Ann Arbor Reconstructionist Congregation

Rabbi's Posts

Tu B’Shevat as a Bridge: Growing Jewish Connection Across Communities

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This article was written by Rav Gavrielle Pescador for the Feburary 2026 Washtenaw Jewish news.

At a time when many Jews feel fractured—by politics, by ideology, or by communal boundaries—Tu B’Shevat offers a powerful counter-narrative. Known as the “New Year of the Trees,” this holiday invites us to slow down, notice what is growing, and remember our shared roots. More than a seasonal marker, Tu B’Shevat centers values that are urgently needed right now: interdependence, renewal, gratitude, and care for the earth and for one another.

This year in Ann Arbor, Tu B’Shevat is being celebrated not by any one congregation alone, but through collaboration across the local Jewish community. On Sunday, February 1, 2026, community members of all ages will gather at the JCC from 10am to noon for a daytime Tu B’Shevat celebration that brings together multiple organizations and perspectives.  There will be a variety of arts/craft/planting activities in the JCC Newman Lounge.  Shlomit Cohen, the director of the Ann Arbor Reconstructionist Congregation (AARC) Beit Sefer (religious school), is part of the community-wide programming for Tu Bishvat. “One of the activities that we are excited to offer is bringing the different colors from nature and making colorful fun tie-dye with the children,” comments Shlomit.

Later that evening of February 1, at 7:00pm, a different kind of collaboration will unfold. Clergy and members from the Ann Arbor Reconstructionist and Jewish Renewal communities will come together to lead a joint Tu B’Shevat seder. Drawing on traditional ritual structures while inviting creativity, song, and reflection.
What makes this collaboration especially meaningful is Jewish Renewal and Reconstructing Judaism have a lot of affinity.  Both are deeply engaged with tradition, yet embrace the opportunity to reinterpret it in light of modern life. Both emphasize ethical responsibility, spiritual depth, inclusivity, and a Judaism that speaks to the heart as well as the mind.



At the same time, their differences add texture to the collaboration. Jewish Renewal often foregrounds embodied spirituality, music, mysticism, and ecstatic prayer while Reconstructing Judaism emphasizes historical consciousness, democratic process, and thoughtful engagement with evolving Jewish civilization. When these approaches meet, and they often do, the result is not dilution, but enrichment providing multiple doorways into shared Jewish life.

Rabbi Elliot Ginsburg of Pardes Hannah, Ann Arbor’s Jewish Renewal chevre, notes “the Seder for Tu Bishvat invites us to experience an expansive understanding of the divine life-force while helping us appreciate the deep ecology of our own lives. The Seder Tu Bishvat historically draws on kabbalistic understandings of divinity as a Tree of Life with its roots in the Infinite. In this model, earthly life may be seen as leaves and fruit on the tree, energetically connected to the Source. From an ecological perspective,Tu B’Shevat, with its imagery of roots and branches, soil and fruit, reminds us that healthy ecosystems depend on diversity. So do healthy communities. When Jews gather across lines of denomination and ideology, we model a Judaism that is resilient, relational, and alive.“

In a season when public discourse so often pushes us toward division, these Tu B’Shevat gatherings invite something else: to come together, to plant seeds of connection, and to celebrate what can grow when we choose collaboration over separation.  |

Rabbi Aura Ahuvia, who has strong roots in Ann Arbor’s Reconstructionist and Jewish Renewal communities, states: “I’ve felt a rising need for community with every passing month. The news, social media…it all feels oppressive and manipulative. I’ve been seeking the salve of simple connection, to be reminded that when we come together, in-person, as ourselves, we’re capable of enjoying each other’s company and even solving our problems together. Celebrating life as it reawakens within and between us feels like exactly the right thing to do right now.”
 
