Subscribe
Share
Share
Embed
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.
Every morning, when I wake up, I usually follow the same routine. I say Modah Ani, giving thanks for another day, and then — before I even leave my bed — I catch up on the news.
This past Thursday began the same way. But when I opened Facebook, I noticed a post from Kosher Kingdom about the terrible fire that destroyed their shop. And, for some reason, I clicked on the comments.
Sometimes the comments tell us more about the state of the world than the post itself.
And what I found there made me deeply sad. People making cruel jokes. People hinting at conspiracies. People enjoying the suffering of others from behind a screen. There were kind comments too, of course, but somehow they felt quieter.
And I found myself wondering: when did we become so careless with words?
Judaism has never treated words lightly.
Three times a day, before we begin the Amidah, we recite a verse from Psalm 51:
Adonai, s’fatai tiftach, ufi yagid tehilatecha.
Adonai, open my lips, that my mouth may declare Your praise.
Why do we begin the central prayer of Judaism this way?
Surely we know how to speak.
The psalmist seems to understand something fundamental: words are powerful enough that we should never assume we are ready to use them wisely.
That is the lesson I hear in this week’s parashah, Beha’alotcha.
Miriam and Aaron speak against Moses because of the Cushite woman he has married. But almost immediately, the commentators become uncomfortable with the simplicity of the story. What exactly is happening here? What did they actually say? Why does God react so strongly?
Some commentators suggest that the Cushite woman is not really the issue at all. The deeper issue is Moses’ unique authority and status. After all, Miriam and Aaron are prophets too. Perhaps they feel overlooked. Perhaps they struggle with the growing distance between Moses and everyone else around him.
Nehama Leibowitz suggests that their criticism may come from discomfort with Moses’ increasing separation from ordinary family life and human relationships.
In other words, Miriam and Aaron do not see themselves as malicious people. They believe they are justified.
And perhaps that is precisely what makes the story so human.
Because most harmful words are spoken by people who believe they are right.
They are spoken by people who feel hurt, frustrated, excluded, insecure, frightened, or convinced that what they are saying is true.
Human beings are very good at convincing ourselves that our words are harmless — especially when spoken privately, quietly, or among people who already agree with us.
But the Torah asks us to pause before we speak.
To consider not only whether something is true, but also what our words will do once they leave our mouths.
Quietly, in the middle of this story, the Torah adds one sentence about Moses:
“Now Moses himself was very humble, more so than anyone else on the face of the earth.”
The rabbis explain this remarkable verse by pointing out that Moses does not answer back. He does not defend himself. His humility is shown precisely in his silence and restraint.
And in a world overflowing with noise, reaction, outrage, and endless commentary, restraint is powerful.
This week I listened to a sermon by Rabbi Hannah Jensen from IKAR in Los Angeles. She reflected on how much time we spend preparing ourselves to speak — rehearsing difficult conversations, planning arguments, imagining responses — but how little time we spend preparing ourselves before the words actually leave our mouths.
Perhaps that is why our tradition places Adonai s’fatai tiftach at the threshold of prayer.
Before we speak, we pause.
Before we open our mouths, we acknowledge that words matter.
In Bereshit, God creates the world through speech itself.
Words create worlds.
Words shape relationships. Words can calm fear or inflame it. Words can preserve dignity or destroy it. A sentence spoken carelessly can remain inside a person for years. And sometimes one sentence spoken with compassion can help someone survive unbearable pain.
This Thursday afternoon, after all of this was already turning in my mind, I went to visit one of our members, Walter Weg.
Walter survived war. He fled Leipzig during the Second World War and built a new life here. Reflecting on the state of the world today, he said something that stayed with me:
“If only people would learn from one another, there would not be so many wars and so much hatred.”
Such simple words.
And such difficult wisdom.
Because the specifics may change, but the human tendency remains the same. Today people argue about politics, religion, Israel and Palestine, identity, nationalism, immigration — countless things that divide our world.
But the deeper question remains unchanged:
What are we saying?
How are we saying it?
And why are we saying it?
Our tradition does not ask us to avoid disagreement. Judaism has never been afraid of argument. But there is a profound difference between disagreement and humiliation, between critique and cruelty, between speaking with purpose and simply causing harm.
And so perhaps the challenge of this parashah is not silence, but consciousness.
To pause before speaking.
To remember the weight words can carry.
To ask ourselves whether our words will bring more dignity into the world or less.
Perhaps that is why, three times a day, before we pray, our tradition places these words on our lips:
Adonai, s’fatai tiftach.
Open my lips.
Help me use them wisely.
May we speak with greater care.
May we choose our words with wisdom and compassion.
And may we help build a world with a little less cruelty and a little more humanity.
Shabbat Shalom.