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Welcome to Kolot, the podcast of The Ark Synagogue, a bold, experiential and caring Progressive Jewish community in Northwood, London.
Through sermons, reflections and conversations from across our community, Kolot explores Jewish life, learning and values in the world we live in today. Rooted in tradition and open to new perspectives, these episodes bring together voices that inspire thought, connection and belonging.
Whether you are Jewish, exploring Judaism, or simply looking for meaningful reflection, you are warmly welcome.
To learn more about The Ark Synagogue, visit arksynagogue.org.
We all carry the memory with us; it is still a raw wound. Last Yom Kippur was marked by the news of an attack on a synagogue in Manchester. It was described as the first fatal antisemitic terror attack in the UK since the Community Security Trust began recording incidents in 1984. It was a shock, and for many, it shifted something fundamental in how we understand our place here as British Jews.
Many of us will have seen the Panorama programme this week at BBC, asking why British Jews are afraid. It gave voice to something many in our community are already feeling — not always in the same way, but present nonetheless.
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Since I moved to London, friends and family in Brazil often asked me about antisemitism. And yet now, after Manchester and the events of these past weeks, I find myself missing those questions. I am not afraid, and that is something I want you to know. And yet I miss the simple question that should follow moments like these: how are you doing?
Because we are living with something real. Some of us feel afraid. Some of us are more vigilant. Some of us still feel safe. And many of us move between those feelings.
And our task is not to deny these feelings, but to learn how to live with them — and how to support one another within them. And it is precisely here that Torah meets us — not far from our reality, but within it.
This week’s parashah, Acharei Mot, returns us to the aftermath of the death of Aaron’s sons — a moment we encountered two weeks ago, in Sh’mini. God speaks to Moses after this tragedy and gives instructions: Aaron must not enter the sacred space whenever he wishes. Instead, there is a precise way — a structure — through which he may enter.
Aaron is not shut out, but neither is he left entirely free. He is given a framework through which he can come close to God.
Aaron must continue — not because the pain has disappeared, or the fear is gone, but because his responsibility to the community remains. And so God gives him something essential: not a removal of fear, but a way to live with it.
But God offers a different path: not avoidance, not recklessness, but a way back — step by step, with boundaries and ritual.
Why? Because healing does not happen simply because we decide it should.
We do not move forward by ignoring what has happened, or by forcing ourselves to feel differently. Healing comes with structure, with ritual, with practices that help us recognise the pain and find ways to continue, even when we are not yet whole.
God understands that Aaron cannot return as if nothing has happened. He needs a way to re-enter with safety and purpose. And perhaps this is where we find ourselves as well. We are not being asked to ignore fear; we are being asked to continue — thoughtfully, carefully, together.
And the Torah teaches us something more: we do not do this alone.
When Aaron re-enters the sacred space, he does so not only for himself, but for the community. This is where leadership emerges — not as the absence of fear, but as the willingness to act with responsibility in its presence.
Moses guides. Aaron serves. The community gathers. We hold multiple truths at once: fear, grief, anger, resilience. None are denied. But none are allowed to isolate us.
There is a teaching in the Talmud.
Rabbi Yochanan once visited his student, Rabbi Chiyya, who was ill. He asked:
“Are these sufferings dear to you?”
He replied:
“Neither them, nor their reward.”
Rabbi Yochanan said:
“Give me your hand,”
and lifted him up.
Later, Rabbi Yochanan himself fell ill. Rabbi Chanina came and asked the same question. He gave the same answer. Rabbi Chanina said:
“Give me your hand,”
and lifted him up.
The Talmud asks: if Rabbi Yochanan could lift his student, why could he not lift himself?
And the answer is this:
A prisoner cannot free themselves from prison.
— Ein chavush matir atzmo mi’beit ha’asurim.
Even the greatest among us cannot do this alone.
We see this reflected in our practices. When we mourn, we do not do so alone. To say Kaddish, we need a minyan. In shiva, we sit with grief, but we are surrounded by others. Then, slowly, someone helps us to stand and begin again.
Our tradition does not rush us, but it does not leave us where we are. It recognises the pain and gives us a path — not away from reality, but through it.
In recent weeks, we have seen both fear and response. Last week, when Finchley Reform Synagogue faced an attempted arson attack, they did not close their doors — they opened them. Neighbours came with care and solidarity, and the community gathered on Shabbat.
This is not the absence of fear. This is what it looks like to live with it — together.
But not all fear is visible. Sometimes it is quiet. Sometimes it is the question we carry but do not voice.
As we read in our haftarah today, the Talmud describes a practice from the time of the Temple:
When people came to the Temple, they would enter through one gate, while those who were struggling would enter through another, walking in the opposite direction.
And when they passed, they would ask:
Mah lach? — “How are you?”
And in that moment of being seen, something begins to shift. And it is that question I find myself missing, as I shared at the beginning:
“How are you doing?”
So today, I want to ask you that same question: Mah lach? How are you — really?
And I want to invite each of us not only to receive that question, but to offer it to one another.
Because this community is here for you. But more than that — we are here for one another.
To listen. To support. To take responsibility for one another’s presence and safety. To continue — with care, with structure, and with purpose.
We do not stand alone. We remain present. Together.
Shabbat Shalom
Thanks for reading! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.