Ann Arbor Reconstructionist Congregation

Rabbi's Posts

Shanah Tova from Our Rabbi

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by Rav Gavrielle

Dear Ones,

As the new year of 5786 begins, I want to pause with you and take a breath.

This past year has been a difficult one—for our world, for our country, for our community, and for many of us in our own lives. We’ve carried grief and uncertainty, anger and exhaustion. Many of us have struggled to find clarity, balance, and hope.

And yet—here we are. Gathered at the gates of a new year, hearts open to possibility.

The Jewish new year is not about forgetting what has been, but about remembering and transforming. We bring all that we’ve endured with us—our struggles, our mistakes, our resilience—and we offer all that to the Source of Life with the prayer that it may be turned into wisdom, compassion, and renewed strength.

This year, our community’s High Holy Day theme is power—but not the powers we don’t have, the ones that frustrate or elude us. Instead, we’ll be exploring the powers we do have: 

  • The power of teshuvah—to return to our best selves.
  • The power of presence—to listen, to comfort, to notice.
  • The power of imagination—to envision ourselves coming into our fullness as well as a world shaped by justice and love.
  • The power of joy and song—to lift our hearts even in the hardest of times.

My wish for each of you this year: 

  • Health of body and spirit.
  • Deep love and connection.
  • The courage to begin again, even when the path feels uncertain.
  • Moments of joy that surprise you and remind you of the beauty still present.

May 5786 be a year of healing and repair, courage, laughter, and sweetness. May we grow into ourselves and into each other with kindness. 

Shanah Tovah u’Metukah—a good and sweet new year to you and yours. 

With blessings and love,

Rav Gavrielle

Tisha B’Av: Reckoning at the Narrow Bridge

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Tisha B’Av is the lowest point in the Jewish calendar, a day of mourning that mirrors the deepest ruptures in Jewish history—destruction, exile, dislocation. It is a fast day, not to punish the body, but to awaken the spirit. It is a time to feel the weight of what has been lost, and to recognize that, according to our sages—sinat chinam, “senseless hatred”—was at the root of these devastations.

Tisha B’Av asks us not to turn away. Not from suffering. Not from one another. Not as American Jews. Not as Israeli American Jews, who are entangled more intimately in the complexity of this hideous disaster. Not as our Israeli siblings, who live in this nightmare of war, grief, and national reckoning. Not as our Palestinian cousins, who endure profound loss and devastation.

This year, I am sitting with the Hasidic teaching that “the whole world is a very narrow bridge—and the essential thing is to not be overcome by fear.” It’s often sung as an anthem of resilience. But a deeper reading reminds us that a narrow bridge isn’t just scary; it is also a place of reckoning.

And so is Tisha B’Av.

As we sit in the dust of this day and read the anguished poetry of Eicha, we hear:  “You have veiled Yourself in a cloud, so that no prayer can pass through.” (Eicha 3:44)

We bear witness to the human cost of hatred, arrogance, and indifference. But Eicha is not only about the past. It seeps into our present reality and awakens us to what happens when we stop listening.

This year’s grief feels vast. The continued echos of the horrors of October 7th. The hostages still held. The staggering loss of Palestinian life. The crisis of conscience for so many. The heartbreak in Israel and Gaza. The despair of war that rises without end, without clear end.

And here at home, fear is rising too. Masked ICE officers detaining people in our cities. A rising tide of authoritarianism and dehumanization. Many in our community are scared—for themselves, for their families, for the future of this country.

Tisha B’Av asks us to feel this pain. For many of us, it is impossible to turn away.  Many of us are struggling.   Many of us are struggling with our very Jewish identity. 

Reckoning with that is important. But disappearing from Jewish spaces—even when that impulse feels protective—will likely not heal the hurt or bring the clarity we seek.

Those who chose Judaism may feel especially disoriented by this moment, grappling with the collision of joy and trauma. Those of us supporting Jewish partners and children may be experiencing a new layer of grief in our bones. 

But all of us, regardless of path, are asked to remain present: to our sorrow, yes, but also to our souls and to our inner wisdom.  

This Tisha B’Av let us reflect on what we are building in the here and now. Let us reflect on the differences and the spaces between:

  • fasting and starving.
  • safety and slaughter.
  • ranting and reaching out.
  • restorative rest and avoidance.
  • the impulse to fix and the courage to listen.
  • knowing and learning.
  • what we know and what we can hold.
  • silence and abandonment.
  • the call and the readiness to respond.