 

AARC B’nei Mitzvah Cohort: Building Skills, Spirit, and Community


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By Rabbi Gabrielle Pescador

This article appeared in the January 2026 Washtenaw Jewish News. See page 7 here: https://washtenawjewishnews.org/wp-content/uploads/2025/12/Jan-2026.pdf

This year, the Ann Arbor Reconstructionist Congregation (AARC) is delighted to have four students at the B’nei Mitzvah stage of their Jewish journey, and to have the opportunity to form a cohort — a model that allows our students to learn together, support one another, and build community as they prepare for this special milestone in their lives.
 


The cohort began their journey this past spring with Hebrew Boot Camp led by veteran religious school educator, Aviva Panush. In the 2025–26 fall/spring semesters, the students are continuing their studies with me, strengthening their Hebrew decoding skills, deepening their understanding of the Shabbat morning service, creating their own B’nei Mitzvah projects, and exploring what it truly means to embrace Jewish life and values on their own terms.
 
A major focus of the year will be learning both the structure and the thematic elements of the Shabbat morning service — gratitude, praise, deep listening, personal reflection, connecting with Torah in a deeply personal way, and committing to doing good. My hope is for the cohort to co-lead their B’nei Mitzvah service with me, not only to build skills and confidence, but to help them experience themselves as spiritual leaders within our community.  This approach is especially meaningful within a Reconstructionist community, where collaborative leadership is a core value.
 
To engage the students creatively, I invite them to choose melodies they love. Students will also have the opportunity to play musical instruments during the service, if that brings them joy, to add extra richness to the already collaborative and uplifting energy of AARC’s prayer landscape. Jack Kessler z”l, my beloved teacher and director of ALEPH’s Cantorial Studies Program, used to say that music helps people “have fun in shul,” a pearl of wisdom that I take very seriously. When our young members experience joy in prayer and spiritual community, their post–B’nei Mitzvah engagement will hopefully become more natural and enduring.
 
The cohort is also learning how to craft a d’var Torah. Each student is invited to explore their Torah portion by identifying what they find meaningful, inspiring, or even challenging. In wrestling with the text — its beauty, its complexity, and its questions — students begin to discover their own values and what feels important or compelling to them. This process helps them develop a personal relationship with Torah and a thoughtful, authentic voice in interpreting tradition and finding its relevance in their daily lives.
 
Each student also works individually with their Torah chanting coach, Deb Kraus. Deb not only teaches trop (the cantillation patterns for Torah and Haftarah) but also guides the students in translating and interpreting their Haftarah portions into contemporary English. Our community takes great pride in our unique custom of having our students chant their own interpretive English rendition on their special day.
 
The goal of this cohort model is to nurture community-building not only for the students, but also for their families. The shared journey offers opportunities for families to support and deepen their relationships with one another through this rite of passage, and feel more connected to the congregation as a whole.
 
The cohort also enriches the wider AARC community. Younger students in the AARC Beit Sefer (religious school) with director Shlomit Cohen, witness their older peers taking on leadership roles — reading Torah, leading prayers, offering teachings — and can begin to imagine themselves in those roles. Our hope is that this visibility sparks excitement and a sense of belonging, helping younger students look forward to their own future B’nei Mitzvah journeys. And of course, it is only natural for the older generation to kvell (take pride and delight) over the accomplishments of our youth and to be encouraged by the planting of seeds for future community-building.
 
On a personal note, it is particularly meaningful to me to have the opportunity to be part of the process of nurturing our youth — guiding their learning, celebrating their questions and witnessing their growth. According to our tradition, this is a form of sacred communal birthing. As our sages teach, “One who teaches another’s child Torah is regarded as though they had given birth to them” (Sanhedrin 19b). I am so grateful for the privilege of getting to know the minds and hearts of these young people and of helping shepherd them to enter the next stage of their Jewish lives.
 
To learn more about the Ann Arbor Reconstructionist Congregation, please visit https://aarecon.org/ or email info@aarecon.org.
 
 

Yom Kippur Sermon – 2025/5786

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Today’s Torah reading draws us into the ritual choreography of the High Priest—the one person permitted to enter the inner sanctum and stand face-to-face with Divine power. A relationship wrapped in mystery and inaccessible to the average Israelite.

