the Day). The Psalms offer praise for the power of creation, inviting us to pause, reflect, and find meaning in each day’s unique challenges and opportunities. These Psalms have been part of my daily practice lately, offering moments to pause and reflect, and I wanted to share a bit about how they’ve been speaking to me.

Here is what I found meaningful in each day:

Sunday
“The earth is God’s and all that it holds, the world and its inhabitants. For God founded it upon the seas, established it upon the rivers." (Psalm 24:1–2)

Sunday feels like a fresh start to me, a chance to reset and begin again. Psalm 24 reminds me of the wonder and interconnectedness of creation. Remembering that creation itself is a gift. Reading it, I found myself noticing little things—my neighbors dog outside my window, the way the light falls in the morning as we move into winter. It’s a reminder that even in the ordinary, there’s extraordinary beauty if we take the time to see it.

Monday
"The likes of what we heard we have now witnessed in the city of GOD of hosts, in the city of our God may God preserve it forever! Selah." (Psalm 48:9)

Mondays can feel heavy, but this psalm brought me back to the strength of community. Two of my clergy friends and I pulled off a benifit concert for Western North Carolina flood victims this weekend, neither of us had any experience in doing such a thing. This psalm also reminded me of the people who sustain me—the ones who help me feel connected when life feels scattered. As I reflected on this, I found myself thinking about the stories we share, the traditions we hold, and how they make us stronger together.

Tuesday
"Rescue the wretched and the needy; save them from the hand of the wicked." (Psalm 82:4)

This psalm felt like a call to action and accountability. Reminding me that even in small ways, I have a role to play in making the world a little better. Sometimes, it’s as simple as reaching out to someone in need or standing up for what’s right in the moment. Reading it pushed me to think about where I can show up more fully.

Wednesday
"When I thought, ‘My foot is slipping,’ Your kindness, O ETERNAL, supported me."
(Psalm 94:18)

By midweek, I often feel the weight of everything I’m juggling. This psalm met me right there. It reminded me that I don’t have to do it all on my own. Whether it’s leaning on my loved ones, pausing to breathe, or trusting in something bigger than myself, there’s support when I need it.

Thursday
"I the ETERNAL am your God who brought you out of the land of Egypt.” (Psalm 81:11)

This one made me laugh! It reminded me of something my mom used to say when I was in trouble: “I brought you into this world, and I can take you out!” But behind the humor is a deeper truth about trust and provision. This psalm nudged me to take a moment to acknowledge the blessings I’ve been given and the ways I’m cared for, even when I forget to notice.

Friday
"The world is firmly established; it cannot be shaken." (Psalm 93:1)

Thank goodness it’s Friday. As Shabbat approaches Psalm 93 reminds me of stability and grounding. As the week’s chaos catches up, this verse invites all of us to pause in the power of creation. Shabbat offers grounding, a chance to breathe, let go, and reconnect with what truly matters. And a reminder that the world keeps turning even when we rest.

These psalms have helped me find moments of reflection and clarity this month, and I hope they offer you something meaningful, too.

If you’ve been leaning on any texts, practices, or traditions to navigate this month, I’d love to hear about them. Sharing our experiences is another way we find connection and strength.

With gratitude and hope,
R’ Sandra

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I've seen a lot of conversation on my social media timelines about how a majority voted for 45 as if that alone validates the choice. However, history reminds us that majority rule does not always align with morality. A majority once voted to uphold slavery. A majority supported the segregationist policies of Jim Crow. These decisions inflicted immense harm—tearing communities apart, robbing people of freedom, killing countless individuals, and fracturing families. They established systems of injustice whose effects continue to shape our world today.

When I hear the refrain about the 'majority,' I think about those who stood on the other side of history. Figures like Congressman John Lewis, Medgar Evers, Fannie Lou Hamer, and Ella Baker come to mind.

These were individuals who sacrificed for the promise of justice and equality. In the minority, they chose justice over convenience and morality over comfort. Their courage and conviction pushed them to do what was right, even when those choices came at great personal cost. History remembers them kindly because they had moral clarity and fought for what was right.

It's important to be clear that this moment represents an uncomfortable truth: America, as a nation, chose a felon—a white man with multiple indictments—over a highly qualified Black-Asian woman with decades of public service and proven leadership. It's a stark reminder of how systemic racism and sexism persist, elevating mediocrity cloaked in whiteness over excellence and competence embodied by women of color.

This isn't just a political moment—it's a moral reckoning for a country still struggling to live up to its promise of equality and justice for all.

To those who chose the path of justice—whether in this recent election or in other moments of upheaval—know that your decision matters. You are part of a long and proud legacy of individuals whose courage to stand against injustice has shaped history's arc toward progress.

In Judaism, we are called to pursue justice above all else. The Torah commands justice, justice you shall pursue—not because it's easy, but because it's hard. The path to justice is often unclear and challenging, but the work is vital and ongoing.

Judaism also teaches us that we have a responsibility to repair and heal the world. This is not a task completed once and forgotten—it is a daily practice woven into every decision we make.

If you're feeling disheartened, please remember that you are part of a legacy of people whose moral courage has shaped history. Every time you stand up for what is just—whether through your vote, your voice, or your actions—you carry forward the sacred work of making our society better.

Morality is not about the majority. It's about doing what's right, even when the path is lonely. Morality is also a journey filled with meaning and purpose.

I believe in the power of those who choose justice. I believe in you. Each time you act with compassion, kindness, and understanding, you help lay the foundation for a better world.

Our choices shape history. Let's continue to choose justice. Let's continue to choose better.

Thank you for being part of this sacred work. Your courage matters. Your choices matter. Together, we can build a world that reflects the values we hold dear.

With gratitude and hope,

R' Sandra

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I once heard that the American holiday of Thanksgiving was modeled after Sukkot, the Jewish festival celebrating the Israelites' journey in the desert. I’m not sure if it’s true, but I love the idea. It feels meaningful to think we have two moments in the fall to practice hakhnasat orchim—the Jewish value of hospitality. Thanksgiving, like Sukkot, invites us to pause, appreciate our blessings, open our homes to others, and find gratitude for what we have.

Thanksgiving is one of America’s most cherished holidays, a day for families and friends to come together, share a meal, and reflect on the year’s blessings. As we gather around the table, it’s a chance to focus on gratitude and generosity, ideals that also sit at the heart of what it means to be Jewish. Thanksgiving celebrates nature, family, and community and offers a pause in our busy lives to savor life’s simple but profound blessings. For many, it’s also a moment to share that abundance, making sure everyone feels included, especially those who may be alone.

In Jewish thought, hospitality—or hakhnasat orchim—isn’t just a nice thing to do; it’s a sacred act. The Torah highlights the importance of welcoming guests and strangers again and again. The famous story of Abraham, who was recovering from his circumcision, saw three strangers from a distance and eagerly stood up to welcome these strangers into his tent, offering them food and rest without knowing they were angels. For him, hospitality was core to his values. Jewish tradition teaches that when we welcome guests, we’re honoring the divine image within each person, creating a warm, welcoming space for everyone.

Thanksgiving gives us a similar opportunity to bring the value of hospitality to life. The holiday is about gathering with family and opening our tables to others. It’s a time to connect with friends, neighbors, and even strangers, creating unity across backgrounds and beliefs. Welcoming others into our homes mirrors the Jewish idea that sharing a meal is a chance to build connection and community. By inviting people who might be alone, we turn our homes into places of comfort and warmth.

