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Rabbi Michael Asher, Longwood, FL (2026)

06/02/2026

Parashat Beha'alotecha - Beginning the Journey to the Promised Land

- By Rabbi Michael Asher

Parashat Beha'alotecha takes place at a moment of tremendous promise in the story of the Jewish people.

The Exodus from Egypt is behind them. They have stood together at Mount Sinai and received the Torah. The sin of the Golden Calf has been forgiven. The Mishkan has been built, God's presence dwells among them, the tribes have been organized, the Levites dedicated, and the camp arranged around holiness.

After nearly a year at Sinai, everything is finally ready. The cloud lifts. The people begin to move. If we were writing the story ourselves, this is probably where the triumphant music would begin.

Instead, things start to unravel almost immediately. In some ways, it reminds me of a family preparing for along-awaited cross-country vacation. For months everyone plans the trip. The route is mapped out. The hotel reservations are made. The car is packed. Everyone talks about how wonderful it is going to be at Bubbe’s house.

Then, two hours into the drive, someone is hungry. Someone else is bored. One child wants a different seat. Another is asking, "Are we there yet?" The air conditioning isn't working quite right. Traffic is worse than expected. Before long, the trip that everyone anticipated with excitement begins to feel very different from the trip they imagined. Soon there is a revolt going on in the family station wagon.

That is parashat Beha'alotecha. The Israelites have finally begun their journey to the Promised Land, but the reality of travel through the wilderness is harder than the dream. The people grow tired of manna and begin longing for the foods they remember from Egypt. Fish, cucumbers, melons, leeks, onions, and garlic fill their thoughts. The Torah tells us that families stand weeping at the entrances to their tents desiring a steak dinner.

What is striking is how quickly the complaint spreads. The issue is no longer food. It becomes a communal mood. Dissatisfaction feeds upon itself until it affects the entire camp. Even Moses, one of the greatest leaders in history, becomes overwhelmed by the burden of holding the community together.

God's response is interesting. He does not simply tell the people to stop complaining. Instead, He appoints seventy elders to help Moses carry the load of the kvetching. Leadership is shared. Responsibility is shared. The community must learn that no one person can carry everyone else's frustrations alone.

Perhaps that is one of the deepest lessons of the parashat. The challenge was never getting out of Egypt. The challenge was learning how to travel and live together. Beha'alotecha reminds us that holiness is not created during the moments when everything goes according to plan. Holiness is created when a community encounters disappointment, frustration, and ordinary human weakness — and chooses to continue the journey together anyway.

In many ways, we are still on the journey that began in this week's parashat. The Jewish people are still traveling through history toward the better world that God calls us to build. Along the way, we face disagreements, frustrations, uncertainties, and challenges that can test our unity.

The lessons of Beha'alotecha remain as relevant today as they were in the wilderness thousands of years ago. We need patience with one another. We need shalom within our communities and our people. We need to keep our eyes on the larger purpose and not allow temporary frustrations to distract us from the journey itself. May we continue the journey together, guided by Torah, strengthened by one another, and committed to building communities of peace, purpose, and holiness.

Shavuah Tov,

Rabbi Michael Asher

05/27/2026

Parshat Naso: How do we build a holy community?
— By Rabbi Michael Asher

Parshat Naso asks a central question:
How do we build a holy community?

The Torah describes the Israelites encamped around the Mishkan, the Tabernacle, in the wilderness. This was not a random arrangement of tents. The entire nation was organized around holiness.

At the center stood the Mishkan itself, the place of the Divine Presence. Around it camped the Levites, charged with carrying, protecting, teaching, and serving the sacred community. Beyond them camped the tribes of Israel, people living ordinary lives — raising families, working, struggling, and building society together in the desert.

Three camps. Different roles. One people.

And no camp could exist without the others.

Without the sacred center, the nation loses its direction. Without the Levites and spiritual leadership, holiness could not be sustained or transmitted. Without the people, there would be no community for holiness to dwell within.

In many ways, we still live in those same camps today.

The “Camp of the Divine Presence” becomes Torah, prayer, Shabbat, mitzvot, and the awareness that life itself can be holy.

The “Camp of the Levites” becomes our rabbis, teachers, cantors, chaplains, volunteers, and Jewish institutions that preserve and transmit Jewish life.