But I ask you: is such intimacy really inaccessible? And if not, is such intimacy meant to be hoarded by a select few—by only adepts and elites—hidden behind the veils of some imagined Holy of Holies?

On Yom Kippur, we are invited to draw closer to that mystery—to what is true, to what is beautiful, to what is most meaningful. Only on this day do we proclaim aloud the second line of the Shema: Baruch Shem Kevod Malchuto l’olam va’ed. The rabbis say these words are spoken only by angels. But today—we are pure enough to say them. Today, we declare that the Kavod—the Divine Radiance—infuses all creation, here and now.   Our very aliveness itself is an expression of that Divine Radiance, of the Kavod.

The invitation of teshuvah is to work with that aliveness. Not in a far-off mystical way, but in a real, tangible way – that embraces the power of life within us, the power of life that every living being carries.

The architecture of creation is full of powers:

  • A plant has the power to turn sunlight into food.
  • A flower has the power to lure a bee with its color and scent.
  • Fish have the power to breathe underwater.
  • And humans? We have the powers of imagination, language, creativity, and choice—powers that give rise to ritual, community, culture and complex expressions of civilization.

Power is a sacred capacity. And like the High Priest of old, we are entrusted to use our power with intention.  

On this day, we ask: What are our powers? How have we used them? Where have we misused them—or left them dormant? 

Asking these questions is the work of cheshbon hanefesh, the accounting of the soul.   Such work is not only about working on ourselves and becoming better people. It is about coming into our fullness. About being alive, vibrant, magnificent and beautiful.   

We become better people, when we know who we are, when we are authentic, when we are playful, when we are expansive and experimental and dare to love with all our heart, our soul and everything we’ve got.  When we dare to walk through life with holy chutzpah.  

Our tradition tells of the Lamed Vavniks—that in every generation, there are lamed vav [ל׳׳ו] 36 hidden righteous ones whose quiet merit sustains the world. They wear no priestly robes. They walk among us, unrecognized—even to themselves. They remind us that holiness is not locked in a chamber; it is carried in ordinary human lives of compassion, humility, justice and the holy chutzpah to be loving, generous and helpful as a way of being, with everyone, not reserved for our families, besties or curated social circles.  The Lamed Vavnik is fueled by love, radiates love and expresses love.   

We need to fill the world with more than 36 such individuals, don’t you think?   

Maybe hidden in the lamed vav is an even deeper message.  Maybe lamed – which contains the Hebrew root letters for “learn” and vav, which functions as a grammatical conjunction and connector, which means “and” – just maybe the combination of these two letters holds the message that we have to LEARN TO CONNECT.  All of us, not just 36 people.  

And if we do that, if we really learn to connect, we can sustain the world. We need the holy chutzpah to believe it is possible to live such a life.  To love in the face of our fears, to love in the face of our grief and pain.  

This is a year to focus on love – to radiate it with every step and every breath.  To be unashamed in expressing it.  

Let love be the measure of our power. The world is calling for it, aching for it.  We see abuses of power large and small—in our own country, in Israel, in Gaza, and in so many parts of the world. We are fatigued by endless conflict, horrified by unspeakable suffering, overwhelmed by continual waves of information and misinformation. And many of us feel powerless, even in our protesting, petitioning, and activism.  

And yet, Yom Kippur asks us to tap into the powers we do have. To go inward—not out there, on the world stage, but here—[hand on heart]—in the holy of holies of our own lives.  To have the holy chutzpah to love our neighbors, warts and all.  To have the holy chutzpah to be authentic and love ourselves, warts and all.

The task is not to have it all figured out. It is simply to begin: to step into the power entrusted to us, to align our soul with love, to let gratitude and compassion ripple outward. This is teshuvah. This is tikkun hanefesh—the repair of the soul—which makes tikkun olam—repair of the world—possible.

