This week’s Torah portion, B’haalot’cha, continues the saga of a people in motion—newly freed Israelites journeying through the wilderness, guided by the mysterious signs of God: a pillar of cloud by day and a pillar of fire by night--divine markers offering clarity, direction, and assurance amid uncertainty and fear. When the cloud lifted, the people moved. When it rested, they stayed. It was a rhythm of trust, one that grounded a people adrift.
Thousands of years later, we find ourselves living in a world gripped by violence, hunger, and heartbreak—a wilderness of suffering and uncertainty. What would we give for a sign from the heavens, at this crazy time? Perhaps a cloud, a fire, a voice, designed to reassure and guide us through the haze and dangers of 2025? How do we proceed in a time like this, when the world seems to be spiraling into insanity?
Many of us ache for the families of Israeli hostages—some still waiting, clinging to a terrible hope; others mourning, robbed of the chance to say goodbye. We mourn alongside them. And at the same time, our hearts break for the innocent in Gaza, some desperate to feed their families, scouring for clean water, surviving—if at all—on a single pot of lentil soup per day, to be divided amongst everyone in their tent. Too many die unseen. Their humanity, too often, is debated rather than affirmed. We do not forget Ukraine, where people hold on to sovereignty and sanity amidst endless war—soldiers and civilians dying in a conflict not of their choosing, as the world grows weary of their cries. We feel the fear in Israel as the preemptive strikes against Iran take hold; praying for the safety of family and friends there.And in our own backyard, terrifying ICE raids that put the well-being of our immigrant neighbors in serious jeopardy.
Where are our pillars of fire and cloud? Who is guiding us through this?
Until an external manifestation of these pillars appears, perhaps the best guidance right now is the pillar of fire living within each of us. Each step is guided by our light, our own moral compass—imperfect, but always present. As trite as this response might seem, it at the very least has the advantage of coming from within us, rather than from an algorithm or a disinformation campaign…
B’haalot’cha literally means “when you raise up,” used in the portion to refer to mounting lamps in the mishkan—the command to raise light, to make space for the sacred and the pure in the middle of the darkness. In the chaos of our current situation, that call still echoes through the ages: Raise light.
Raise light by refusing to become numb, by seeing every image, every name, as a human being. Raise light by donating to humanitarian relief. Raise light by speaking out, even when it’s uncomfortable, especially when it’s inconvenient. Raise light by questioning power and holding on to compassion, by refusing to let others’ humanity be decided by their borders, their language,their gender, or the names of their gods. As Reform Jews, we are challenged to not wait passively for miracles. We continue to work toward tikkun olam, the repair of the world—not because it is easy, but because it is the only sacred response to the despairaround us.
May we be the fire for one another. May we be the cloud that shields. And may we raise light—again and again—in a world that so desperately needs it.
Shabbat shalom.
Rebecca Abbate