And the “Camp of Israel” is where most of us live every day — in homes, neighborhoods, workplaces, and suburbs.

Modern culture often tells us we do not need community. We are taught radical individualism: “I can do spirituality alone.” But the Torah’s image of the camp teaches the opposite.

Holiness is communal. We need one another.

The tribes could not dismiss the Levites as unnecessary. The Levites could not look down upon the people. Every camp mattered because every camp helped sustain the covenant.

That idea even helps us understand the difficult Sotah ritual concerning suspected marital unfaithfulness in this parshat. During the ritual, God’s holy Name is written and then dissolved into the bitter waters she must drink. The rabbis teach that God allows even His own Name to be erased for the sake of restoring peace. In many Jewish teachings, Israel is compared to the wayward wife in its relationship with God.

But perhaps the ritual also warns us of something else: when holiness disappears from the center of the camp, bitterness replaces blessing.

When a society erases holiness, covenant, trust, and sacred responsibility, communities begin to fracture. People become isolated. Spiritual life becomes thin and disconnected.

Parshat Naso offers another vision.

A holy society is one where people organize themselves around sacred purpose. Where leadership serves the people, and the people sustain the community.

Even later in the parshat, when each tribe brings the same offering for the dedication of the Mishkan, the Torah repeats every offering separately, reminding us that every tribe and every individual matters in sustaining holiness.

That is why the parshat culminates in the Birkat Kohanim, the Priestly Blessing:

“May the Lord bless you and protect you.

May the Lord shine His face upon you and be gracious to you.

May the Lord lift up His face to you and grant you peace.”

The final blessing is Shalom — not simply the absence of conflict, but wholeness, harmony, and spiritual balance.

So how do we live this way today?

We live it by placing holiness back at the center of our lives.

We live it by supporting our congregations and Jewish institutions rather than standing apart from them. We live it by sustaining those who teach, lead, comfort, organize, and preserve Jewish life — our modern Levites.

And we live it by faithfully doing our own role in the “Camp of Israel”: raising families with Jewish values, showing up for prayer and learning, helping one another, giving tzedakah, volunteering, welcoming others, and refusing to become cynical scoffers standing outside the camp.

Not every Jew has the same role. But every Jew has a role.

The holiness of the camp depended on everyone doing their part.

And perhaps that is the deepest message of Naso:
holiness does not come from escaping the community. Holiness comes from strengthening it.

When we surround ourselves with holiness, support one another, and orient our lives toward sacred purpose, then the ancient blessing of Naso still belongs to us today:

“May the Lord bless you and protect you… and grant you peace.”

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Michael Asher

05/19/2026

Standing at Sinai together on Shavuot
- By Rabbi Michael Asher

This week is unique and deeply meaningful because Shavuot and Shabbat come together. On Shavuot, Jews throughout the world spiritually return to Mount Sinai to stand together once again and receive the Torah. The rabbis teach that every Jewish soul, past, present, and future, stood at Sinai. Shavuot is therefore not only a remembrance of a historical moment; it is a yearly renewal of the covenant between God and the Jewish people.

And yet Sinai contains a beautiful paradox: we stand there together, but each of us must also receive Torah individually. No one else can receive it for us. Every person hears the voice of Torah through the experiences, struggles, hopes, and questions of their own life. Judaism is lived in community, but revelation must also enter the heart of each individual person.

Perhaps that is why the Torah says the people stood at Sinai “as one person with one heart.” Unity did not erase individuality. Instead, each individual soul became part of something larger and holier than itself. At Sinai, the Jewish people learned that we need one another in order to encounter God fully. Alone, we may hear only fragments. Together, we help one another hear the fullness of Torah.

Normally this week on Shabbat we would read Parashat Naso, continuing the journey of the Israelites through the wilderness. But in the Diaspora this year, because the second day of Shavuot falls on Shabbat, the regular Torah cycle pauses. Instead of reading Naso, we read special festival readings connected to Shavuot itself.

In most Ashkenazi synagogues, the Torah reading comes from Deuteronomy 14:22–16:17. At first glance, it may seem surprising that the reading begins not with Sinai, but with laws about tithes, caring for the poor, the Sabbatical year, and generosity toward the Levite, the orphan, the widow, and the stranger. Only afterward does the Torah describe the pilgrimage festivals, including Shavuot.