This is a time to ask:

  • What are we preserving?
  • What are we destroying?
  • What are we passing on—to our children, our children’s children, our neighbors, our communities, and our world?

Our Reconstructionist impulse teaches us that to be “a light unto the nations” is not about superiority or being “chosen.” It is about participating in the great constellation of human dignity—offering sparks of justice, humility, and connection. Adding light, not claiming it.

Dear ones, I come to you as your rabbi—in the most Reconstructionist sense of that word. Not as a gatekeeper of truth, but as a fellow spiritual traveler. A facilitator, a meaning-maker, and someone who, like you, is trying to stay awake to the heartbreak and the holiness of this time.

Let us walk this narrow bridge together—not with all the answers, but with hearts open to the questions, to one another, and to the sacred work of repair.

For those of us who are fasting, may that fasting deepen our presence.
May our mourning awaken our compassion.
May we walk this bridge—carefully, courageously, and together.

B’ahavah,
Rav Gavrielle

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Below are various recordings of Gesher Tzar Me’od (The Very Narrow Bridge) that may speak to your hearts:

Baruch Chait Version

Yosef Goldman Version

Yosef Karduner Version – with fuller Nachman text

Judith Silver Version, sung at a Concert for Haiti

Elana Arian Version  

Rosh Chodesh Tammuz – June 26, 2025

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As we enter the month of Tammuz on the Jewish calendar, we step into a season steeped in myth, mourning, and memory. Interestingly, the name Tammuz comes from Babylonian tradition. Tammuz was a beautiful young vegetation god who died, was mourned, and then returned to life.

Also known as Dumuzi, Tammuz was associated with the fertility of the land—a corn god whose death marked the drying of the fields—the tears of those who mourned him were believed to fertilize the soil for future harvests. He was also known as Dumu-zi-abzu, Tammuz of the Abyss, a name that links him to water—not only through tears and the primordial waters of creation, but also through the rivers that sustained Babylonian agriculture.

The mourning of Tammuz was a ritual event, in which women gathered to weep for the dying god in acts of devotion that mirrored the agricultural cycle: the seed buried in the soil was symbolic of death, watered or revived by tears, to sprout and be reborn in the next season. A powerful metaphor for the life cycle (birth, death and rebirth) and moving through grief.

Tammuz in the Tanach

Tammuz makes a brief but pointed appearance in the Tanach, in the book of Ezekiel:

Then [God] brought me to the entrance of the north gate of the House of YHVH; and there sat the women, bewailing Tammuz.

The prophet Ezekiel is outraged. The weeping for Tammuz is framed not as sacred, but as idolatrous—a betrayal of covenantal faith. Here, Babylonian religious practice crosses into Israelite consciousness but is rejected and shut down.

Mourning in Jewish Time: The 17th of Tammuz to Tisha B’Av

Coincidentally—or perhaps not—the month of Tammuz also begins our own traditional season of mourning: the Three Weeks, which culminate in Tisha B’Av, the day of destruction. On the 17th of Tammuz, we commemorate the breach of Jerusalem’s walls—an ominous precursor to the fall of the Temple. By Tisha B’Av, we are fully immersed in mourning over the destruction of both Temples and other collective Jewish tragedies.

While distinct from the mourning of Tammuz in Babylon, echoes linger. Some scholars suggest that though official Tammuz cult practices were never sanctioned in ancient Israel, remnants may have survived “in the streets of Jerusalem and other cities,” as Jastrow writes—not in the Temple, but among the people.

What Do We Make of All This?


The human impulse to ritualize grief—to mourn what is lost in nature and in society—is still with us. Tammuz reminds us of the ancient roots of spiritual practice, and of the ongoing tension in Jewish tradition between integrating with the cultures around us and celebrating the particularity of our Jewish identities with their unique customs, rituals and folkways.

This year, we don’t have to look far to feel the sorrow this season invites. As we enter Tammuz, our hearts are already heavy—with grief for lives lost, for communities shattered, for the pain in Israel and Gaza, Iran, Ukraine, and other places torn by war and violence. We grieve also for the erosion of democratic values and freedoms closer to home.

May we learn from our ancient, cross-cultural spiritual roots and allow our tears to sow seeds of compassion, justice, and peace.

May not all hope be lost as we continue to keep our hearts open. May our tears flow together and form a stream of healing that irrigates the soil—so it becomes fertile ground for creativity, bridge-building, and repair. May we be patient and steadfast on this path and hold one another close.