However, Thanksgiving also has a complicated history that calls for reflection. The holiday is interwoven with painful memories for Indigenous communities. Pilgrims’ arrival marked the beginning of centuries of displacement, hardship, and loss for Native peoples. Jewish tradition teaches that gratitude and justice go hand in hand; we cannot fully give thanks if we ignore injustice. Recognizing and learning the impact of colonial history can deepen the meaning of Thanksgiving, allowing us to honor the holiday while also committing to acts of justice and acknowledgment.

Through this lens, Thanksgiving can be a holiday that includes gratitude and honoring the history of Indigenous peoples. Just as we’re thankful for the harvest and the people we love, we can honor this day by respecting the experiences of others and committing to equity and respect for all communities.

In Thanksgiving and Jewish tradition, gathering together reminds us of the importance of sharing and giving. Jewish teachings tell us that welcoming others is more than a simple act of kindness; it’s a sacred duty that strengthens bonds and deepens understanding. On Thanksgiving, we can expand our tables and hearts, creating an inclusive space that brings hakhnasat orchim to life in a uniquely American way. This might mean inviting someone who would otherwise be alone, volunteering to help those in need, or simply being present and open-hearted with our loved ones.

Thanksgiving, like Sukkot, encourages us to pause, look around, and truly see our blessings. By drawing on Jewish values of hospitality and justice, we can view Thanksgiving as more than a day of feasting—it becomes a sacred opportunity to reconnect, express gratitude, and honor our shared responsibility to each other. In opening our homes and hearts, we let the values of gratitude, justice, and kindness shape a world where everyone feels welcome.

Originally published at Reconstructing Judaism

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Like a lot of Black women my age—and probably many others—I haven't watched the news since election night. In fact, I've barely watched TV except for when my wife watches Lost. She had never seen the series when it aired, so now she's watching it on Hulu. While she's out of town, I finally turned on the television myself and ended up watching Happy Days—a little nostalgia from my childhood.

I do read the news, I listen to NPR when I'm in the car, and I scroll through TikTok and Instagram, so I'm not unaware of what's happening. But a few days ago, instead of the focus being on honoring Transgender Day of Remembrance, the spotlight was on Congresswoman Nancy Mace and her crusade over bathrooms.

And here we go again.

One of the reasons Black women my age are so tired is that we've seen these cycles of bigotry repeat themselves over and over and over again. Yesterday, I told a Christian clergy friend that my mind kept going back to the night President Obama won his first election. The cameras focused on Reverend Jesse Jackson, tears streaming down his face, and I thought, "He's crying tears of joy and relief." He probably thought he'd never live to see a Black man become President of the United States. Jesse Jackson also ran for President of the United States, and I imagine that moment was deeply personal.

But now, I can't help but think about how many times Reverend Jackson must have seen this country fail—time and time again. Taking a step forward only to stumble back. Tiny steps forward, huge steps back. Reverend Jackson is a man who also stood on the balcony and witnessed the murder of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. and likely never thought but did hope our country would go that far.

I don't know Reverend Jackson personally, but I see how another generation is now carrying that same exhaustion he's lived with for decades. I'm tired, too. I'm tired of seeing the same forms of bigotry play out over and over again.

Many people on TikTok have drawn comparisons between Nancy Mace's efforts to gatekeep women's bathrooms with signs like "Biological Women Only" and the history of segregated bathrooms in America. That connection is valid and important. But I want to point out something else: Nancy Mace is doing what white women in our society have always done when they find themselves with very little power in a white male-dominated system.

Congresswoman Mace is using the only tool available to her in this MAGA-dominated GOP. Historically, white women have used their power to uphold systems of oppression, often at the expense of Black men, Black women, and other marginalized groups. Now, she's doing the same to trans women.

When white women don't have power in white male-dominated spaces, they often redirect their frustrations onto others, propping up systemic hierarchies. We see this in her gatekeeping of the women's bathroom—a tactic rooted in exclusion.

She's also weaponizing victimhood. For centuries, white women have played up their fragility or innocence to harm others. This behavior, often referred to as "white woman tears," feeds into societal biases that dehumanize and criminalize marginalized people.

One thing I want us all to remember is this: human beings have to relieve themselves. Using a restroom is an essential, universal human function. Access to a restroom is about human dignity—being treated as a human being.

In a piece I wrote in July 2023, titled Breaking the Carousel of Fear and Misunderstanding, I reflected on this:

Every individual, regardless of their race, gender, or sexual orientation, deserves respect, dignity, and the right to live freely—the Jewish value of Kavod HaBriyot, human dignity, or the dignity of creation, stresses this. The Talmud says, 'Great is human dignity as it overrides a prohibition in the Torah' (Berakhot 19b:9-11). Kavod HaBriyot is a fundamental principle in Jewish ethics. It underscores the inherent worth and respect due to every human being simply because they are part of God's creation.

One of the ways our society continues to harm marginalized folks is by controlling their access to restrooms. This isn't new. It came up during President Clinton's campaign when there was a wave of fear-mongering about gay men showering with other men. These cycles repeat, again and again, and they are exhausting.

It's frustrating to see this play out over and over again. But we can name it, call it out, and push back. We have to.

From Tiktok: What’s Wrong with Nancy Mace?

@rabbisandraWhat is wrong with Nancy Mace? Listen to learn what the Judaism says about human dignity. #judaism #transgender #rabbisandra

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When the Conversation Shifts: Why “Not All White Women” Misses the Point

In a recent online discussion, I wrote about white women in the context of systemic behavior and privilege. What happened next was predictable: someone responded with “Not all white women.” This reaction, while familiar, is worth examining because it illustrates a broader dynamic that Black women often face when discussing race, privilege, or systemic issues.

When a Black woman speaks about race, particularly when critiquing patterns of behavior among white women, the conversation often shifts away from the original point. Instead of engaging with the substance of the critique, some individuals react defensively, assuming the statement is a personal accusation. They ask for qualifiers like “some white women” or suggest that not all white women are the same. On the surface, this might seem like a reasonable request, but it fundamentally misunderstands the purpose and context of these discussions.

These conversations are not about calling out every individual. Rather, they address systemic patterns—ways in which groups of people, often unintentionally, contribute to or benefit from structures of privilege. The point isn’t to target any one person but to name collective behaviors and their impact on marginalized communities.

The Problem with “Not All…”

The “not all” response—whether it’s “not all white women,” “not all men,” or any other variation—is a defensive reaction that derails the conversation. It recenters the discussion on the feelings and perceptions of individuals rather than on the systemic issues being addressed. This shift has several consequences:

1. It distracts from the issue at hand.
   Instead of focusing on the patterns and structures being critiqued, the conversation becomes about reassuring individuals that they’re not personally at fault. This detour prevents meaningful engagement with the larger problem.

2. It centers privilege.
   The demand for qualifiers like “some” shifts the focus away from those affected by systemic inequities and onto those who feel implicated. It becomes less about the harm experienced by marginalized communities and more about protecting the comfort of those in positions of privilege.

3. It undermines accountability.
   When the conversation pivots to “not all,” it avoids the deeper work of self-reflection and accountability. Instead of asking, “How might I be contributing to this issue?” the response often becomes, “How do I make sure no one thinks I’m part of the problem?” In Leviticus 19:17, we are taught: “You shall surely rebuke your fellow, but you shall not bear sin on their account.” This reminds us that rebuke—when done thoughtfully—is not about blame but about calling attention to harmful behaviors for the sake of growth and justice. Shifting the conversation to defensiveness misses this opportunity and derails meaningful engagement.

Why It Matters

As a Black woman who frequently discusses issues of race and racism, I’ve seen this pattern play out repeatedly. These reactions aren’t unique to me; they’re a common experience for many Black women who navigate online spaces or engage in public discourse. They highlight a broader challenge in conversations about privilege: the difficulty some have in hearing critiques without taking them as personal attacks.