But perhaps that is exactly the point.

Before the Torah speaks about standing before God at the holy festivals, it reminds us what receiving Torah is supposed to create: a holy and compassionate society. Revelation is not only thunder and lightning at Sinai. Torah must live in how we treat one another, how we care for the vulnerable, and how we build community together.

The reading then turns specifically to Shavuot, the Festival of Weeks, commanding the people to rejoice before God and bring offerings according to the blessings they have received. Gratitude becomes part of revelation itself. Torah is not only something we study; it is something we live.

The Haftarah from the prophet Habakkuk continues this theme with a majestic vision of God’s overwhelming presence. Mountains tremble, the earth shakes, and humanity stands in awe before the Divine. It echoes the experience of Sinai itself, reminding us that revelation is both inspiring and humbling.

There is something beautiful about the fact that we pause the normal Torah cycle this week. Before moving forward again into the wilderness journey of Naso, we stop and return to the foundation of everything: Torah, covenant, holiness, and community. Shavuot reminds us that Judaism was never meant to be lived alone. At Sinai, the people stood together “as one person with one heart.” And every year, we are invited to stand there again — together as a people, and individually as souls seeking to hear Torah anew.

Chag Sameach,

Rabbi Michael Asher

05/12/2026

In Parshat Bamidbar - You Count

- By Rabbi Michael Asher

Parshat Bamidbar begins with counting, organization, and arranging the camp in the wilderness. At first glance it can seem administrative, almost dry. But beneath the surface, the parshah offers a profound vision of how a people survives — and why human beings need a holy community.

We live in a modern world that celebrates individualism. We are taught to stand on our own, define our own truth, pursue our own goals, and rely primarily on ourselves. Judaism values the dignity and uniqueness of every individual, but Parshat Bamidbar reminds us that no one survives the wilderness alone.

The very name Bamidbar means “in the wilderness.” And the desert is more than a physical place. In Jewish thought, the desert becomes a spiritual metaphor. A desert is a place of scarcity. There is little water, little sustenance, little shelter, and little security. It is easy to become isolated and lost in the wilderness.

Our modern world can sometimes feel like that same desert.

People today may be surrounded by technology and constant communication, yet many still feel spiritually thirsty and emotionally isolated. Families become fragmented. Communities weaken. Anxiety and loneliness grow. We are more connected digitally than ever before, yet many people wander through life feeling alone.

The Torah teaches that the Israelites survived the desert because they built something larger than themselves. They became a holy community.

That is why the Torah begins by counting the people. Every person matters. Every tribe matters. Every family matters. The census counts those ready to bear arms because defending the people is holy work. Standing up for your community matters. Jewish survival has always depended not only on prayer and learning, but also on those willing to protect and defend the people Israel.

That lesson remains painfully relevant today. Every generation of Jews has faced moments when it needed to defend itself, its people, its values, and its future. That is true today, just look around us. Bamidbar reminds us that survival requires courage, unity, and responsibility toward one another. A people cannot endure if everyone stands alone.

The arrangement of the camp matters as well. Each tribe knows where it belongs. Who your neighbors are matters. Leadership matters. Responsibility matters. Every person has a role and a function within the larger whole.

And at the center of the camp stands the Mishkan.

This may be the most important image in the entire parshah. The center of Jewish life is not power, wealth, or individual achievement. The center is holiness. The Mishkan reminds the people that God must remain at the center of communal life or the nation loses its direction.

The Torah does not wait until the Israelites reach the Promised Land to teach holiness. It teaches them how to create holiness in the wilderness itself.

The desert has little water, and Torah itself is compared to water because the soul thirsts for meaning and spiritual nourishment. The desert has little sustenance, and community sustains us emotionally and spiritually when life becomes difficult. In the desert people are vulnerable, and community provides protection, care, and belonging.

And perhaps most importantly, in the desert God can seem distant. But when the people gather around the Mishkan in shared prayer, shared responsibility, and shared purpose, the Divine Presence dwells among them.

This is the story of Jewish survival itself.