Chodesh Tov!

B’ahavah,

Rav Gavrielle

Building a Fence Around the Sacred

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An early blog post from Rav Gav regarding the 3rd day of the Omer – Tiferet Sheb’chesed, “beauty/harmony within loving kindness” – which starts this evening.

The Counting of the Omer is more than a calendar exercise—it is a forty-nine-day journey of inner refinement. Each day aligns with one of the seven sefirot (divine attributes), cycling through Chesed (lovingkindness), Gevurah (strength), Tiferet (harmony), Netzach (endurance), Hod (humility), Yesod (connection), and Malchut (receptivity). As we count, we engage body, heart, and mind, using the rhythm of that daily ritual to transform impulse into intention and reaction into reflection.


To deepen this psycho-spiritual practice, many communities add the study of Pirkei Avot—Ethics of the Fathers—during the Omer. Beginning on the Shabbat after Pesach, the custom is to read one chapter each week, aligning timeless ethical teachings with our evolving inner work.  

In the first chapter of Pirkei Avot we are instructed to emulate the wisdom of Moses and his disciples, to be deliberate and measured in our pursuit of justice, to be lovers of peace, to share and teach Jewish wisdom generously, and to make a fence around the Torah.   

This evening, as we focus on Tiferet sheb’Chesed, harmony within loving kindness, we are called to balance our generosity with discernment, to be open-hearted yet rooted in truth.  In Lurianic Kabbalah that state of balance is conceived as an expression of beauty. On the 3rd day of counting the Omer, the instruction to establish boundaries and create a fence around what we hold sacred is particularly potent as we aim to approach love, peace-making and the pursuit of justice in a balanced way.  

Unbalanced Chesed can become enabling. Over-giving without boundaries can drain us or disempower those we’re trying to help. But when love is paired with Tiferet—with truth, clarity, and inner alignment—it becomes transformative and healing.

In Jewish tradition, a fence is not a burden but an act of Hiddur Mitzvah, beautifying the mitzvah by surrounding it with care.   During this week of Chesed:

  • May we all work to establish sacred fences that protect our own hearts and the hearts of others.  
  • May we learn to saying “no” when we are feeling overwhelmed, may we pause to breathe before reacting, and may we reflect on what we want to say yes to and what we want to let go of.
  • May we ensure our generosity is sustainable and transformative, not enabling, and not draining of our energy.
  • May we establish relationships that are grounded in emotional safety and respectful honesty.
  • May we know when to step in with support and when to step back to foster growth.
  • May the richness of Jewish Calendar cycle nurture us with its times for prayer, ritual activity and celebration within community.
  • May we be guided by the wisdom of Leviticus 19:18, where we are instructed to love our neighbors as ourselves, as we face the truth of the work that needs to be done to repair the world and do tikkun olam. 

AARC’s Year of Water

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“No, no, we are not satisfied, and we will not be satisfied until ‘justice rolls down like waters, and righteousness like a mighty stream.'” – From Martin Luther King’s I had a Dream, quoting Amos 5:4

וְיִגַּ֥ל כַּמַּ֖יִם מִשְׁפָּ֑ט וּצְדָקָ֖ה כְּנַ֥חַל אֵיתָֽן׃

But let justice well up like water,

Righteousness like an unfailing stream.

(Amos 5:4)

I would like to take this opportunity, on MLK Day 2025, to announce AARC’s Year of Water. We will be bringing attention to water justice and infusing water wisdom from Jewish tradition into our prayer services and other programming during the rest of 5785. We do not have to wait until Shmitta years to shed light on the importance of the miztvah of taking care of our planet.

It is my hope that turning our attention to the theme of Water will not interfere with our other efforts of Tikkun Olam, but rather, that such holy work will sustain and nurture us in all our endeavors, for if we work toward purifying and cleansing our waterways, we also purify and cleanse ourselves. As we already know, 60% (give or take) of us is made up of water.

I know that our community is deeply invested in Tikkun Olam, which has many many different faces, as there is so much brokenness in the world. Our community’s commitment and interest in Tikkun Olam is one of the things that I cherish most about us. May we continue on that path of repairing and healing the world with strength and resilience, as a community and as individuals.

B’ahavah,

Rav Gavrielle

Words for a Pre-Election Shabbat

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Dear Ones,

With our deep concern about the outcome of the upcoming election, I thought it would be helpful to create a special ritual for entering this particular shabbat.   

