Parashat Shemini Leviticus 9:1-11:47
Haftarah 2 Samuel 6:1-7:17
Dear TBE Community,
Tonight, at Shabbat services we will count one week and two days of the Omer: gevurah shebe gevurah: The strength that lies in strength. Gevurah stands for strength, discipline, and awe. It invites us into focus, discernment, and spiritual courage. It reminds us that love without boundaries can lose form, and that true strength helps create balance, clarity, and space for growth.
In the kabbalistic tradition, gevurah balances chesed, lovingkindness, the attribute of the previous, first week of the seven weeks between Passover and Shavuot.
If chesed flows without limit like water, gevurah gives it shape. It sets boundaries, creates structure and channels energy in tangible, constructive ways.
The element linked with gevurah is fire, the opposite of water, and it is associated with judgment, self-discipline, and inner resolve. It asks us to consider where strength is needed in our lives: not only physical strength, but also the strength to set boundaries, act with integrity, and exercise control over ego and impulse. Tonight, in my davar, I will reflect on how Aaron the High Priest might be going through a similar balancing process after the death of his two sons Nadav and Abihu, as narrated in this week’s parasha, Shemini.
While chesed is represented by yemin, the right hand of God, the strong arm that saves and draws near, gevurah is represented by s’mol, the left hand. Outside of Judaism, the (often) blind-folded figure of Justitia, as a symbol of justice, generally holds the scale weighing her decisions in her left hand.
In Hebrew, the word for justice is din. One administrator in a rabbinical school once quipped, when students complained about certain decisions, that the role they occupied was called “dean” for a reason — and not “kindness.”
Must religious leaders, rabbi-administrators, always be kind in order to fulfill their role adequately? And who decides if their self-perceived kindness is indeed informed by a sense of impartial justice? Can we continue to respect a spiritual guide even when they do not live up to our ideas of what they are supposed to do?
Once over a kiddish, or oneg, I shared with my rabbi the pain about being childless, how difficult it is to sit in the pew and always hear “from generation to generation”, l’ dor va dor, knowing that the line ends with me– and he didn’t show the empathy I had expected. Rather he suggested a change in perspective, and how I could find my place within the line of transmission; how it was not Judaism’s fault, but my responsibility to relate to it in constructive ways. I was hurt, then: Aren’t rabbis supposed to always be empathic no matter what or when, even caught in between tuna salad and cookies? But I liked that rabbi, who had been instrumental as a teacher. And while I never completely filled the hole left by the yearning for a child, I was able to find different ways of approaching and relating to Judaism and to move past that pain. And I have remained respectful of and connected with that rabbi over the years. He didn’t say what he may have known I wanted to hear. He said what he believed was just – and kind. He made me ponder and live up to my strength and spiritual courage, my gevurah.
Shabbat Shalom!
Rabbi Julia Knobloch