In Jewish tradition, we are taught the value of tochecha—rebuke given with the intent to improve and heal. Again not about blame or personal attack but about holding one another accountable to higher standards of justice. Similarly, cheshbon hanefesh, an accounting of the soul, reminds us to reflect on our role in systems of inequity, even if it’s uncomfortable. These practices teach us to listen, learn, and grow, rather than deflect or center ourselves.

The goal of all of this is to foster growth. Growth requires humility, self-awareness, and the willingness to engage with discomfort. Listening without defensiveness is an essential first step. It creates the space needed to reflect on systemic inequities and begin dismantling them.

What Allyship Looks Like

Allyship requires more than a performative declaration of support—it demands a willingness to engage in uncomfortable conversations and reflect on one’s own role in systemic issues. Here are a few ways to move beyond defensiveness:

• Listen and reflect. Instead of responding with “not all,” take a moment to ask yourself why the statement makes you uncomfortable. Is it because you feel implicated? What does that discomfort reveal?

• Focus on the systemic, not the personal. Recognize that discussions about systemic patterns aren’t about individual blame. They’re about understanding and addressing how collective behaviors perpetuate inequity.

• Resist the urge to center yourself. If a critique doesn’t apply to you, there’s no need to make it about you. Shifting the focus back to yourself only distracts from the larger issue.

A Call to Stay Engaged

Conversations about race and privilege are challenging, but they are necessary. They require all of us—especially those in positions of privilege—to listen, learn, and engage with openness and humility. When you hear a critique of white women, men, or any group you may belong to, resist the urge to respond defensively. Instead, ask how you can contribute to dismantling the systemic inequities being discussed.

The goal isn’t to make anyone feel attacked—it’s to create space for honest conversations that lead to real change. Please, for the love of all that we say we care about, let’s stay focused on the work of justice and healing together.

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This week, we encounter Parashat Lech Lecha, a Torah portion that speaks to the universal call to embark on a journey of faith, resilience, and hope. God’s directive to Avram, “Lech lecha—Go forth from your native land and from your father’s house to the land that I will show you” (Genesis 12:1), is not just a physical journey but a profoundly personal one. It’s a call to leave behind comfort and familiarity and step into the unknown with the belief that a better future awaits.

I’ve been sitting with this idea of journeys and how they require trust, resilience, and hope, even when the outcome is uncertain. Like many, I approached the recent election with a mixture of hope and fear. I wanted to believe we were ready to choose a future rooted in justice and fairness. Instead, the results reflected what I feared most—a reminder of how far we still have to go.

It’s hard not to feel disheartened. History will undoubtedly look back on this moment and weigh it alongside the many times we’ve failed to rise to the call for moral leadership. Each failure leaves a mark, a reminder of opportunities missed and promises unfulfilled. This feeling will stay with me for a long time, yet I hope I am wrong about what this outcome signifies for our future. At the same time, I find myself thinking about the journey Avram was asked to take—not knowing the destination but trusting in a promise. It reminds me that resilience isn’t about knowing the way forward but about continuing to move forward anyway.

When I think about leaders like Kamala Harris and how close she came, I still feel hope. Her presence on the national stage gave millions of us a vision for a better world, one where justice, fairness, and compassion aren’t just ideals but can actually be realities. Her story reminds us of what is possible when we persist. It reminds us that this journey isn’t just about arriving somewhere but about the courage to believe in something better, even when the odds seem insurmountable.

The Torah teaches us that Avram’s journey wasn’t just for him—it was for the generations that would follow. He was called to be a blessing, to model a life of justice and righteousness, and to bring that blessing to the world. That’s our call, too. Even in moments of disappointment, even when the road ahead feels impossibly hard, we must keep going.

Lech Lecha reminds me that every step matters, even when the path is unclear. Each step is about choosing to move forward with hope and with faith and that justice and equity can guide our way. This journey is not an easy one, but it’s one we must take together.

Shabbat shalom.

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Over the last few years, I’ve had many conversations with Jewish people who feel isolated and feel like they don’t belong to a synagogue or can’t find a synagogue that speaks to them. And here’s some of what I’ve heard:

Many feel that synagogues and Jewish institutions don’t reflect the full diversity of the Jewish community. Jews of Color, LGBTQ+ Jews, and Jews from different cultural or ethnic backgrounds often express that their identities aren’t fully acknowledged or celebrated in “traditional” Jewish spaces. When people walk into a synagogue and don’t see themselves represented—in the leadership, in the membership, or even in the cultural practices—it sends a message, intentional or not, that this space might not be for them. Representation is more than a token gesture; it’s the cornerstone of creating a community where everyone can feel they belong.

Others talk about a mismatch between their spiritual needs and what many synagogues currently offer. Younger generations, and increasingly people across all age groups, seek dynamic, meaningful experiences that connect their spirituality to social issues they care about—like racial justice, environmental responsibility, and community service. Yet, if the services and teachings don’t speak to their core values or the world they live in, they might search elsewhere for spiritual fulfillment. For some, traditional prayer structures feel distant from the world they actually inhabit, and they desire spaces that feel more immediate and relevant.

This feeling of disconnect is compounded by experiences of bias that still occur within some Jewish spaces. Jews of Color, women, LGBTQ+ individuals, and other marginalized groups often speak of microaggressions and, at times, overt discrimination within Jewish institutions. For those who’ve experienced such harm, returning to these spaces can feel not only unwelcome but painful. Bias in the Jewish community is a very real barrier that limits who feels safe and supported in Jewish spaces.

Financial barriers are another challenge. Synagogues often rely on membership dues and fees, making people feel that belonging requires a financial threshold they cannot meet. For individuals and families without the means to pay for membership or events, the financial expectation can send an unintended message that belonging comes with a price tag. In this way, economic barriers keep some on the periphery, creating yet another form of exclusion.

For those from interfaith or nontraditional family backgrounds, feelings of exclusion can also run deep. While many Jewish institutions have made strides toward inclusion, some interfaith families still feel the weight of skepticism or judgment. For those who don’t fit into certain established molds, even a hint of suspicion can be enough to turn them away, making them feel that they don’t belong in the community that should support them.

Moreover, some people feel judged for their level of Jewish observance or knowledge. In communities where there is a perceived hierarchy of Jewishness, where observance and knowledge are silently measured, people can feel as if they’re constantly being assessed. For those whose Jewish practice is more liberal or personal, or whose Jewish identity is still evolving, this kind of atmosphere can be alienating. Not everyone finds meaning in the same rituals or beliefs, and feeling that there’s only one “right” way to be Jewish shuts doors rather than opening them.

As society changes, many Jews today also want to experience community and connection outside traditional synagogue structures. Independent minyanim, community centers, social justice collectives, and online spaces draw people who don’t see synagogues as their only path to Jewish identity and community. These emerging spaces offer more flexibility and may be able to respond more quickly to the cultural and spiritual needs of their participants. In these alternative communities, people can often find a sense of belonging, purpose, and expression that they may feel is missing in synagogue settings.

Addressing these varied challenges requires more than just incremental change—it demands reimagining what the Jewish community can look like. To create truly inclusive spaces, we must reflect the diversity of our community not only in our programs but in our leadership, our language, and our values. Jewish communities and institutions must continually work to make belonging accessible and genuine, moving from representation as a goal to true inclusion as a practice.

