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Rabbi Michael Asher, Longwood, FL (2026)

09/08/2026

Rosh Hashanah Torah Portion: Is God Listening?

There is a question that I suspect almost every person of faith has asked at one time or another:

Is God listening?

We pray for someone who is sick. We pray for someone we love who is struggling. We pray for peace. We pray for ourselves and our families.

Sometimes our prayers seem to be answered.

And sometimes they don't.

Sometimes we pray for years and hear nothing but silence.

Sarah must have understood that feeling.

For years, she and Abraham had hoped for a child. God had promised Abraham that his descendants would become a great nation, but Sarah grew older and remained childless.

Imagine how many times Sarah must have wondered: Does God hear me? Does God see what I am going through? Has God forgotten me?

And then, at the beginning of our First Day Rosh Hashanah Torah reading on Shabbat this week, we hear these remarkable words:

Va’Adonai pakad et Sarah - “And Adonai took note of Sarah.”

God remembered Sarah. God saw her. God had not forgotten her.

Sarah conceived and gave birth to Isaac in her old age.

Of course, that raises a difficult question for us.

What about all those times when our prayers don't seem to be answered?

We know that prayer is not a bargain with God. We cannot say the right words and expect that illness will disappear, a broken relationship will suddenly be repaired, or every tragedy will be prevented.

And perhaps that is why the words “God took note of Sarah” are so important.

The Torah doesn't simply tell us that Sarah had a child. It first tells us that God took note of her.

Maybe that is something different from saying that God grants every request.

Perhaps it means that even when we cannot see an answer, our prayers are not spoken into emptiness. Our pain matters. Our hopes matter. Our tears matter. We matter.

And isn't that one of the great questions we bring with us into Rosh Hashanah?

During these High Holy Days, we will say many prayers. Some will be prayers written generations ago. Others will never leave our lips. They will be the private prayers we carry silently within us—for our families, our health, our relationships, our Jewish people, our world, and for another year of life.

Will every one of those prayers be answered as we hope?

We know they will not.

But Sarah's story asks us to consider another possibility: that God is listening even when the answer is not the answer we wanted, and even when we cannot yet see an answer at all.

Sarah waited many years before her life took a turn she could never have imagined.

And perhaps that is one reason we read her story as a Jewish new year begins.

Rosh Hashanah reminds us that we do not yet know what the next chapter will bring. There are possibilities ahead of us that we cannot see today.

So as we enter 5787, may we continue to pray. May we continue to hope. May we continue to believe that our words, our tears, our gratitude, and our deepest longings are heard.

And like Sarah, may the year ahead surprise us with blessings and even with moments of unexpected laughter.

L'shanah tovah u'metukah. May 5787 be a good and sweet year for us, for those we love, for our Jewish people, and for our world.

Chag Sameach,

Rabbi Michael Asher

09/01/2026

Parashat Nitzavim: Who Stands With Us?
- By Rabbi Michael Asher

Parashat Nitzavim begins with one of the most inclusive statements in the Torah.
Moses gathers the people for the renewal of the covenant and says:
"You stand this day, all of you, before the Eternal your God, your tribal heads, your elders and your officials, every person of Israel, your children, your wives, even the stranger within your camp, from woodchopper to waterdrawer, to enter into the covenant of the Eternal your God."
What strikes me about these words is how unnecessary the list seems.
Moses could simply have said, "All Israel stands here today."
But he doesn't.
Instead, he begins with the leaders and works his way through the entire community. The tribal heads, elders and officials are there. But so are the women and children, the people chopping wood and drawing water, and even the ger, the stranger living among them.
It is as though Moses looks out at everyone and says: This covenant is not just for some of us. All of you have a place here.
Our rabbis noticed this inclusiveness. They taught that kulchem, “all of you” reminds us that despite differences in rank and position, everyone stands equally before God. They even imagined the covenant extending beyond those physically present to generations of Jews yet unborn.
But rabbinic Judaism also understood that a covenant requires boundaries. Over time, Jewish law developed definitions of who is a Jew and requirements for conversion. Those boundaries helped preserve the Jewish people through centuries of dispersion and persecution.
And yet Nitzavim leaves us with a tension that remains with us today.
Sometimes our concern with determining who is Jewish prevents us from asking another important question:
Who is standing with us?
What do we say to someone whose father was Jewish but whose mother was not, who was raised celebrating Shabbat and Passover and considers the Jewish people their people? What about someone who chose Judaism through a conversion accepted by one Jewish movement but not another?
Or the non-Jewish spouse who comes to synagogue, prepares the seder, raises Jewish children and helps carry our traditions into another generation?
They may not meet every Jewish community's definition of who is a Jew. But they are standing with us. They have joined their lives to ours. They share our celebrations and our sorrows. They care about our future.
Maybe we should learn to call them our people, too.
And especially in a world today where it sometimes seems there are so many people willing to hate us simply because we are Jews, should we really be so quick to turn away those choosing to stand beside us?
Respecting Jewish tradition does not require us to close the doors of our tent. Perhaps our challenge is to hold both ideas at once: to respect the traditions that define our community without allowing those definitions to become walls that shut out people who sincerely want to stand with us. Our Jewish tent should be large enough to make room for those who stand with us in heart and soul, those who pray with us, celebrate with us, mourn with us, raise Jewish children with us, and help carry Judaism into another generation.
Moses said:
Atem nitzavim hayom kulchem.
You stand this day, all of you.
As we approach the High Holy Days, perhaps we should ask whether our Jewish tent is as welcoming as the gathering Moses describes.
And when someone sincerely chooses to stand with us in heart and soul, perhaps we should open the tent a little wider and say:
Stand with us. You are one of our people. There is a place for you here.