Empires greater than ancient Israel disappeared into history. Nations with larger armies, greater wealth, and vast territories vanished. Yet the Jewish people survived. Why? Because Judaism was never built only on power. It was built on covenant, memory, Torah, responsibility, holiness, and community.

Generation after generation, Jews survived because they built communities centered on sacred purpose. They prayed together. Studied together. Raised children together. Defended one another. Mourned together. Celebrated together. They understood that an individual alone cannot survive the wilderness for very long.

Every generation faces its own wilderness — uncertainty, division, fear, loneliness, and spiritual thirst. The question is whether we will wander through it alone or whether we will build holy communities that sustain one another.

Parshat Bamidbar reminds us that the Jewish people survive the desert not as isolated individuals, but as a holy community bound together by responsibility, purpose, and care for one another. Together with our neighbors, centered around holiness, we have endured through the centuries. And together, with courage, faith, and commitment to one another, we will endure again.

Shavuah Tov,
Rabbi Michael Asher

05/06/2026

D’var Torah: Behar–Bechukotai — The World We Build
- By Rabbi Michael Asher

This week’s double portion in the Book of Leviticus, Behar–Bechukotai, presents us with a powerful covenantal choice.

At its core, parshat Behar teaches one central truth: nothing truly belongs to us—not the land, not our wealth, not even our power. Everything is held in trust from God, and how we use it matters.

From that truth flows the Torah’s vision for society in parshat Behar: the land must rest in the Shemitah year, debts cannot become permanent chains, ancestral land returns in the Yovel, and the poor must be protected and sustained.

It is a vision of restraint, justice, dignity, and responsibility.

And then, in parshat Bechukotai, the Torah asks the unavoidable question:

What happens if we actually live that way? And what happens if we don’t?

That is where the blessings and the curses (Tochachah) begin.

If we walk in God’s ways, the Torah says, the rains will come in their season, the land will yield its produce, there will be peace in the land, security in our homes, and God’s presence among us.

But then we read something very difficult, even frightening.

If we reject the covenant — if we abandon justice, holiness, and responsibility — the Torah describes a terrifying unraveling: panic, disease, famine, violence, desolation, and exile.

The curses of the Tochachah is one of the most difficult passages in the Torah to read because it does not soften the consequences of covenantal failure.

And in many synagogues, these verses are traditionally read in a lower voice.

Not because we want to hide them.

But because we tremble before them.

Because they force us to confront a difficult truth: the way we live matters.

At first glance, the Tochachah can sound simplistic: obey and be blessed, disobey and be cursed.

But Judaism has never read life so simply.

We know good people suffer. We know bad people sometimes prosper. The covenant is not a transaction.

So how do we understand it?

Perhaps the modern way to hear the Tochachah is not as a list of punishments, but as a moral map.

Look back at Behar.

The Torah commands: let the land rest. Release debts. Return property. Protect the vulnerable.

These are not random laws.

They are the foundations of a healthy society.

And what happens if we ignore them?

If greed replaces fairness, inequality grows.

If debts are never relieved, people become trapped.

If the vulnerable are exploited, trust collapses.

If we begin to believe that everything belongs to us, arrogance takes over.

And what follows?

Fear. Division. Scarcity. Social breakdown.

The Tochachah is not just warning about what God might do to us.

It is a warning about what happens when we abandon the moral architecture of society itself.

Neglect justice, and society fractures.

Neglect truth, and trust disappears.

Neglect compassion, and community weakens.

Neglect holiness, and life loses meaning.

And the reverse is also true.

Build justice, and blessing grows.

Build compassion, and community grows.

Build sacredness into life, and meaning grows.

That may be the deepest message of Behar–Bechukotai:

The blessings and the curses are not just ancient covenantal language.

They are the lived consequences of the world we create.

And the Torah asks us:

What kind of world are we building?

A world of dignity, release, compassion, and holiness?

Or a world of accumulation, exploitation, and fracture?

The choice is ours.

And even after all the warnings of the Tochachah, God makes one final promise: the covenant is never fully broken.

The door to return — teshuvah — is always open.

And that may be the greatest blessing of all.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Michael Asher

04/27/2026

Parshat Emor: Bringing Our Whole Selves
- A D'var Torah by Rabbi Michael Asher

We live in a world obsessed with perfection.