After lighting the Shabbat candles, let each of us sing Shalom Aleichem, the liturgical poem in which we traditionally call in the ministering angels and angels of peace.  In reciting these words tomorrow evening, let us call in what Abraham Lincoln referred to as “the better angels of our nature” — the spirit of empathy, compassion and interconnection, of family, friends and community.  Let us sing Shalom Aleichem with all our hearts, and use our holy imagination to form a resounding chorus of households that activates the angelic potential of our community so strongly that it magnetizes the angelic potential of all the citizens of this country.  

Then for a chatima, a final blessing, let us offer the prayer below, based on the magnificently crafted language of the founding fathers of this country:

We the People of the United States pray for a more perfect union, to establish justice, insure domestic tranquility, promote the general welfare, and secure the blessings of liberty to ourselves and our posterity for the United States of America, and for all the people who dwell on this Earth.  And let us say Amen.

Shabbat Shalom & Shalom Aleichem (Peace be upon you).

Love,

Rav Gabrielle

Link to Shalom Aleichem (Nava Tehila):  https://youtu.be/xt0ZoWfYMUk?si=RgS2kH-WNXaLOFVX

Text for Shalom Aleichem:

Shalom aleichem mal’achei hasharet

Mal’achei elyon mimelech mal’achei ham’lachim

Hakadosh baruch Hu.

Bo’achem leshalom mal’achei hashalom

Mal’achei elyon mimelech mal’achei ham’lachim

Hakadosh baruch Hu.

Bar’chuni leshalom mal’achei hashalom

Mal’achei elyon mimelech mal’achei ham’lachim

Hakadosh baruch Hu.

Tzetchem leshalom mal’achei hashalom

Mal’achei elyon mimelech mal’achei ham’lachim

Hakadosh baruch Hu.

Yom Kippur Sermon 5785

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The Torah Reading on Yom Kippur discusses the instructions to Moshe and Aharon concerning the priestly service of atonement for the Children of Israel on Yom Kippur.  The reading begins with the acknowledgement of the recent death of Aharon’s two sons, Nadav and Avihu who were consumed by Divine fire, an acknowledgement that Aaron is in the early stages of mourning and likely reeling from the shock of losing two children on the same day, in the same moment, in such a shockingly dramatic way.  

In an earlier chapter, we learn that right after the dramatic deaths of Nadav and Avihu, Moshe instructs Aharon not to mourn nor be distracted from his priestly duties and reminds Aharon that his job is to distinguish between the profane and holy.   Aharon has to be impeccable regardless of his personal circumstances.

Aharon responds to Moshe’s instructions with silence – vayidom – from the root DaMaM.  Aharon said nothing.  It is interesting to note that in biblical Hebrew there is another verb with the same root letters in the same order, that means “to wail,” which points to the possibility, or even likelihood, that Aharon had to wail in silence.   

Many of us know what that feels like, especially now.  To wail in silence.

Compare Aharon’s response with Moses’s grief after losing his sister Miriam, the story of Moses hitting the rock that many of us know so well.  

The Gemara tells us that Miriam’s well had sustained the Israelites in the wilderness.  After her death, the well disappeared, and the Israelites became thirsty and complained bitterly. As a result, God commanded Moses to speak to the rock to yield its water.  But Moses couldn’t keep it together.  He does not follow God’s directions; instead, Moses insults the Israelites and calls them “disobedient rebels” and hits the rock twice with his staff.  Moses allowed his emotions to take over, which took him off his game, and for that he was severely punished and could not enter the Promised land — even after dealing with Pharoah, leading the Israelites out of Egypt, crossing the Red Sea, after receiving the Torah on Sinai, even after leading the Israelites through the desert for 40 years.

Being impeccable, remaining centered no matter what, is hard enough at the best of times, when everything is running smoothly, but when we are upset, angry and especially grieving, it seems nearly impossible.

So, what can we learn from holding these two biblical narratives together?  

One thing is that life goes on, regardless of what we’re going through.  I remember how devastated I was when my father died, and then when my mother died a few years later, I thought I couldn’t feel any worse, but I was so wrong.  I cried and cried and cried, to the point that my husband worried about me and challenged me: “Do you want to go into the grave with your mother?  Is that what you want?”  

Although his words stung, they affected me deeply.  I realized that I couldn’t stop living because my mother died, because I no longer had parents.  Yes, I loved, adored and missed them, but I realized this is my time to live.   