Shavuah Tov,

Rabbi Michael Asher

08/27/2026

Parashat Ki Tavo: What Have We Done with Our First Fruits?

- By Rabbi Michael Asher

Parashat Ki Tavo begins with one of the most beautiful expressions of gratitude in the Torah.

Moses tells the Israelites that when they enter and settle the Promised Land, they are to take the first fruits of the soil, place them in a basket, and bring them before God.

And there they are to say:

"I have brought the first fruits of the soil which You, Eternal One, have given me."

Think about those words.

The farmer planted the seeds, tended the fields and harvested the crops. He could easily have looked at that basket and said, "Look what I have accomplished."

Instead, Torah teaches him to say, "Look what You have given me."

That doesn't deny his hard work. It reminds him that none of us accomplishes anything entirely by ourselves. We didn't create the earth beneath us, the abilities we possess, the people who helped us along the way, or even the gift of another day of life.

Ki Tavo begins by asking us to recognize our blessings.

But then the parashah takes a dramatic turn.

Moses describes the blessings that will come from following God's commandments, followed by the terrible curses of the Tochachah if Israel abandons the covenant. The curses are so frightening that traditionally they are read quietly in the synagogue.

How should we understand them today?

I don't think we should conclude that when someone becomes sick or suffers a tragedy, God must be punishing that person. Life is far more complicated than that.

But neither should we make the Tochachah too comfortable.

It is meant to shake us. It reminds us that what we do with our lives matters. Our choices have consequences.

And perhaps that helps us understand why Ki Tavo begins with a basket of first fruits.

It isn't enough simply to recognize the blessings God has given us. The covenant asks another question:

What have you done with them?

That question feels especially appropriate during Elul, the final month of the Jewish year, the month leading us toward Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. Elul is a time of reflection and teshuvah—a time to examine the year that is ending and consider what we need to change in the year ahead.

We often approach the High Holidays by beginning with what we have done wrong. Whom have I hurt? Where have I failed?

Ki Tavo suggests that perhaps we should begin one step earlier:

What have I been given?

Family. Friendship. Time. Abilities. Opportunities. Material blessings. Community. Another day in which to do something worthwhile.

Then comes the harder question:

What have I planted and grown with the blessings I have been given?

Have I used my time well? Have I treated the people I love as though I recognize what a blessing they are? Have I shared what I possess? Have I used my abilities to help someone besides myself?

The blessings and curses remind us that our choices matter. How we use what we have been given helps shape the person we become.

And Judaism does not simply tell us to do better and leave us on our own. Our covenant with God gives us tools.

Torah gives us values against which to measure ourselves. The mitzvot turn those values into actions. Prayer teaches gratitude and humility. And teshuvah tells us that when we look honestly at ourselves and don't like everything we see, we can change direction.

So during Elul, perhaps each of us might imagine carrying our own basket of first fruits.

Look into that basket and ask:

What has God placed in my life for which I need to say thank You?

And then ask the question at the heart of Ki Tavo:

What am I doing with what I have been given?