Perfect bodies. Perfect careers. Perfect families. Perfect social media lives. Everywhere we turn, we are reminded of impossible standards, and many of us carry the quiet feeling that we are somehow falling short.

So when we come to Parshat Emor in the Book of Leviticus and read again and again about things that must be tamim — whole, unblemished, complete — it can sound like the Torah is demanding perfection, too:

The offerings brought to God must be without blemish or defect.

The priests, descendants of Aaron, who serve in the sanctuary are also held to exacting standards: they must be of the proper lineage, free of certain physical defects for Temple service, and maintain ritual purity in mind and body. The sacred festivals must be observed at their appointed times, with care and precision. Even the oil for the menorah must be pure, so that its light may burn continually.

Again and again, Parshat Emor paints a picture of holiness expressed through wholeness, purity, and integrity.

At first glance, it might seem that God demands perfection.

But if we listen more carefully, the Torah is teaching something deeper.

The sacrificial system demands an unblemished offering precisely because the people bringing it are not unblemished.

The offering represents an aspiration, not a reality.

The Torah never assumes human beings are perfect. In fact, the whole system of offerings exists because human beings fail, make mistakes, and need ways to return.

If we were perfect, there would be no need for sin offerings, guilt offerings, or atonement.

So why must the offering be whole?

Because when we come before God, we are called to bring the best of what we have, even when we are not the best we wish we were.

That is the deeper meaning of the word tamim.

It does not mean flawless.

It means whole.

Integrated. Honest. Complete.

God does not ask us to be without scars.

God asks us not to hold back.

To bring our whole heart.

That changes how we understand holiness.

It means God is not waiting for us to fix ourselves before coming closer.

God is waiting for us now.

-- With our struggles.
-- With our doubts.
-- With our regrets.
-- With our hopes.

King David is one of Judaism’s greatest examples of this truth. King David was not perfect. He made painful mistakes and lived with the consequences of them. But what made King David great was not perfection — it was his ability to return to God with honesty, humility, and a full heart.

That is what God wants.

Not perfection — but return.

So how do we offer our whole selves to God now, in a world without the Temple and without sacrifices?

We do it through presence.

When we pray, we try to be fully there — not rushing, not distracted, but present.

When we love our family or our friends, we give them our attention, not what is left over after everything else.

When we apologize, we do it sincerely, without defensiveness.

When we help someone in need, we do it with kindness, not obligation.

When we study Torah, we bring curiosity, openness, and humility.

To give your whole self to God means showing up honestly.

And to give your whole self to another person means truly seeing them, hearing them, and making room for them.

That may be the modern offering.

Not bulls. Not goats.

But presence.

Parshat Emor reminds us that the sacred things in life should be whole — not because God expects us to be perfect, but because holiness deserves our best.

God does not ask us to be angels.

God asks that whatever we place on the altar of our lives — our time, our love, our prayer, our relationships — be offered wholeheartedly.

If we can do that, imperfect as we are, then our lives themselves become holy offerings.

And that offering is more than enough.

Shavuah Tov,

Rabbi Michael Asher

04/23/2026

Dvar Torah – Acharei Mot–Kedoshim: Taking Off the Gold
By Rabbi Michael Asher

In this week’s Torah portion, Acharei Mot–Kedoshim, we read about the Yom Kippur service of the Kohen Gadol.

On the holiest day of the year, the High Priest changes his clothing five times.

Sometimes he wears beautiful garments of gold. But only when he takes off the gold can he truly stand before God.

At the most important moment—when he enters the Holy of Holies to seek forgiveness—he removes those garments and puts on simple white linen.

Why?

Our tradition teaches: “The prosecutor cannot become the defender.”
Gold was used to make the Golden Calf. So it cannot be present when asking for forgiveness.

But there’s something even deeper here.

The first Kohen Gadol was Aaron — the same Aaron who was involved in the Golden Calf.

And yet, he is still chosen to lead.

The Torah doesn’t erase his mistake.
It doesn’t replace him.
Instead, it gives him a path forward.

But that path requires something essential.

Before he can ask for forgiveness, he has to take off the gold.

He has to let go of status, of appearance, of anything that suggests greatness.

He stands before God in simple linen—just as a human being.

And that speaks directly to us.

Because we all have our own “Golden Calf.”