What’s at stake here is more than just membership numbers or synagogue attendance. It’s the broader question of how we hold each other and support one another as a community. At the heart of Judaism is the value of kehilla, community, rooted in the idea that we are responsible for one another. A thriving Jewish community doesn’t just welcome everyone; it actively celebrates and values everyone’s presence, providing spaces where each person feels seen, respected, and empowered. It’s a high calling, but one that speaks to the very core of our tradition—a tradition that urges us to build a community where everyone feels they have a place, a voice, and a sense of belonging.

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I recently received a message from someone who had just lost their mother. Their mother was Christian, and prayer had been an important part of her life. The person shared that their dad is Jewish, and they identify with Judaism. They wanted to find a way to use prayer to feel grounded and to connect with their mom. One of the issues that often comes up is that many Jews are used to praying primarily in a synagogue and may not know what to do when not connected to a Jewish community or when the deceased parent isn't Jewish.

I've received questions like this before, especially from young people who are navigating grief and searching for ways to incorporate prayer into their lives in a meaningful way. Grief doesn't follow a single path, and neither does prayer. Whether you come from a Jewish background, a Christian one, or a combination of both, prayer can be a powerful tool to help process grief, honor loved ones, and find a sense of peace.

1. The Power of Prayer in Grief

Losing a loved one, especially a parent, can leave us feeling a bit disconnected. Prayer, whether part of our regular practice or something we are exploring for the first time, can offer a space to process those feelings, find comfort, and reconnect with the people we've lost.   

It's important to remember that prayer doesn't have to be rigid or formal—it can be personal and shaped by our own journey.

Prayer has a unique ability to give us a way to connect with something greater while helping us reflect on our own memories and grief. Jews and Christians use prayer to honor those who've passed and provide comfort to those left behind. Through prayer, we can ground ourselves and find a sense of healing and strength.

2. Creating a Sacred Space for Prayer

One way to start is by creating a space for prayer that feels quiet, calm, and reflective. This doesn't have to be a formal or structured setting. For some people, this might mean lighting a candle in memory of a loved one, sitting or walking in nature, or finding a quiet corner of your home where you can reflect.

The space you choose doesn't have to be perfect; it just needs to feel right for you.

3. Kavanah: Prayer with Intention

In Jewish tradition, there is the concept of kavanah, which means prayer with intention. The focus isn't necessarily on the specific words you say but on the intention behind them. It's about bringing your heart into the moment.

You might start by just speaking what's on your mind or in your heart, whether it's gratitude for your loved one's life, the pain of your grief, or even the things you wish you had said to them. Prayer is deeply personal, and there's no need to follow a set formula. The most important thing is the connection you're building.

4. Incorporating Psalm 23

Psalm 23 is a comforting psalm that's used in Jewish and Christian traditions. Its themes of comfort, protection, and God's presence in difficult times can offer a lot of comfort. This psalm can serve as a tool for reflection, offering you a sense of peace and connection to both the past and the present.

5. The Mourner's Kaddish

In Judaism, the Mourner's Kaddish is recited to honor the memory of loved ones. Traditionally, it's said in community for 11 months after the death of a parent. Even if you don't have access to the words, can't remember them, or don't have a service to attend, just sitting with the intention of the Kaddish can be meaningful. Reciting Mourner's Kaddish daily for 11 months can be a beautiful way to honor a parent and help with the process of grieving, whether or not you're in a formal setting.

6. Trusting Your Heart

Above all, trust yourself when it comes to prayer. There's no right or wrong way to pray, especially when you're blending traditions or creating a practice that's personal to you. Prayer can be a space for healing, reflection, and connection. It's your journey and your loved one's memory that you're honoring, so let the process feel authentic to you.

Finding Your Own Path to Prayer

Grieving is never easy, and prayer can sometimes feel unfamiliar or uncomfortable at first. But remember, there’s no one way to do it. If you’re unsure where to begin or need help finding specific prayers, feel free to message me. Together, we can explore how to create a meaningful and personal prayer practice to help you on your journey.

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As we head into Yom Kippur, I'm thinking about the Mountains of Western North Carolina. Susan and I love the mountains of North Carolina. In fact, we were supposed to be in Boone, NC, today, a part of the area devastated by Hurricane Helene. We love that area so much that we visit it several times a year. We hike, drink beer at local breweries, and enjoy the food and mountain air. And, as I reflect, I know we have only lost a vacation spot while so many others have lost nearly everything. And my heart breaks for what I've seen and the devastation left behind.

This Yom Kippur, I'm thinking about those people and our planet.

In Judaism, caring for the earth is a sacred responsibility. Our tradition reminds us that we are to be stewards of the planet.

Midrash Kohelet Rabbah (7:13) vividly depicts this responsibility: "When God created the first human, God led the human around all the trees of the Garden of Eden and said: 'Look at My works, how beautiful and wonderful they are! And all that I have created, I created for you. Be careful not to spoil or destroy My world—for if you do, there will be no one to repair it after you.'"

This teaching makes it clear: we are responsible for the earth, and neglecting this duty is a betrayal of the trust bestowed upon us by the Divine.

The climate crisis we're facing today is a direct violation of this core Jewish value. Every wildfire that rages out of control, every hurricane that wipes out homes and lives, every drought that leaves fields barren—they're all cries from a planet that's is being pushed beyond its limits. And yet, we still have leaders who deny the existence of climate change or refuse to act, treating the planet and the lives of its inhabitants like pawns on a chess board.

In the wake of two back-to-back destructive hurricanes, Helene and Milton, the urgency of this crisis has become even more real. Hurricane Milton struck before people could even finish cleaning up after Helene. We have lost hundreds of lives unnecessarily due to the warming of the planet and the irresponsibility of elected officials.

We cannot afford to elect leaders who deny the reality of climate change. We cannot afford any more leaders who turn a blind eye to the devastation that is unfolding around us. Our planet is burning, our cities are flooding, and the signs of environmental collapse are everywhere. Climate change isn't a future problem. It's happening right now, in real-time.

It's heartbreaking and, frankly, infuriating to see politicians continue to prioritize short-term gains over long-term survival. Rolling back environmental protections, dismantling regulations that help reduce carbon emissions, and shrugging off the suffering of people directly impacted by climate disasters are actions that put us all at greater risk.

This is about more than just saving trees; don't get me wrong, trees are critical. It's about ensuring that our homes, our communities, and our lives can continue to thrive. Leaders who deny climate change are dangerous because they are gambling with our future. And we don't get a second chance at this. We are at a critical juncture, and the time for action is now.

We need to elect leaders who understand that climate change is an urgent crisis, not just a talking point. We need leaders who will confront it head-on, not one who passes the burden to the next generation. Our Jewish values demand that we protect this world, and as we look to the future, we must insist that our leaders share in that sacred responsibility.

Let's choose leaders who will act before it's too late. Our future, and the future of the world, depends on it.

Taking Action: How We Can Be Better Partners to the Planet

This isn’t just about our leaders—it’s also about how we take responsibility as individuals. Here are a few simple and practical things we can all do to be better partners to the planet. And if you’re already doing these, that's amazing! And there’s always more we can do:

• Reduce your carbon footprint: Turn off lights when you leave a room, unplug devices when not in use, and try to walk or carpool when possible. Small changes in daily habits can have a big impact over time.

• Eat less meat: Incorporate more plant-based meals into your routine. You don’t need to go vegetarian—just cutting back on meat a few times a week can significantly reduce your environmental footprint.

• Cut down on single-use plastics and recycle: Use a reusable water bottle, bring your own bags to the store, and recycle whenever possible. It’s about making small, consistent changes that help reduce waste.

If we all take small steps over time, we can make big differences together. This Yom Kippur, as we remember the ways we’ve missed the mark, let’s also reflect on how we can do better for our planet. Both for the people directly impacted by climate disasters and for the generations to come. The earth is in our hands, and it’s time to act.