Perhaps that is where teshuvah begins—not only by counting our sins, but by counting our blessings, and resolving to use those blessings better in the year ahead.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Michael Asher

08/19/2026

Parashat Ki Teitzei: Living With the Questions of Faith

— By Rabbi Michael Asher

Parashat Ki Teitzei contains 74 commandments, more mitzvot than any other single Torah portion. And when you read through them, they don't seem to follow any obvious pattern.

There are laws about warfare and marriage, returning lost property, paying workers on time, honest weights and measures, caring for the poor, building a railing around your roof, and even what to do if you happen upon a bird's nest along the road.

It can almost seem random.

But perhaps there is a lesson in that apparent randomness. Because life is like that too. Our moral choices don't arrive neatly organized by subject. They come unexpectedly, in our families, in business, in our relationships, in encounters with strangers, and sometimes in something as insignificant as finding a bird's nest.

The Torah tells us that if we find a mother bird sitting upon her eggs or young, we must send the mother away before taking the young. And then comes an extraordinary promise: Do this "so that it may go well with you and you may have a long life."

Why?

The rabbis struggled with this commandment. Is it about compassion for the mother bird? Is it intended to teach us compassion? Or is its ultimate purpose something we simply don't understand?

And then there is that promise of long life.

The Talmud tells about a son whose father instructed him to climb a tree and retrieve the young birds from a nest. The son obeyed his father, fulfilling the mitzvah of honoring a parent. He climbed the tree and sent away the mother bird, fulfilling another mitzvah.

Remarkably, both commandments are associated in Torah with long life.

And yet, as the son climbed down, he fell and died.

The rabbis connected this terrible contradiction with Elisha ben Abuyah, one of the most fascinating figures in the Talmud. Elisha was a great sage who ultimately rejected the Jewish faith and became known simply as Acher, "the Other."

How could someone fulfill commandments for which Torah promises long life, and immediately die?

It's a good question.

And perhaps that's the most important part of the story. Judaism doesn't tell us that Elisha's mistake was asking the question. Our tradition is filled with people questioning God. Abraham questions God. Moses questions God. Job questions God. The rabbis themselves question virtually everything.

The danger comes when we decide that if we cannot understand something, there can be no answer. The Talmud suggests that Elisha understood the Torah's promise too literally. A mitzvah isn't a transaction with God: Do this, and God guarantees that nothing bad will happen to you.

We don't understand every mitzvah. We don't understand why good people sometimes suffer. And we certainly don't understand everything about God. Maybe faith doesn't require us to pretend that we do.

And that seems especially appropriate during Elul.

As we prepare for Rosh Hashanah, we examine not only our actions but also our relationship with God and Judaism. Some of us carry questions. Some of us carry doubts. That doesn't place us outside the Jewish tradition. Asking difficult questions is part of the Jewish tradition.

Ki Teitzei's 74 mitzvot remind us that Judaism asks something of us in virtually every corner of life, whether or not we completely understand why.

Sometimes faith means understanding.

And sometimes faith means living with the question, and continuing along the road anyway.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Michael Asher

08/13/2026

Parashat Shoftim: The Judge Within Us

- By Rabbi Michael Asher

Parashat Shoftim begins with a commandment:

“You shall appoint judges and officials for your tribes… and they shall govern the people with due justice.”

And then comes one of Torah’s most famous teachings:

Tzedek, tzedek tirdof — Justice, justice shall you pursue.

For our ancestors, this was very practical. They needed judges and courts to administer the laws of the Torah.

But most of us no longer live under that judicial system. So perhaps during the month of Elul, Shoftim asks us to hear this commandment in another way.

What if the judge we need to appoint is within ourselves?

Elul is our season of self-examination. Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur are approaching. We speak of God as Judge, but before we stand before the Judge, Jewish tradition asks us to examine our own lives.

And Shoftim has something important to teach us about how to do that.

Later in the parashah, the Torah describes someone accused of worshipping another god. The punishment prescribed is extraordinarily severe — death by stoning.

But notice what the Torah requires before judgment can be rendered.

Investigate carefully.

One witness is not enough.

Make certain the accusation is true.

The rabbis went even further. They placed extraordinarily demanding evidentiary and procedural requirements around capital punishment. The Mishnah teaches that a Sanhedrin executing someone once in seven years was considered destructive.

Judgment, Judaism seems to tell us, should never be casual.