We are commanded to love.    This is the essence of Torah, as Hillel taught: v’ahavta l’rei’acha kamocha, “and you shall love your neighbors as you love yourself.”  The rest is commentary.  Go and learn it.  

Lamed vav – learn to connect.

To love is the biggest mitzvah of all – the spiritual, ethical and moral imperative of our time.  To root every choice in love, in compassion, in justice. Everything flows from there. It is the very heart of Torah. It is the measure of our power, that pulses through each and every one of us.  

So, I say to you today: Step into the Holy of Holies of your own being. Claim the aliveness that flows through you. Let it be shaped by love—love multiplied, love abundant. The world is waiting. The world is depending on you. And maybe—just maybe—you are the one whose hidden holiness will help sustain us.    

G’mar chatimah tovah. 

Rosh Hashanah Sermon – 2025/5786

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By Rabbi Hazzan Gabrielle Pescador

Each Rosh Hashanah, we chant the story of Sarah and Hagar.

Two matriarchs of the Abrahamic lines—Israelite and Yishmaelite.  At odds.  Wounding one another.

Last year, I leaned hard on Sarah—on her harsh treatment of Hagar, her overreaction to Ishmael’s behavior.  I painted her as jealous, reactive, cruel.  And although that interpretation is legitimate, it is just a fragment – only part of a larger story.

We are living in a time when people are focusing on fragments, polarized fragments, partial truths, and it is not getting us anywhere.  We are living in a time that demands broadening our perspective.  We are living in a time of over-reactivity – and we all know that over-reactivity rarely comes from nowhere.


Heaven knows I have overreacted in my own life.   To criticism.  To insult.  To being dismissed.  To the ache of feeling unseen.  

And I know I’m not alone.

Add “power to the mix”—add differentials of power to that mix—and the impact – the pain deepens.

Those of us who value democracy, fairness, justice—we’re sensitive to power imbalances.  Such imbalances stir deep responses within us, and I daresay that over-reactivity is one of them.

Sarah was not without power – she had the power of position—she was wife number one. Hagar also had power—she carried what Sarah wanted most: a son.  Hagar also had the power of voice, and she used that power to taunt Sarah, to make her feel small, less than. Sarah used her power of privilege to influence Abraham to banish Hagar – she used her power to punish, to be vindicative. Both women wielded what they had.  And it wasn’t pretty.

And yet, despite their reactivity, despite their cruelty toward one another – neither was abandoned by God.  Sarah was graced with a child.  And Hagar—exiled, desperate—was met by God – whom she named El Ro’i: The God Who Sees Me.  She did not name God as All-Knowing or All-Powerful—but as The God Who Sees.  The One who promises that even in exile, even in despair, our stories continue.

That name, El Ro’i, has stayed with me. Because being seen—and truly seeing—are two of the more sacred powers we have.

The Midrash tells us that Sarah felt diminished when Hagar conceived – Sarah felt unseen.  Hagar also felt unseen when she fled.  It took exile, pain, surrender before either woman could feel God’s gaze.  Both women—flawed, reactive, human—were still beloved.  Still seen by God.  Still worthy of blessing.  Still worthy of love.  Still worthy of redemption.

And this story is not just about biblical matriarchs.  The pain of being unseen, of feeling overshadowed and dismissed is ubiquitous.  Overreaction to that pain is everywhere—in our families, our communities, our country.  In Israel, in Gaza. Across the world.  In our own hearts.

Deep pain triggers harsh responses.  It drives oversimplification, dehumanization of “the other.”  

Hurt people hurt people.  Hurt communities hurt communities.  Hurt nations hurt nations 

When hurt people, communities and nations—fail to SEE the pain that drives their behavior, reconciliation becomes impossible. 

So, on Rosh Hashanah, we begin here (hand on heart). With teshuvah. With the power of seeing, inwardly and outwardly. That is the power of El Ro’i.  The God who sees us.

This year, I ask myself—and I invite you to ask yourselves with me:

  • Who have we mis-seen?
  • Who have we dismissed because we only knew part of their story?
  • What within ourselves have we turned away from or diminished? 
  • And what do we learn from seeing – How does our ability to see, understand and recognize transform us? 