My birthday is coming up, and my one birthday wish is that, if you haven’t already, please follow me on Spotify or wherever you stream music. I have more music coming out soon, and if you haven’t listened to my latest releases, “Boker Tov” and “What Does Faith Mean,” please give them a listen.

If you’re a free subscriber to this newsletter, consider becoming a paid subscriber, and don’t forget to share it with others. I want to continue putting diverse Jewish voices into the world, and your support helps make that possible.

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Like many rabbis, I’ve spent years writing Torah reflections, and I’ve decided to gather them into a book. I’m still working out the details, but I wanted to share a draft for this week’s Torah portion Ha'azinu, that will appear in the book. In the book, after each reflection, you’ll find tools like a guided meditation, weekly challenge, focused prayer, journaling prompts, and a community discussion to help you connect more deeply with the portion. I’d love to hear your thoughts!

Ha’azinu – Listening Attentively to the Lessons of Life

The word Ha’azinu means “listen,” and calls for attentive listening, the kind where we truly take in and absorb what we are hearing. In this week’s Torah portion, Moses pleads for the heavens and the earth to listen to his final words. These are Moses’ last words to the Israelites, delivered as a poem. He stands on the edge of his life, knowing that he will not enter the Promised Land with the people he has led for decades.

He begins:

Give ear, O heavens, let me speak;

Let the earth hear the words I utter!

May my discourse come down as the rain,

My speech distill as the dew,

Like showers on young growth,

Like droplets on the grass. (Deuteronomy 32:1-2)

The image of Moses’ words descending like rain, like dew, suggests a nourishing quality. His words, like rain on young plants, are meant to seep into the hearts of the people as they prepare to enter a new chapter of their journey. Moses knows the journey ahead will be difficult and full of temptations. His fear is whether his life’s work will be in vain. He has fought for the Israelites time and again—against Pharaoh, against enemies, even against God—and yet he wonders, Will they truly listen?

Moses knows that when the people enter the land and find comfort, they may forget the struggles and lessons of the past. He warns them not to become complacent, not to turn away from God who led them out of Mitzrayim. His words are a mixture of harsh critique and hope that the people will learn from the past and carry forward the lessons of their ancestors.

Moses is addressing a generation that never knew slavery, and yet he commands them to remember it. He says,

Remember the days of old,

Consider the years of ages past;

Ask your father, he will inform you,

Your elders, they will tell you (Deuteronomy 32:7

He asks them to learn from their ancestors’ choices—both the good and the bad—and to apply those lessons in their own lives. Emphasizing the importance of remembering the past and learning from the experiences of previous generations.

Moses’ final words remind us of our own mortality we shouldn’t wait until our final moments to share what we’ve learned. Each day offers a chance to speak our truth, impact others, and shape the future. Our legacy is built through a lifetime of engaging and inspiring others, and what we share now can live on in the hearts of those we touch. 

Moses’ legacy lives on. His work was not in vain, and neither will ours be if we listen, teach, and learn from one another. As we reflect on Ha’azinu, may we embrace the power of our words and the importance of living a life that imparts wisdom and truth to all who will listen.

Reflective Questions:

1. What life lessons do you feel are most important to share with others? What wisdom do you want to pass on? 

2. How can you be a more active listener in your relationships, making sure you truly hear the words of others? 

3. What have you learned from your past or from those who came before you, and how has it shaped who you are today?

Guided Meditation:

Close your eyes and picture yourself standing with Moses on the edge of the Promised Land, gazing out at a vast horizon. Behind you are the lessons, struggles, and victories of history. Take a deep breath and ask yourself, "What is the most important lesson I carry with me?" Feel that lesson filling your heart. Now imagine gentle rain falling on the land, nourishing the earth. Think of your wisdom as droplets of rain, falling into the lives of others, helping them grow.

Weekly Challenge:

This week, take a moment to share a meaningful lesson or piece of advice with someone in your life. Whether it’s a personal story, an insight, or just a word of encouragement, speak your truth. You never know how your words might impact someone else’s journey.

Focused Prayer:

Offer a prayer for clarity and courage in your daily life. Ask for the strength to truly listen, the wisdom to learn from the past, and the bravery to share your truth. Seek guidance in using your words to uplift and inspire those around you.

Journaling for Growth:

Reflect on the idea of legacy. What do you hope people will remember about you? How can you live in a way that imparts lasting wisdom and kindness? Write about a time when someone’s words or actions deeply influenced your life and how you can pass that forward.

Community Discussion:

Have a conversation with your community, friend, or family member about the power of words and the importance of learning from the past. Share moments when you’ve been impacted by others' wisdom, and discuss how to ensure that future generations benefit from valuable lessons.

As we reflect on the teachings of Ha’azinu, let’s be mindful of the power of our words and the legacy we leave behind. Through reflection, prayer, meditation, and conversations with our community, we can ensure that our lessons—like Moses’—fall like nourishing rain into the lives of others. Let’s listen deeply, speak honestly, and continue learning and growing together.

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New Music:

I released two new songs today with my band, The Protestant White Boys. The first one, "Boker Tov," will get your heart pumping in the morning. The second, "What Does Faith Mean?" addresses a question I’m often asked: “Rabbi, what does faith mean to you?” It explores the challenges of holding onto faith when the world feels like it’s against you, and how we continue to move forward with resilience and strength.

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Baruch Atah Adonai, Eloheinu Ruach HaOlam,  

Blessed are You, Source of Life, who sustains us through every storm.  

As the month of Elul draws near to its end, we pause to reflect on the year that has passed and the year that is to come. We hold in our hearts all those impacted by the forces of nature, especially in North Carolina, South Carolina, Virginia, Tennessee, Georgia, Florida, and all places where lives have been uprooted by Hurricane Helene.

May they find shelter in times of danger, strength in moments of weakness, and the hope needed to rebuild and renew.

We mourn the loss of life and hold in our hearts their memories and praying for their loved ones to find comfort and peace in the face of unimaginable grief.

As we approach the new year, may we open ourselves to growth and healing. May we enter this season of teshuva with open hearts, seeking to repair what has been broken and to care for one another with greater kindness and compassion.

For those of us nearing the secular end of the year, may this too be a time for reflection and renewal. May we all have the courage to embrace the changes we need in our lives and the world around us.

May this new year bring peace, health, and fulfillment of our highest hopes and dreams.

The month of Elul is dedicated to introspection. It is a time to reflect on our identities, our ambitions, and the paths we've chosen. Central to this introspective journey is Heshbon Hanefesh—the Hebrew term for "an accounting of the soul," a thoughtful and reflective examination of who we are and where we aspire to be.

This month, I've been reflecting deeply on my choice to become a rabbi, a path that I still believe was one of the smartest decisions I've made. I've been a rabbi for over six years and have served the Jewish community for over two decades in various capacities. During that time, I have built relationships, led services and life-cycle events, and engaged in important conversations about justice, identity, and faith. My work has taken me across the country and abroad; some may even consider me one of the most well-known rabbis in the United States. But becoming well-known was never the goal. I became a rabbi because I believe deeply in the power of community, in fostering connection, and in serving others with compassion and purpose.

Yet, I find myself a rabbi without a community. It's a lonely place, and I know I'm not alone in this feeling—many in our community are searching for belonging. 

Being a rabbi has always been about creating spaces of belonging and spiritual growth—a role where I could help others feel seen and heard within the Jewish community. I envisioned a rabbinate where I could be embedded in a community, guiding people through their joys and sorrows, their questions and celebrations, while also working to make our Jewish spaces more inclusive and just.