Open almost any page of Talmud and we find the same lesson. One rabbi says this. Another disagrees. A third says, “It depends.”

Because life is rarely completely black and white.

Circumstances matter. Intent matters. Evidence matters. There may be another side to the story.

Maybe that is something we should remember when we judge the people around us.

How often do we convict someone in our own mind after hearing only one side?

Someone says something that hurts us. Someone disappoints us. Someone behaves in a way we don't understand. And immediately we pronounce judgment.

Shoftim says: Investigate carefully.

Do you know the whole story?

Have you heard the other side?

Could there be circumstances you don't know?

And then Elul asks us to turn that same careful judgment upon ourselves.

Have I treated people fairly?

Have I spoken words I shouldn't have spoken?

Have anger, pride, jealousy, or self-interest affected the way I see another person?

Where have I fallen short of the person I want to be?

And if, after honestly examining ourselves, we realize that we have judged someone unfairly or caused them hurt, Elul asks something more of us: Can we go to that person, acknowledge what we have done, and ask their forgiveness?

But here too, Judaism reminds us that judgment must leave room for mercy.

That is why we have teshuvah.

Elul is not about declaring ourselves guilty and leaving the verdict there. It is about honestly seeing where we have fallen short and believing that we can still change.

Perhaps that is why Shoftim belongs so beautifully in Elul.

Tzedek, tzedek tirdof — Justice, justice shall you pursue.

Be careful when you judge another person.

Be honest when you judge yourself.

And remember that true justice must always leave open the possibility of understanding, mercy, and change.

After all, if we are preparing to ask God for mercy on Yom Kippur, shouldn't we also ask ourselves whether there is someone in our own lives to whom we could show a little more mercy?

Before we stand before the Judge on Rosh Hashanah, perhaps Shoftim asks us to begin by becoming better judges ourselves.

Shavuah Tov,

Rabbi Michael Asher

08/05/2026

Parashat Re’eh: Choosing Blessing

- By Rabbi Michael Asher

If we're honest, most of us have absorbed the idea that one of life's highest goals is personal freedom. We are encouraged to find our own path, follow our dreams, make our own choices, and decide for ourselves what is right. Independence and individuality are celebrated as virtues.

There is much to admire in that. Judaism has never discouraged us from thinking for ourselves. Abraham questioned God. Moses challenged God. The rabbis filled the Talmud with debate and differing opinions.

But Parashat Re'eh reminds us that there is an important difference between thinking for ourselves and living only for ourselves.

Our Torah portion opens with God's invitation:

"See (Re'eh) , I set before you today a blessing and a curse."

Then, only a few verses later, Moses says something that sounds remarkably relevant today:

"You shall not act as we do here today, every person doing whatever is right in his own eyes." (Deuteronomy 12:8)

The Israelites are about to enter the Promised Land. They will no longer be wandering through the wilderness. They are about to build a Jewish society. Moses tells them that such a society cannot flourish if everyone simply does whatever seems right in their own eyes.

Notice what follows. The Torah commands the people to tear down idols, worship in one central place, observe kashrut, give tithes, care for the poor, release debts, and celebrate the festivals together. At first these seem like unrelated laws, but together they answer one fundamental question:

Will your life be shaped primarily by your own preferences, or by your covenant with God?

Many of these mitzvot are not convenient. They require discipline, generosity, and sacrifice. They remind us that holiness is not simply something we believe. It is something we practice.

Each of us lives that covenant differently. Some observe every detail of Jewish law, while others express their Jewish commitment in different ways. But Re'eh asks every one of us the same question: Are my choices guided only by convenience and personal preference, or are they shaped by the enduring values of Torah?

The good news is that God does not expect us to transform our lives overnight. Real spiritual growth rarely happens in one dramatic moment. It happens one choice at a time. One mitzvah. One Shabbat. One act of kindness. One prayer. One decision to put the needs of someone else ahead of our own.

That may be why Moses says, "I set before you today..." He doesn't ask us to become perfect tomorrow. He asks us to choose today. Then tomorrow, to choose again. Over time, those daily choices become habits, habits become character, and character becomes the lives we lead.

As we prepare for the High Holy Days, Re'eh invites us to look honestly at ourselves. What is shaping my decisions? The values of the world around me? Or the wisdom of the covenant that has guided the Jewish people for generations?