In Torah, we are taught to choose life – bacharta bachayim l’maan tichyeh – “choose life in order to live,” while we carry the memory of loved ones, while we carry grief.  Both personal and collective grief, and this year we know about collective grief all too well.

Let’s face it.  This past year has been a living nightmare.   And yet we are here, in this sanctuary.  That, in of itself, is an act of hope.   This is our time to do the best we can, to do teshuvah, to live and to be together and find meaning in our tradition, in our lives.  

Another thing we can learn from these two stories in Torah is that we should not be expected to be perfect. Moses who the rabbis say was the highest prophet, the most adept, in closest communication with God, had trouble keeping it together.  He is the one who loses it and hits the rock.  Yet, he instructs his brother not to mourn, to carry on and be impeccable.  Moses did not go into silence.  Frankly, Moses was a bit of a kvetch.  He would complain to God and to the Israelites.  He did not keep silent.  But his brother Aaron, the high priest, did.  Vayidom.  He wailed in silence and carried on with his holy business in impeccable detail.  But at what cost to himself?  We can only imagine.

Uvshofar gadol yitakah, v’kol k’mama daka yishama – when the great shofar is sounded, when it cries out, a small quiet voice can be heard.

As the thunder of grief is screaming in our ears, let it not stifle that small quiet voice within.  Let it not snuff out our inner spark.  Let us not go into the grave with those we have lost, because WE ARE HERE.  Hinenu.  And as we step into hinenu, let us not carry the burden of perfection, as individuals, as a community, as a country, as Jews.  It is too much to bear and it is unattainable.

As we grieve, let us make room for hope.  We can do both.  We’re here to day to do teshuvah, to try to transform, to try to forgive ourselves and others, to try to be more compassionate, interconnected human beings in the midst of this ongoing hurricane.  We’re here to try to do this sanely, with compassion, generosity and hope.  

Within the extreme polarities that are battering us day after day, my teacher, Lori Lipten, tells us that we must “learn how to live within the paradox of embodying authentic power and vulnerability; hope and despair; birth and death; love and fear; wisdom and unconsciousness; resentment and forgiveness; trust and doubt; reaction and responsiveness; distraction and presence; calm centeredness and anxious control; us and them; mine and yours.”  

As we learn to dance within these contrasts, we can touch the beauty of something far different than we believed was possible. We do not need to war with either side of these contrasts to wake up and evolve.   

Let us not allow our grief to make us cynical.  As 20th century Talmudist and Jewish philosopher Rabbi Soloveitchik wrote, “grief and lament have their place, but they cannot, must not, be given the final word.”  The artist Nick Cave puts it a bit differently.  “Unlike cynicism, hopefulness is hard-earned, makes demands upon us… Hopefulness is not a neutral position either. It is adversarial. It is the warrior emotion that can lay waste to cynicism.”  

So let us be warriors for hope that is fueled by love, generosity and compassion that is not undermined by the tyranny of cynicism, the tyranny of fear, nor the tyranny of perfectionism.  

G’mar Chatima Tova – May we all be sealed for a good and fulfilling life in the coming year. May we be safe, healthy, courageous and hopeful.

Rosh Hashanah Sermon 5785

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In today’s Torah reading, we learn that Sarah has trouble conceiving, and instructs Abraham to be with her handmaiden Hagar, who then gives birth to Ishmael.  Hagar lords motherhood over Sarah which makes Sarah resentful, and although years later, Sarah miraculously gives birth to Isaac, she still feels insecure and starts scheming to secure Isaac’s status in the family hierarchy, and has Abraham banish Hagar and Ishmael into the wilderness with limited provisions.

Today’s Haftarah also pits two women against one another over fertility issues, Hannah and Peninah, the wives of Elkanah.  Hannah can’t bear children, which devastates her.  Peninah, on the other hand, is fertile, and lords this over Hannah.  Elkanah tries to reassure Hannah and tells her that she is worth more than 10 sons, but Hannah cannot be consoled, and prays intensely, with bitter tears.  She bargains with God – if God gives her a son, then she will offer him for priestly service.  

Hannah’s way of praying grabs the attention of Eli the priest who notices that her lips are moving but without sound, and so he accuses her of drunkenness.    Hannah explains that she is not drunk but rather praying intently.  Eli believes her and gives her a blessing: לְכִי לְשָׁלוֹם  (lechi l’shalom) – go in peace  – and assures her that God will grant her request.  And Hannah bears a son.