If I make may speak personally – I’d like to share a story about one of my family matriarchs.  Because let’s face it – if we don’t get real, if we don’t get personal about this stuff, it becomes too abstract, and it’s harder to learn the lessons that we need to learn.

My Bubbe Sarah—my father’s mother—was sharp-tongued and very quick to overreact.  She was also capable of deep love.  She adored my father and my uncle.  I also felt loved by my Bubbe—she taught me how to pray, she made clothes for my dolls, she played with me, and let me play with her hair and experiment with crazy hair styles, which didn’t seem to faze her. And she loved my interest in Judaism.  She would affectionately call me the Rebbetzin—the rabbi’s wife – I wonder what she’d think of me now.

Even though my Bubbe Sarah and I got along well, I recognized the pain that her sharp tongue caused others.  And as I got older, I grew less tolerant of it and even began to keep an emotional distance from her.

As the years have passed, I have gained some perspective and realized that my Bubbe Sarah lived a very hard life: she was the eldest of eight children, an immigrant, widowed young, poor, with the burden of raising two sons on her own.  Two sons who became doctors.  She was SO proud of that, she was SO proud of them.


My bubbe Sarah was tough, intelligent, quick-witted and devout.  And she ached to be seen—for her sacrifices, for her mind, for her experience— for her beauty that faded with age.  And when she felt the pain of being dismissed or unseen, she lashed out.  And I found that lashing out deeply unpleasant and even embarrassing.

So as a young person, I knew I didn’t want to be like her.  I wanted to be gentler, more accommodating, more diplomatic, more of a peacemaker.  And I overdid it, I overcompensated.  You could say that I over-reacted.  When I felt threatened or hurt, I did not lash out, but instead, I bit my tongue and made nice.  It took many years of life experience and self-examination to realize that biting my tongue and making nice – as a reflex reaction – was causing harm to myself.  

I realized that like my Bubbe Sarah, I also needed to be seen and be heard just as much as I need to see and hear others. In seeing my Bubbe Sarah more fully over the years, in seeing my over-reactions to her over-reactions, I see myself differently today.  

I see more possible ways of responding and I have stepped into some of them – I have experimented.  You could say that I forgive her – but that’s not really accurate – I see her and how she affected me – and as a result, I have opened to new ways, to hopefully healthier ways of relating.  I see her in me, not brushing against me.  She was a mixed bag just like I am a mixed bag, trying to do the best I can.  So maybe I forgive her for lashing out or forgive myself for not speaking up or maybe forgiveness isn’t even the point.  Maybe what matters is recognizing that I have space to move, to grow because I can SEE now.  

I wish my Bubbe Sarah could have had the chance to see.  Who knows, maybe she does now, on the other side, as an incarnate soul.  I love to imagine that possibility.

This intergenerational lesson of seeing can ripple outwards.  It is my hope that when we witness people speaking or acting in ways that don’t land well –individuals, communities, or even nations—let’s open our eyes wider.  

I really believe that widening our perspective helps – it does not erase wrong-doing – but it does help us to understand the reasons behind it – and helps us learn how to meet the other with more awareness, more compassion – because on some level, we get it.  If we allow ourselves to see, we’ll get it.  

Over-reactivity doesn’t come from nowhere.  

Seeing and being seen – softens tension, softens pain.  It eases the way for transformation, for healing and repair.  And that begins here [touch the heart] – with rippling effects moving inward and outward. 

That is how I imagine El Ro’i saw Hagar.  And how the messengers of God saw Sarah—not finished, not discarded, but still vital to the story, still unfolding, learning, growing, blooming.

We all deserve a second look—with eyes more compassionate, more curious. This year let’s commit to seeing ourselves and one another more fully.  

May we see.
May we be seen.
May we believe that repair is possible—
even in the mess and the ugliness.

Shanah tovah.

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

_________________

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.