The greatest freedom is not the freedom to do whatever we want. The greatest freedom is the freedom to choose the life God calls us to live.

And perhaps that is why this parashah begins with the word Re'eh — "See." Before Moses asks us to choose blessing, he asks us to see the world differently. To see our lives not simply through the lens of personal preference, but through the lens of Torah and covenant. When we begin to see differently, we begin to choose differently.

That is the blessing Moses places before us today.

Shavuah Tov,

Rabbi Michael Asher

07/29/2026

Parashat Eikev: The Joyful Yoke of the Covenant

- By Rabbi Michael Asher

At the heart of Parashat Eikev lies what appears to be a contradiction.

Moses asks one of the Torah's most beautiful questions:

“And now, Israel, what does the Lord your God ask of you? Only to fear the Lord your God, to walk in all His ways, to love Him, to serve the Lord your God with all your heart and all your soul, and to keep the commandments.” (Deuteronomy 10:12–13)

The word “only” almost makes us smile.

Only? To love God. To fear God. To walk in God's ways. To serve God with our whole heart and soul. To keep His commandments. That hardly sounds like a small request.

Then, only a chapter later, we recite words that many of us know by heart, the second paragraph of the Shema, V'hayah Im Shamoa. The tone seems very different. If we obey God's commandments, there will be rain, harvests, and blessing. But if we turn away, the heavens will close and the rain will cease.

So which is it? Is the covenant God's loving invitation, or is it an imposing list of obligations with consequences for getting it wrong?

The answer, I believe, is both.

The first passage is God's invitation. Before there are rules, there is relationship. God desires a people who will love Him, walk with Him, and choose His ways. But every meaningful relationship also carries responsibilities.

We know that from our own lives. A marriage begins with love, but it cannot survive on feelings alone. It requires faithfulness, sacrifice, forgiveness, shared commitments, and daily acts of care. Those responsibilities do not diminish the marriage—they make it possible.

So too with Judaism.

Let's be honest about what the covenant asks of us. Judaism calls us to live differently. It asks us to say no to a cheeseburger. It asks us to set aside one day in seven for Shabbat while much of the world keeps working. It asks us to spend a lifetime studying Torah, blessing our food, giving tzedakah, honoring our parents, caring for the stranger, and shaping ordinary moments into opportunities for holiness. Tradition counts 613 mitzvot, but beyond the number lies a deeper truth: God is asking us to build an entire way of life.

That can sound overwhelming. Yet perhaps Moses says "only" because he wants us to see the commandments differently.

The mitzvot are not arbitrary rules. They are what love looks like in daily life. Every blessing, every act of kindness, every Sabbath candle, every difficult ethical choice is another opportunity to say, "I choose this covenant."

The rabbis called this accepting the yoke of the Kingdom of Heaven, ol malchut shamayim. To modern ears, a yoke sounds like a burden. But a yoke also gives direction. It joins two together in a shared purpose. The yoke of Torah is not meant to weigh us down; it is meant to help us walk with God.

That is the tension at the heart of Eikev. The covenant is both an invitation and a responsibility. Love without commitment soon fades. Commitment without love becomes empty obligation.

The question of Eikev is not whether Judaism asks much of us—it certainly does. The real question is whether we see the mitzvot as burdens to endure or as the daily practices of a people privileged to walk with God.

When love comes first, even the yoke becomes a joy.

Shavuah Tov,

Rabbi Michael Asher

07/20/2026

Parashat Va'etchanan: Memory and the Covenant

- By Rabbi Michael Asher

As Moses stands before the people in Parashat Va'etchanan, he knows something they are only beginning to understand. They are about to cross the Jordan River. He is not.

Earlier in the parashah, Moses pleads with God one final time to let him enter the Promised Land. The answer is no. Moses will climb the mountain, see the land from afar, and then his life's work will come to an end.

Or will it?

Most of us, at some point in our lives, discover what Moses discovered. We do not always get to finish the work we begin. We plant trees whose shade we will never sit beneath. We raise children whose greatest accomplishments will come after we are gone. We build communities that will belong to the next generation.

The question is not whether we finish the journey. The question is whether the journey continues.

Moses understands that if the Jewish people are to endure, they cannot simply inherit a land. They must inherit a memory. They must inherit a covenant.

That is why this parashah contains two of the most important passages in all of Judaism.