Yet, despite my dedication and service, I find myself without a true Jewish community to call my own. It's a painful reality that I've had to navigate, one that speaks to the deeper fractures within our communal structures—fractures often rooted in exclusion, bias, and systemic inequities.

At every step of my rabbinic journey, I've encountered racism—often coupled with the intersection of sexism. Racism isn't just an occasional bump in the road; it's a constant, shaping every interaction I have in the Jewish world. I've navigated situations that would leave many of my colleagues in disbelief. And still, I carry on with grace and resilience. But honestly, I'm tired, mentally exhausted, and sometimes strangely bored by the same cycles of struggle.

Recently, I had a conversation about my entrepreneurial mindset. Honestly, I've been entrepreneurial and had to think outside the box because doors were often closed to me. In rabbinical school, I was praised for securing a grant to lead Shabbat services in a café. But the truth is, I applied for the grant because I needed it—I couldn't get an internship that would allow me to develop the skills to lead services in a more traditional setting, and yes, racism was a factor. While others saw it as a creative endeavor, it was a necessity—born out of a lack of options, and it was survival. 

Despite these constant struggles, my work as a rabbi remains deeply meaningful. A significant part of my career has been centered around giving keynotes, helping communities navigate racism, supporting rabbinical students—many of whom are underrepresented in the Jewish community—and making myself available to those who often feel left behind by the Jewish community. These are the people I connect with deeply, those who, like me, have felt the sting of exclusion, bias, or outright discrimination within spaces that are meant to be welcoming. This work is meaningful to me—deeply so. It's important, and in many ways, it has become the rabbinate I envisioned for myself when I first set out on this path. However, I always imagined doing this work within a community, not as an outsider.

But while it fulfills a crucial need, it also speaks to the gaps in our community, gaps that shouldn't have to exist. I never imagined that so much of my time as a rabbi would be dedicated to helping others navigate the very racism and exclusion that I have faced myself. I find deep purpose in this work, but I also wonder how different my rabbinate might look if the community, as a whole, was more willing to confront its own biases and offer a true sense of belonging to everyone.

In my first two years as a rabbi, I was supervised, critiqued, and scrutinized as if I had decades of experience. I spent unnecessary hours fighting to do some of the most basic things that rabbis do because others with no training believed they could do them better. I didn't receive the grace necessary to grow into my role.

Over the years, I've experienced members of the Jewish community make up stories about me, about events that never happened, grounded in their biases about Black people, and use these stories to get me fired, in some kind of trouble, attack me online or prevent me from working. Others have used me as clout to sell books, to prove their lack of bias, and or to push their own agenda without ever consulting me. My experiences are a painful reminder that my qualifications, dedication, and passion are not enough to overcome the biases that persist in our community. And still, I carry on.

I am resilient because I have had no choice. Every day, I push forward because giving up has never been an option. But resilience does not mean the burden isn't heavy. It does not mean the constant battle against racism doesn't take its toll.

As I reflect during this Elul, I question the choices I've made and the spaces I've tried to inhabit. The racism I've faced has made me question my place in the Jewish community and whether I can truly serve in the way I once hoped. But I also question whether the Jewish community can fully embrace rabbis who look like me. 

I still hope that one day I will find a place where I can serve without constantly having to prove my worth or navigate the exhausting terrain of racism. I’m not sure that place exists—at least not in my lifetime. But by sharing my experiences, I hope others will begin to reflect on how deeply racism functions within our Jewish spaces and how it tears at the fabric of our community. It is not just individuals like me who suffer; it is the collective spirit of our people. And still, we must carry on.

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This week reminded me that the Torah is always on time. As I read the Torah portion for this week, Ki Teitzei, I was struck by the verse from Deuteronomy 24:17: "You shall not pervert the justice due to the stranger or the orphan, nor take a widow's garment to pledge." I paused to reflect on the message of this verse, which underscores the Torah's commitment to justice, especially for those historically most vulnerable in society—namely, the stranger, the orphan, and the widow. These groups often lacked support and protection. They were frequently overlooked or mistreated without consequence. But the Torah is clear and insists on a society where we safeguard the rights of the marginalized and where everyone, regardless of their social or economic status, has access to justice.

In the same way that the Torah called for justice centuries ago, we are faced with the same imperative today. This verse takes on added significance in our current political climate, particularly during the ongoing presidential campaign. We find ourselves in a time when the values of justice, fairness, and compassion are frequently discussed but also at risk of being overshadowed by rhetoric that seeks to divide rather than unite, to exclude rather than include, and to prioritize the powerful over the powerless.

The Torah's call to protect the stranger, the orphan, and the widow is a call to all of us to be vigilant against any form of leadership that would undermine the principles of justice and equity. These words from the Torah are especially relevant as we consider the implications of our political choices and the kind of society we wish to build. In a campaign season where some voices seek to marginalize the already vulnerable, to sow fear and distrust among different groups, and to roll back the protections that ensure justice for all, we must remember the Torah's insistence that justice must be accessible to everyone.

These words are not merely theoretical or abstract. Policies that affect immigration, access to social services, voting rights, and the judicial system are all areas where the command to "not pervert justice" becomes critically important. We must ask ourselves: Are the candidates and policies we support aligning with this divine mandate to uphold justice for all, particularly for those most at risk of being left behind?

The Torah teaches us that leadership must be rooted in a commitment to the welfare of all people, especially those least able to advocate for themselves. In this campaign season, we are called to reflect deeply on the kind of leadership that will guide our nation. Will it be a leadership that honors the Torah's call to protect the vulnerable or one that seeks to erode their rights? Our choices matter for ourselves and the broader community—especially those needing justice, fairness, and compassion.

As we engage in the political process, let us do so with the wisdom of our tradition, ensuring that our actions and our votes contribute to a society where justice is accessible to everyone, regardless of their background or circumstances.

Rashi's commentary on Deuteronomy 24:17 deepens our understanding of this verse and underscores its relevance to our current political moment. Rashi explains, "Thou shalt not pervert judgment… Because it is easier to pervert the judgment of the defenseless poor than that of the rich" (Sifrei Devarim 281:1). This insight highlights the inherent vulnerability of those who lack power and influence. It is a timeless reminder that the poor, the stranger, the orphan, and the widow are more susceptible to injustice precisely because they lack the resources to defend themselves against those who would exploit them.

In the context of today's political landscape, this teaching from Rashi is especially poignant. As we watch the presidential campaigns unfold, we see how those who are wealthy and powerful often have greater access to justice and influence while the poor and marginalized struggle to have their voices heard. Policies that favor the rich at the expense of the poor or that undermine protections for vulnerable communities are a modern-day perversion of judgment—exactly what the Torah and Rashi warn against.

This issue is not just about individual acts of injustice; it's about the structures and systems that make it easier to ignore or dismiss the needs of the defenseless. When political leaders propose policies that cut social services, restrict access to healthcare, or reduce the rights of immigrants and minorities, they are effectively "perverting judgment" in a way that disproportionately harms those already at a disadvantage. Rashi's commentary challenges us to resist such trends and to advocate for a society where justice is not skewed in favor of the rich but is truly accessible to all.

Rashi's words remind us of the Torah's deep concern for justice and equity. We are called to be vigilant against any form of leadership that would make it easier to pervert the judgment of the poor and defenseless. We must support leaders and policies that protect the rights and dignity of all people, ensuring that the promise of justice is not reserved for the privileged few but extends to every member of our society. 

In this way, our commitment to justice becomes not just a personal or political stance but a fulfillment of our sacred duty, rooted in the teachings of our tradition. Let us use this wisdom to guide our actions, ensuring that we contribute to a world where the judgment of the poor, marginalized, and vulnerable is never perverted and where justice truly prevails for all.

