Shabbat Greetings
There is something almost disorienting about returning to the regular rhythm of Torah after moments of upheaval. This week, as we read Naso (Numbers 4:21-7:89), many of us carry a quiet exhaustion. The world feels relentlessly loud. The news cycle rarely pauses. So many in the Jewish community are living with heightened anxiety, grief, and vulnerability as antisemitism rises in ways that are painful and frightening. Some feel anger. Some feel isolation. Some simply feel tired. And into that emotional landscape comes Naso.
At first glance, Naso seems like an unlikely source of comfort. It is filled with censuses, tribal offerings, ritual details, and instructions for the ancient Israelites as they journey through the wilderness. But hidden within this long portion is one of the most beloved moments in all of the Torah: the Priestly Benediction.
“May God bless you and protect you. May God’s face shine upon you and be gracious to you. May God lift up God’s face toward you and grant you peace.” (6:24-26)
For many Jews, these words are deeply personal. We hear them at weddings, b’nai mitzvah, baby namings, healing services, and at some of our worship services. Traditionally, parents place their hands on their children’s heads each and every Shabbat and share this blessing. They are ancient words of shelter. And perhaps that is precisely why they appear here, in the wilderness.
The Israelites were not blessed in a moment of calm certainty. They were blessed in the middle of instability. They did not yet know where they were going. They faced fear, external threats, internal conflict, and an unpredictable future. The wilderness was not peaceful. Yet the Torah insists that even there, especially there, blessing was possible. That speaks powerfully to us today.
Many Jews right now feel emotionally and spiritually “in the wilderness.” There is pain in seeing antisemitism emerge so openly in public spaces, online discourse, campuses, and even among people we once assumed were allies. There is a unique heartbreak in feeling misunderstood or unsafe simply for being Jewish or for loving Jewish community and tradition. In moments like these, respite can feel elusive. We may think peace only arrives when the world becomes less frightening, less divided, less volatile. But the Priestly Blessing teaches something subtler and perhaps more sustaining: peace is not only the absence of turmoil. Peace can also be the sacred capacity to remain whole within turmoil.
The Hebrew word in the blessing is shalom. And shalom means far more than quiet. It means completeness, balance, spiritual groundedness. It is the ability to remember who we are even when the world around us feels fractured.
Naso also reminds us that holiness is built through rhythms of care. The Israelites pause repeatedly in the wilderness to count, to organize, to bless, to dedicate sacred space. The Torah understands something modern life often forgets: human beings cannot survive indefinitely in a state of constant vigilance. Souls require renewal. That may be one of the most important Jewish obligations in this moment.
Jamie Geller (founder of Kosher Media Network) suggests: To rest is not to ignore reality. To seek joy is not denial. To gather for Shabbat dinner, to sing, to study, to laugh, to light candles, to embrace community, these are not escapes from the world. In Judaism, they are acts of spiritual resilience. Always remember that antisemitism attempts to make Jews feel isolated, fearful, and diminished. Jewish life answers by creating connection, dignity, memory, and hope. Every act of Jewish continuity becomes a quiet declaration: we are still here, and our tradition still carries wisdom, beauty, and compassion into the world. And so perhaps this week’s blessing is not only ancient poetry but a spiritual practice for difficult times.
Beleye Johnson, a Facebook poster of spiritual thoughts, suggests an alternative understanding of the Priestly Blessing that applies to us well: May we protect one another. May we shine light toward one another when the world feels dark. May we offer grace more generously than fear. May we create islands of peace for each other amid turbulence. I add, and may we remember that even in the wilderness, the Jewish people were never abandoned. They carried the Mishkan, the portable sanctuary, with them wherever they traveled. Holiness moved with them.
So too today. Even in anxious times, sacred community travels with us. Torah travels with us. Hope travels with us. And the possibility of shalom, adeep, sustaining wholeness, remains alive within us still.
SHABBAT SHALOM