Not a statue — but something in our lives that becomes too important.
Often, it’s our ego.

Our need to be right.
Our need to look good.
Our reluctance to admit when we’ve hurt someone.

And those things make it very hard to say, “I’m sorry.”

Aaron teaches us something powerful.

If he can make a mistake—and still return—then so can we.

But only if we’re willing to do what he did.

Take off the gold.

Let go of the ego.

And stand with honesty.

And this is where it comes home for us.

We think about Yom Kippur as a once-a-year moment.
But the truth is, we have opportunities for teshuvah—for return—all the time.

With God.

With a friend.

With a family member.

Maybe there’s someone in our life we’ve grown distant from.
Maybe there’s a conversation we’ve been avoiding.
Maybe there’s an “I’m sorry” that we know we need to say.

But something holds us back.

Usually… it’s the gold.

The Torah is telling us:

If you want to repair something—

a relationship,

a connection,

even your relationship with God— you don’t start with explanations.

You start by taking off the gold.

Letting go of pride.
Letting go of needing to win.
Letting go of needing to be right.

Because forgiveness doesn’t begin with words.

It begins with humility.

And maybe the question this week is simple:

Who in my life do I need to return to?

And what “gold” do I need to take off
so that I can take that first step?

Because God is not looking for perfection.

God is not impressed by our gold.

God is waiting for something much simpler:

A humble heart…
ready to return.

And when we do, we open the door not just to forgiveness—but to healing, connection, and a new beginning.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Michael Asher

04/15/2026

Parshat Tazria-Metzora When Words Become Visible
- By Rabbi Michael Asher

This week’s double parsha, Tazria-Metzora, confronts us with something that feels foreign: detailed laws about skin afflictions, isolation, and priestly diagnosis.

At first glance, it seems medical. But our tradition insists — it’s not.
To understand what’s really going on, the Torah itself gives us a clue. It tells us:

“Remember what God did to Miriam…”

In Book of Numbers 12, Miriam speaks about Moses — not directly to him, but about him. And immediately, she is struck with Tzara'at, Biblical leprosy, and sent outside the camp.

The rabbis draw a straight line:
Lashon hara — harmful speech — can manifest physically.

Why would speech show up on the body?
Because speech is invisible — but its damage is not.

In biblical times, the kohen didn’t act as a doctor. He acted as a spiritual diagnostician. He looked at the body and asked:
What is this person’s inner life revealing outwardly?
The body became a mirror of the soul.
What was hidden in private words became visible on the skin.

This was a manifestation, we are told, of the inner struggle, between the Yetzer Hara (the evil inclination) vs. Yetzer Hatov (the good inclination).

This connects deeply to a core idea in Judaism:
the tension between the Yetzer Hara and the Yetzer Tov.
The Yetzer Hara is not “evil” in a simplistic sense. It’s our raw, instinctive drive:
-- the urge to react
-- to judge
-- to speak quickly
-- to elevate ourselves by diminishing others. Lashon hara often comes from that place:

-- a quick word
-- a passing comment
-- something we say without thinking

And the Torah is teaching:
If you don’t master your inner instincts, they will eventually show themselves outwardly.

In ancient times, that might have been Tzara’at.

Today, we don’t see Tzara’at on our skin.
But that doesn’t mean the connection is gone.
We see it differently: Words damage relationships. Gossip fractures communities. Negative speech creates emotional and even physical stress.

Modern science even tells us that stress, anger, and negativity can affect the body. So maybe the Torah wasn’t primitive—it was profoundly perceptive.

And this is where Miriam becomes so important.
Miriam wasn’t malicious. She was a prophetess.
She cared about her brother. And still — her words had consequences. Which teaches us: It’s not only hateful speech we must guard against. Even well-intentioned words can cause harm.

A Final Thought: The metzorah (l***r) is sent outside the camp — not as punishment alone, but as a chance for reflection. A reset. A moment to realign the inner and the outer.

Today, we don’t leave the camp.
But we are still called to pause before we speak.
To ask:
-- Is this true?
-- Is it necessary?
-- Is it kind?

Because the Torah is reminding us: Our words shape our world.
And if we are not careful, what begins in the hidden places of the heart will eventually be seen by all.

Shavua Tov,

Rabbi Michael Asher

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