There is another parallel between the two biblical narratives, regarding making an offering of the son with first-born status. In the case of Hannah, she willingly makes an offering of her son Samuel to priestly service.  With Sarah and Abraham’s son Isaac, it is more complicated and one of the most problematic stories in Torah.  God commands Abraham to take a knife to Isaac and offer him as a sacrifice.  Thankfully an angel intervenes, and Isaac is spared.  When Sarah hears that her precious son had almost been sacrificed, she dies of shock.  

In comparing the two stories of making an offering of the first-born son, we see differences in the states of consciousness of the two mothers in question.    Hannah doesn’t give into the pettiness and jealousy that we see in Sarah’s treatment of Hagar.  Hannah doesn’t have Elkanah banish Peninah and Peninah’s children.  Instead, Hannah turns to faith whereas Sarah’s faith appears questionable.  Upon overhearing the angels tell Abraham that she will conceive a child in her old age, Sarah laughs; it seems that Sarah had given up on her dream and loses faith.  Hannah, on the other hand, does not give up, she does not laugh, but cries bitterly and prays. 

We read in Talmud (Brachot 32b): “From the day that the Temple was destroyed the gates of prayer have been closed, but the gates of tears are not closed.”  The Ralbag of medieval France adds that combining prayer and tears brings one closer to God. 

 In other words, our feelings count, our tears count, our grief counts. 

Through Hannah’s tears, vulnerability and authenticity, she draws closer to God, and to her emotional and spiritual truth.  She keeps the conversation going; she bargains and promises to make an unselfish offering in service of the community.  No animals, no people were slaughtered or sacrificed on an altar; the power of words and the power of tears were used instead.

Hannah’s story teaches us that our feelings count and asks us to examine how the yearnings of our heart can be turned into offerings.  What we want and what we long for, what we are grieving over can crack our hearts open and inspire us toward generosity, sharing and giving.  The story of Hannah encourages us to be in conversation with our own hearts and not stifle that inner voice.  

The rabbis of the Talmudic period were so affected by Hannah, that they said (Berachot 31) we must all move our lips when we pray.  We do this together, as a community.  Our individual yearnings, our individual conversations with God, that flow from our own hearts, are held together with the individual yearnings and conversations with God that flow from the hearts of the people sitting next to you, and the people sitting next to those people.  

In this space, we yearn as unique individuals and we yearn together.  We cry as individuals, and we cry together.  

The contrast and parallels between Sarah and Hannah’s stories have a lot to teach us.  We can see that our biblical ancestors were capable of evolving from one generation to the next.  Through her deep, authentic prayer Hannah makes a tikkun on Sarah’s pettiness and jealousy.  Hannah changes the paradigm and breaks a cycle of dysfunction by transmuting her suffering in a more enlightened way, that is not only good for her, but for future generations.  

None of us had perfect parents nor perfect ancestors; none of us are perfect human beings.  Reviewing our developmental and family history safely, with softness and compassionate curiosity, allows us to see patterns of conditioning and shaping.  Some of us may find it useful to do this in a professional therapeutic setting.  Some of us may prefer to journal, meditate, go for cranial sacral treatments or Reiki.  Some of us do all of that to walk the path of self-discovery, which is work worth doing and doing safely.  It is the work of liberation and healing, not just for us, but for the future generations who stand on our shoulders.  

Just as our biblical ancestors have evolved so can we.  If they can break through cyclical dysfunctional patterns and find healthier ways of acting and being, so can we.  These stories invite us to awaken to the dysfunctional patterns that we have absorbed because of personality, ethnicity, culture, history, tradition, and our very religion.   These stories charge us to open our hearts and minds, to be bold, to challenge the status quo, and embrace the sacred wisdom of the past while at the same time release what is no longer working.

Hannah, spoke directly to the Source of Being.  She did not go through a mediator or priest.  She allowed herself to be vulnerable without apology, to stand in her authenticity with strength and resolve.  She did not get rid of the competition nor abuse her privilege.  She prayed with all her heart.  She did not let her grief stifle her inner voice.  She remained hopeful in her pain by continuing to be in conversation with God and as such, she elevated her consciousness and made a commitment to share the gift that she might receive, and in so doing she shifted the paradigm for all of us.   Hannah’s story inspires us to move in this direction.  Zichronah livrachah.  Remember her and her story for she is a blessing for all of us.  Learning from the contrast of her story and Sarah’s is a blessing for all of us.   May we continue on the holy path of learning from our ancestors, for their sake, for our sake and for the sake of future generations.