First, Moses repeats the Ten Commandments. More than a list of laws, they are the foundation upon which Jewish life is built. Our sages even teach that the entire Torah can be understood as an unfolding of these ten sacred principles. They become the moral framework through which every generation learns how to live—with God, with family, and with one another.

Then comes the Shema:

"Hear, O Israel: Adonai is our God, Adonai is One."

The Shema is not only a declaration of faith. It is a declaration of continuity. Moses immediately commands the people to teach these words to their children, to speak of them at home and on the road, when lying down and when rising up, to bind them upon their bodies and place them upon the doorposts of their homes. Faith survives only when it is remembered and lived.

Think about Jewish history. For thousands of years our people have lived without a Temple, without a king, often without a homeland. Yet generation after generation has recited the Ten Commandments and the Shema. These words have crossed deserts, seas, ghettos, exile, and even the gates of Auschwitz. They have become the memory that carried the covenant when everything else seemed lost.

Moses never entered the Promised Land. Yet in a deeper sense, he never left us. Every time we teach our children the Shema, every time we shape our lives by the Ten Commandments, every time we choose covenant over convenience, Moses' voice is still speaking.

Perhaps that is the lesson for us.

None of us will complete everything we hope to accomplish. Every life ends with unfinished dreams. But Judaism has never asked us to complete the journey by ourselves. It asks us to receive the covenant, to live it faithfully, and then to place it into the hands of those who come after us.

Our task is not simply to reach the Promised Land ourselves.

Our task is to ensure that the next generation knows the way.

Shavuah Tov,

Rabbi Michael Asher

07/14/2026

Parashat Devarim: The Torah of Memor

- By Rabbi Michael Asher

When we come to Parashat Devarim this week, something remarkable happens.

For four books, the Torah has been telling us the story of the Jewish people. We have watched Abraham leave his homeland, Joseph descend into Egypt, Moses confront Pharaoh, the Exodus, Sinai, the building of the Mishkan, and forty years of wandering in the wilderness. Throughout those books, the Torah is narrated largely in the third person. We are observers of history unfolding.

Then, suddenly, everything changes.

The Book of Deuteronomy is almost entirely Moses speaking.

Standing on the plains of Moab, knowing he will never cross the Jordan, Moses gathers the people for what the sages describe as a series of roughly thirty-six speeches. He recounts their history, teaches the law, offers blessings and warnings, and prepares them for a future he himself will never see.

Why?

If the Torah simply wanted to record history, it could have continued the narrative. Instead, Moses retells the story the people have already lived.

But he doesn't simply repeat it.

He interprets it.

He revisits triumphs and failures, not merely to remind the people what happened, but to teach them what those events mean.

This marks a profound shift in the Torah itself. The first four books are primarily God speaking to Moses and Moses conveying God's words to the people. In Deuteronomy, Moses speaks to the people about God. Revelation gives way to interpretation.

The Torah teaches us that receiving God's word is only the beginning. We are also called to reflect on it, wrestle with it, and apply it to our lives. In many ways, Deuteronomy lays the foundation for the Jewish tradition of study and interpretation that has sustained our people ever since.

Moses understands something essential: experience alone does not produce wisdom.

Reflection does.

How often do we move from one event to the next without asking what God might be teaching us? Success becomes another accomplishment. Failure becomes another disappointment. We remember what happened but never stop to ask why it matters.

Moses refuses to let Israel do that.

Memory, in Judaism, is sacred work. We look back not to live in the past, but to let the past shape the future.

That is why the book is called Devarim, "Words." Before the people enter the Promised Land, Moses' greatest gift is not another miracle. It is words that help them understand their lives through the covenant they received at Sinai.

The same is true for us.

Each of us has our own wilderness, our own moments of joy and disappointment, faith and doubt. The question is not simply, "What happened to me?" The deeper question is, "What is God teaching me through what has happened?" Torah invites us to interpret our own lives in its light, so that our experiences become sources of wisdom and growth.

It is no accident that we begin reading Deuteronomy as we enter the Jewish month of Av. The month of Av is a month of memory. We remember the destruction of the Temples and many other tragedies in Jewish history. But Judaism never asks us to remember simply to mourn. We remember so that the past becomes our teacher and our guide.

That is Moses' final lesson. Faith is not only living through history—it is learning to read our own story through the eternal wisdom of Torah, allowing every memory to deepen our faith, strengthen our character, and draw us closer to God.

Good Shabbos,

Rabbi Michael Asher

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