Shabbat Naso 5785
You can listen to Rabbi Deborah's sermon here or read below
There’s an old joke you probably know - the one about the Jew who gets stranded on a desert island. After many years, he’s finally rescued, and his rescuers are amazed to find that he’s built not one, but two synagogues.
They ask him: “Why two? You’re the only person here!”
And he replies: “This one is the synagogue I go to. And that one - I wouldn’t be caught dead in that one.”
Of course, the real joke isn’t the punchline - it’s the whole premise. Because we all know the deeper truth: you can’t really be Jewish alone on a desert island. Not properly. Not fully.
Judaism is, at its heart, a communal, public, shared tradition. That’s what gives it life. It’s not just a personal set of beliefs or a lifestyle brand. It’s a collective way of being in the world. A way of showing up - with and for each other - in joy, in grief, in responsibility, in ritual.
You see this idea expressed halachically in the notion of a minyan - the requirement for ten people to be present to say certain prayers, to read Torah, to do the things that make public Jewish life, well, public.
We’re a Reform shul, so we’re not counting just ten men, or even necessarily ten people as a measure of what it means to have sufficient community around us- and we can count people in even on zoom. But we are still counting in some sense, still thoroughly bought into the idea that Judaism is built around showing up. Because the thing is: some things you just can’t do alone.
And I know you know this. That’s why you’re here today - to celebrate, to hope, to mourn, to learn, together.
Because once we gather - and especially once we gather Jews together- then we have to navigate the trickier question: What exactly are we doing here?
Are we praying? Performing? Remembering? Reenacting? Participating? Observing?
Is it a show, or a service? Do we think of ourselves as doers, watchers, facilitators, hosts? What’s the role of the person next to us? What’s our own role?
Let’s play with an example. I’m wearing a kippah. Why?
Is it because it’s part of the uniform of a rabbi? because it makes me more Jewish? Tells you I'm serious? Is it a statement of religious observance? Of fashion? Of gender politics? Of theological orientation?
Are you wearing one? Why or why not?
Is the person next to you? Would it bother you if they weren’t?
Intrigue you, maybe even bother you, if they were?
Religious practice in public settings adds layers of meaning and, sometimes, of discomfort. Because we aren’t just being social - we’re being ritual. There’s a kind of script involved and we aren’t the sole authors. The script is unspecific enough to leave a lot of room for interpretation, and specific enough that some of us feel like we’re getting it wrong- or like others aren’t getting it right in the way we want them to.
Some of what we do in shul is custom - minhag - and some is commandment - mitzvah. Sometimes those feel aligned. Other times we’re not sure where we stand - or where we think others should stand.
This comes up all the time in subtle ways: who wears a tallit, who takes an aliyah, who stands when. These aren’t just personal choices; they’re also collective experiences. And whenever we deal with the collective and especially the Jewish one, we hit the question of what happens when our expectations or traditions seem to push up against someone else’s, how do we foster a sense of inclusion and of authenticity while setting boundaries in some ways and crossing traditional ones in others?
And what does it even mean to have expectations of others in a shared religious space? What if they say no? What if their way is different? What if the ritual they choose feels unfamiliar, or even unsettling, to us?
Rabbi Larry Hoffman writes, in The Art of Public Prayer, that public ritual is like theatre — not in the sense of pretense, but in the sense of dramaturgy. There’s a script, there are roles, there’s staging and symbolism. And, like in theatre, the audience is part of the event. Watching is also participating. And the line between stage and seat is intentionally porous.
But unlike theatre, there’s no rehearsal. And often no clear director. And we’re not just putting on a show. We’re trying to make meaning. Together. We’re all communicating, trying to decode others communication, both speaking and listening at once (and thats a skill that all Jews seem to think they have, but none of us do!).
In our community, these questions come to life most sharply in two places:
- Who wears a kippah or a tallit
- And what role non-Jewish members or family can play in the service
Why do we wear kippot? And who do we ask to wear them? Do we believe men and women are fully equal, and if so if we expect men to wear them as a default why dont we require it of women? And if we’re ok not requiring it of women because its a custom not a mitzvah anyway, why do women have a freedom that men don’t? And what about tallitot? Which are a mitzvah, a commandment, but feel strange and new to women who grew up with very different religious practices and for many still feels like a step too far.
Who can stand up here on the bimah and fulfil a ritual role? How do we honour the members of our families and community who aren’t Jewish at the same time as saying that the things we do in this shul because we are Jewish are part of a language of mitzvah and commandedness that does create different kinds of expectations. Are we comfortable explaining that distinctiveness isn't the same as hierarchy even if it might feel like it? And how do we include at the same time as drawing lines?
These are sensitive questions - deeply personal, sometimes quietly painful. They are communal. They shape how it feels to be here, how we show up for each other, how safe or seen or excluded or welcome people feel - not just in this moment, but as part of our wider journey as a synagogue.
This week’s Torah portion, Parashat Naso, is detailed and prescriptive in all kinds of ways. It gives us rules about vows, about ritual impurity, about camp structure, and a seriously exhaustive list of the offerings brought by all the different levites. It contains the priestly blessing - a moment of immense beauty - and also a list of things that must be done, exactly as they are.
There’s something comforting about that level of clarity and of being told exactly what to do and how to do it. And also something impossible. We don’t live in that kind of world anymore. But what we do still do - and this is vital - is root our decisions in Jewish tradition. We don’t have to parrot the voice of Torah or of the rabbinic legal authorities of old, but we do respond to it.
We listen. We wrestle. We ask, again and again: what does it mean to be Jewish now? In this shul? With these people?
That’s the journey we’re on together, and it’s one we’re making intentionally through a series of sessions to explore some of these exact questions. If you’ve already come to one, thank you. If you haven’t yet, we’d love you to join.
Because here’s what excites me: we’re not just stuck with the old joke. We’re not choosing between “my synagogue” and “the one I’d never step foot in.” This is about shaping the script together around the needs of our members and the aspirations of our traditions. It’s a chance to figure out, with integrity and inclusion, what our rituals mean and how they live in real bodies, real lives, real time.
That’s the gift of public Jewish life. It’s not always neat, and it’s definitely not always unanimous. But it’s deeply, beautifully real, and it’s not something that we can ever take for granted that this is a community who is prepared to step in to shape these conversations for itself, and for those who will inherit our torah.