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Good morning,

I jotted some thoughts down on this week’s Torah portion, Shoftim, shared them on Social media, and thought I would also share them here.

Today, we find ourselves in Parashat Shoftim. This portion opens with a powerful call: "Justice, justice shall you pursue." The Torah doesn't just suggest justice; it demands it, repeating the word "justice" as if to say, Don't just seek it—chase it down, make it your mission and your way of being in the world.

Parashat Shoftim reminds us that justice is a communal obligation. It's about how we structure our society, how we treat one another, and how we hold systems of power accountable. The month of Elul asks us to examine our personal lives and the world we help create. Are we lifting up the voices of the marginalized? Are we dismantling the barriers that keep people from living with dignity and respect?

This month is our opportunity to align ourselves with the divine call for justice that is relentless and that challenges us to move beyond complacency and comfort. It's about recognizing that justice isn't just a legal principle; it's a spiritual imperative, a way of walking through the world that demands we see and respond to the pain of others.

As we prepare our hearts for the High Holy Days, let this month of Elul be a time of awakening. Let us recommit to the pursuit of justice in all its forms, knowing that in doing so, we are building a world that reflects the very best of who we are and who we can be.

May this Elul bring us closer to the justice we are called to create, and may we enter the new year with a renewed sense of purpose and possibility.

Update:

Over the next few months, I have more music to be released, and I decided to change my music name on all platforms to "Rabbi Sandra" instead of "Rabbi Sandra Lawson," so now my branding is the same everywhere. It will take a few days or weeks for this to catch up on all platforms. Apple, for some reason, doesn't like to change artists' names, so you may see them listed under both names on Apple.

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We are now in the Jewish month of Elul, a time traditionally devoted to introspection, spiritual renewal, and personal growth. Elul serves as a gateway to the High Holidays, a period of profound self-examination and transformation in which we are asked to scrutinize our actions, attitudes, and relationships over the past year. Elul serves as an opportunity to release past burdens, mend relationships, and set clear intentions for the year ahead. I've written about this time extensively in previous editions of this newsletter, and I will share some of those links below. 

Recently, I worked with some future rabbis on the concept of Teshuva, which is often translated into English as repentance. The Hebrew word Teshuva indicates return, which is an action to be taken, and we often describe Teshuva as an action returning to our best selves—much of my conversation with the rabbis in training centered on our digital interactions. So today, I invite you to consider how the themes of Elul apply to our digital lives—mainly how we communicate and treat others online.

Soul-Searching: Embracing Self-Discovery in Our Online Interactions

In Jewish tradition, the practice of Heshbon Hanefesh, or "accounting of the soul," encourages us to reflect on our actions and intentions. In today's world, this reflection should also extend to our digital footprint—our emails, messages, and social media communications. How do our online interactions align with our values? Are we the people we aspire to be, even behind a screen? Have our words or actions online caused harm, whether intentionally or not? This process invites us to grow, reminding us that our digital selves are an extension of who we are and that we can shape this identity with care and integrity.

Behind every screen is a real person with real emotions. In moments of frustration or haste, it's easy to forget this and post something or write something we might later regret. This month, consider the impact of your words online. Have you contributed to positivity and respect, or have you added to the noise of negativity? Have you stayed true to your values, or have your words harmed others? Our digital selves should reflect the same integrity we bring to our in-person lives. By being mindful, we can ensure that our online interactions reflect our best selves and contribute to a more compassionate digital community.

Teshuva: Returning to Your True Self in the Digital Realm

As I mentioned above, Teshuva is about returning to our best selves. In the digital realm, it means recognizing where we might have strayed—whether through harsh words, thoughtless comments, or spreading misinformation—and making a conscious effort to realign with our best selves. Teshuva in our online interactions is about reclaiming our potential to be kind, respectful, and thoughtful.

Here are some steps that might help you achieve this:

1. Reflect on Your Digital Behavior: Take time to reflect on your online interactions—whether through email, messaging, or social media. Have there been moments where you were less kind, respectful, or thoughtful than you intended? Identifying these moments is the first step toward change.

2. Acknowledge and Apologize: If you realize that your words online have hurt someone, consider reaching out to them directly to apologize. A sincere apology can help mend relationships and show that you value kindness and respect in your communications.

3. Correct Misinformation: If you've shared something that turns out to be false or misleading, take responsibility by correcting it publicly. This shows integrity and helps maintain a truthful and respectful digital environment.

4. Set Intentions for Future Interactions: Commit to being more mindful in your online presence. Before posting, commenting, or replying, ask yourself: Does this align with my values? Is it kind, respectful, and constructive? Taking a moment to pause can prevent future missteps.

5. Cultivate a Positive Digital Environment: Actively contribute to creating a positive online space by sharing content that uplifts, educates, and inspires. Encourage respectful dialogue, and be a model for the kind of digital communication you wish to see.

Missing the Mark: Embracing Our Humanity Online

The Hebrew word for sin, chet, is understood as "missing the mark." This concept applies just as much to our online lives as it does to our offline actions. Sometimes, in the heat of the moment or under the guise of anonymity, we may miss the mark—saying things we regret or acting in ways that don't align with our values. Recognizing this helps us approach our online missteps with compassion, understanding that we all make mistakes. What's important is how we respond—do we ignore the impact of our actions, or do we learn from them, apologize when needed, and strive to do better?

Elul: A Portal to Renewal in Our Digital Lives

Elul presents a unique opportunity to reset and recalibrate—not just in our personal lives but in our digital lives as well. It's a reminder that we are not defined by past missteps but by our willingness to grow and improve. This month invites us to engage in self-reflection, seek forgiveness from those we may have wronged online, and extend that same forgiveness to ourselves. It's a time to reconnect with the core of who we are and to ensure that our digital presence aligns with our values and contributes positively to our digital communications.

As we embark on this journey through Elul, let's embrace the spirit of soul-searching, personal growth, and the recognition that we all sometimes miss the mark—both offline and online. Let's use this sacred time to aim higher, ensure that our digital communications reflect our most authentic selves, and prepare our hearts and our online spaces for the new year ahead.

As you reflect on the themes of Elul, I invite you to explore some of my previous writings on this sacred time, which offer deeper insights into introspection, repentance, and renewal.

A Playlist for the Month of Elul

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In this week's Torah portion, Parashat Re'eh, we encounter a powerful directive: "There shall be no needy among you." This statement isn't just an ideal—it's a clear call to action. The Torah emphasizes that we have a responsibility to care for those who are struggling, ensuring that everyone in our community has what they need to live with dignity. But what does that mean for us today?

It means recognizing that poverty and inequality are not just issues for others to solve—they are challenges that demand our attention and effort. Addressing these issues goes beyond acts of charity; it involves working toward a society where everyone can access the resources they need. It's about looking at the bigger picture and asking ourselves, how can we contribute to a world where no one is left behind? The command that "there shall be no needy" pushes us to reflect on our own role in creating a more just and equitable world. It reminds us that our actions—whether through giving, advocating for change, or simply being aware—can make a real difference in the lives of others.

This idea of responsibility leads directly to another central theme of Parashat Re'eh: the power of choice. In this Torah portion, Moses presents the Israelites with a stark choice: blessing or curse, life or death. He says, "See, I am setting before you today a blessing and a curse—the blessing if you obey the commandments…the curse if you do not." This isn't just an ancient outdated directive; it's a powerful reminder that the choices we make every day have profound consequences.

Here's where these two themes connect: choosing to create a society where there is no needy is, in itself, choosing the blessing. When we choose to act with kindness, to support those in need, and to stand up against inequality, we are actively choosing a path that leads to blessings not only for ourselves but for our entire community. The decision to care for the vulnerable, to ensure that no one is left behind, is a reflection of choosing the blessing that Moses speaks of.

As we go about our daily lives, let's be mindful of the choices we make. Every decision offers an opportunity to bring more blessings into the world. Whether it's through supporting a cause, lending a hand to someone in need, or simply choosing compassion over indifference, our actions have the power to transform our communities and, ultimately, our world. Let's choose blessings—not just for ourselves, but for everyone, and work toward a future where dignity and justice are within reach for all.

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I just released the following “Justice, Where Have You Gone,” song that speaks to the theme of caring for those in need, directly reflecting this week's Torah portion. This song was born out of my deep concern following the Supreme Court's decision permitting the punishment of unhoused individuals—a ruling that I believe is a moral failing. It’s a shanda, a disgrace to our nation and it stands in stark contrast to the core values of compassion and justice that lie at the heart of Jewish tradition.

My reflection from last year on this week’s Torah portion

Also, check out my other song Childless Cat Lady

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Shabbat Shalom

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In the Hebrew Bible, yirah embodies a paradox: it can mean both "fear" and "awe." This linguistic duality reflects a timeless struggle within the human spirit. Throughout history, we have grappled with the tension between these two powerful emotions, and today, that struggle is playing out on our nation's political and spiritual stages.

Fear is the weapon of the oppressor. Awe is the birthright of the liberated.

In recent years, we have witnessed the rise of a political ideology rooted deeply in fear. This fear is not just an abstract anxiety; it is a deliberate, calculated effort to turn back the clock to a time when only a select few held power and privilege—namely, white men. To understand this fully, we must acknowledge the historical evolution of "whiteness" itself. In the United States, whiteness was originally reserved for men of British descent. Over time, other immigrant groups (that could) assimilated into this construct of whiteness, often at great cost to themselves—a loss of culture—and at the expense of those who could never be part of this exclusive club. This expansion of whiteness often involved climbing over others—sometimes through violence and murder—as a means to sustain an exclusionary power structure.

Today, we live in a more diverse and inclusive society than ever before. Voices once invisible and silenced now demand to be seen and heard. Yet, some perceive this progress as a threat. They cling to a zero-sum worldview, where one group's rise must mean another's decline. This fear of loss—of power, status, and cultural dominance—drives their politics and vision of the future.

This fear is not limited to the political arena; it has deep roots in certain strains of Christianity as well, particularly in the ideology of Christian nationalism. This type of Christianity often centers on the belief that the United States should be a Christian nation, where white Christians are the rightful rulers. In this framework, whiteness is closely tied to both religious and national identity, reinforcing the idea that "true" Americans are white Christians. This belief marginalizes non-white and non-Christian communities, portraying them as threats to the "traditional" American identity. For many, their religious experience is shaped by a fear of God—a fear that stepping out of line will result in divine retribution. This fear-based faith views life as a rigid set of rules designed to avoid punishment. It fosters a religion of scarcity, where the love and grace of God are distributed sparingly, reserved only for those who strictly conform, and where the power and control of a select few are maintained through the exclusion and marginalization of others. This intertwining of whiteness with Christian identity and national loyalty is used to justify exclusionary policies and maintain power, often by invoking fear of the "other" as a threat to the nation's core identity.

However, this narrative of fear is not the only path available to us. What if we shifted our focus from fear to awe? In the Hebrew Bible, awe is not about trembling in terror before a wrathful deity; it is about standing in wonder before the vastness and mystery of the Divine. Awe inspires us to see the sacredness in all people, to embrace diversity as a reflection of God's infinite creativity, and to work towards a society that honors the dignity of every human being.

Awe invites us to envision a future not rooted in the fear of what we might lose but in the awe of what we can create together. It calls us to move beyond the narrow confines of a past that excluded so many and to step into a future where all voices are heard, all rights are respected, and all people are valued.

As we stand at this crossroads, we must choose which path to follow. Will we allow fear to drive us back into a past of exclusion and division? Or will we embrace the awe that calls us forward into a future of inclusion, justice, and love? The choice is ours, and it will define not only our politics but our very souls.

Let us choose awe and, with it, commit ourselves to building a future that honors the dignity and humanity of all.

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Childless Cat Lady, Dog Mom Blues

My new song that I first recorded on my back porch is a hit on Youtube and in a few days has already been seen by over 9k people on Youtube, I’ve never had a song reach that many people ever. Thank you. So, the other day I went to a music studio to record it and here it is. Thank you Benjy from Earth Tones Recording Studio.

This is a fun song that captures this current political moment. I hope you enjoy it. It’s available wherever you stream music. BTW, I have other music coming out soon, follow me on Spotify, Apple, Amazon etc to get notified when new music comes out.

Parshat Va'etchanan

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Good Morning Wonderful Subscribers!

I’m sharing something a bit different with you all today. I'm feeling hopeful and having some fun with this current political moment that we find ourselves in. This weekend, I wrote a fun song titled Childless Cat Lady, Dog Mom.

For centuries in this country, men—particularly white men—have tried to define Black people and women, especially Black women. They have attempted to dictate our roles, our worth, and our voices, often pushing us to the margins and silencing our stories. This systemic effort to control and limit the potential of Black individuals, and particularly Black women, has been a continuous struggle. However, we have always resisted and persevered, carving out spaces for ourselves and asserting our right to exist and thrive on our own terms.

The Harris campaign has encapsulated this spirit of resilience and defiance with the powerful phrase: “We are not going back!” It is a declaration that we refuse to return to a time of greater oppression and inequality, a time when our identities and contributions were overshadowed by the dominance of a privileged few. Instead, we are moving forward, claiming our rightful place in society, and ensuring that our voices are heard and respected.

Recently, I made a comment that someone was sounding like Governor George Wallace in the '60s, and someone asked me who George Wallace was. Among other things, he was famous for his line during his 1963 inaugural speech: "segregation now, segregation tomorrow, segregation forever," which became the rallying cry for those opposed to desegregation. It's a line he would later regret in life.

As I went down the rabbit hole of learning more about George Wallace, I discovered that his wife, Lurleen Wallace, who was also a Governor of Alabama, was diagnosed with cancer, which eventually ended her life. As was the custom of the day, the doctors told George Wallace about her diagnosis, and he insisted that she not be informed. As a result, she did not get appropriate care. When she found out years later and confronted her husband, she was furious.

I feel like these politicians want us to go back to that time, and also to an era like the '50s sitcoms such as Leave It to Beaver—a period that only existed on television. A time when men, particularly white men, controlled everything. And as the saying goes: "We are not going back!" Don’t be surprised if that line turns into a song as well.

Anyway, I hope this song brings a smile to your face and a bit of joy to your day. Thank you for being part of this journey with me!

Stay joyful, stay creative, and keep smiling!

Love you all  

R’ Sandra

Lyrics:
Childish Cat Lady, Dog Mom

I’m not a childless cat lady, but dog mom for sure,

Got my loyal pups, can't ask for more.

I Climbed a coconut tree, thought I’d reach the sky,

But gravity pulled me down, oh, me oh my.

One day I Turned Black one day, don't remember when or how

Might’ve been the coconut hit me on my head

Laughin’ through the chaos, with a smile so wide, (that’s my style)

Life’s a crazy journey, gotta enjoy the ride,

We are Childless cat ladies, dog mommas, and proud,  

Singin’ with our fur babies, laughing out loud.

Find joy in the madness, and embrace it all.

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