“The tablets were God’s work, and the writing was God’s writing, incised upon the tablets” (). Do not read, “incised,” (harut), rather [read] “freedom” (herut)—for no person is truly free except the one who labors in Torah. ()

[Passover] is the time of our freedom (zeman herutenu). (Passover Liturgy)

Freedom in biblical and rabbinic Judaism is a highly complex idea. Consider the mishnah above. At first glance one might think the law, the Ten Commandments carved on the two tablets, would be limiting, constraining human freedom. Counterintuitively, the Sages argue that true freedom only comes from an engagement with Torah! How might “laboring in Torah” and living a life according to the demands of the Torah induce freedom?

I am reminded of the midrash where God offers the Torah to the nations of the world before offering the Torah to the Israelites. Each of these nations rejects the “gift” of the Torah because it is too constraining (). While the Rabbis in this mishnah speak of Torah as an experience of freedom, they at other times also speak of “the yoke of heaven” or “the yoke of the mitzvot” when referring to living a life observing the Torah’s commandments. A beast walking under the burden of its yoke is not the imagery Rousseau or Hobbes might employ to describe their notions of a life lived in freedom!

Perhaps more problematic is the complexity present in the Bible’s description of the liberty granted to the Israelites with their redemption from the slavery of Egypt. God commands Moses to go to the Israelites and introduce them to the God of their ancestors with the words, “I am the Lord. I will free you from the labors of the Egyptians and deliver you from their bondage” (). And yet God redeems the Israelites from the “house of bondage” and from Pharaoh only to substitute another master: “For it is to Me that the Israelites are servants: they are My servants, whom I freed from the land of Egypt” (). Acknowledging at once the irony of this situation as well as its religious meaningfulness, the Rabbis of the Midrash depict God reassuring the Israelites, “You are My servants and not servants to servants!” (Mekhilta Masekhet Bahodesh, 5).

Put simply: What are these often-conflicting notions telling us about biblical and rabbinic conceptions of freedom and its relationship to a life of Torah?

How are we to experience zeman herutenu, the season of our freedom?

Modern western or American notions of freedom challenge some of these biblical and rabbinic definitions of freedom. Isaiah Berlin, in one of his more influential essays, “Two Concepts of Liberty,” made an interesting distinction between two types of freedom—negative and positive. He defined “negative freedom” as the freedom from constraints and coercion. “Positive freedom” constituted the freedom to realize one’s destiny and best interests. Ultimately, Berlin thought positive freedom was susceptible to political abuse and might be a source of oppression for some. He argued that the safest form of freedom was “negative” freedom—the absence of constraints and interference. For many of us, this iteration of freedom has become our ultimate moral value.

However, the rhythm of this season in the Jewish calendar provides an alternative understanding to the value and meaning of zeman herutenu and helps resolve some of the tensions and ambivalence toward freedom in our sources.

With the second night of Passover we begin the count-up to Shavuot, unique among all the festivals in the Torah. Each festival in the Torah has a specific date, in a specific month in the Jewish calendar. Only Shavuot is not anchored in our calendar, and yet we know we celebrate it on the same date every year—always on the fiftieth day after the second day of Passover. Indeed, the Torah mandates that we engage in this counting every year from the second night of Passover to the offering of the grain on the holiday of Shavuot.

The rabbis of the medieval period were the first to articulate that this counting is not exclusively about the offering of the new grain that was brought while the Temple still stood. We count from Passover to Shavuot because these two holidays are conceptually tied to one another. Passover is the holiday of our liberation and freedom. Shavuot, according to the Rabbis, is the holiday of the receiving of the Torah—the holiday where we enter our covenantal relationship with God.

Freedom (Passover) without Shavuot (Torah) is incomplete; and Shavuot (Torah) would be impossible without Passover—the holiday that gave us the freedom to enter into this relationship with God. A life of Torah is not a life of freedom. Freedom is not an absolute value for the Rabbis, or for the Bible. Freedom is utilitarian. The freedom of Pesah gives us the opportunity to enter into relationship with God.

Like every human relationship, a relationship with God limits our freedom. Lovers, friends, mothers and daughters, fathers and sons—every human relationship that we freely enter into and continue to be engaged with limits our choices and inevitably comes with responsibilities. And yet we choose to voluntarily enter these relationships. Ultimately, we believe that a life lived in relationship, deeply connected and responsible to someone is more meaningful than a life lived where we may possess the unconstrained freedom to act.

Counting up to Shavuot reminds us that a life lived in relationship with others and with God, with all the attendant responsibilities that flow from these relationships, is more meaningful than a life lived free of constraints. Each day with our counting we are asked to transform our freedom into a covenantal relationship with God that will allow us to create lives rich in responsibility, and thus, meaning.

This commentary was originally published in 2018.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee and Harold (��”l) Hassenfeld.

When I read Parashat Miketz I feel the same movement from darkness to light. Joseph is brought from the pit (Gen. 37:24) and from prison (Gen. 41:14) into Pharaoh’s court, where he interprets dreams and saves a nation from famine. Later, when his brothers fear that he will punish them, he answers, “Hatahat elohim ani?—Am I in the place of God?” (Gen. 50:19). Joseph knows his role is to preserve, not to possess. He is a guardian of life, not its owner. Pollak was too—a guardian of light and of memory.

Pollak had been the owner of the Prato Haggadah for many years. Before his deportation he made clear that he wished the manuscript to pass to the Prato family, close friends of his from Rome who had fled to Egypt before the war because of their anti-fascist politics. After the war his surviving relatives fulfilled that wish and transferred the book to them, now in Israel. Decades later, the Prato family donated the Haggadah to The Library of 91�첥 so that it could be studied and displayed in public—a fulfillment of Pollak’s own belief that light and learning belong in the open.

Scholars have noticed that this fourteenth-century Spanish manuscript is unusual. It contains the entire narrative of the Magid section of the Haggadah, but it omits the table rituals: there is no kiddush, no blessing over matzah or maror, no birkat hamazon. As former 91�첥 Librarian Menahem Schmelzer pointed out, it was probably not made for a single family seder at home. It was meant for public reading—perhaps in a synagogue or communal hall — a book built for many eyes. Its purpose was to be seen. That origin makes its modern life in a public collection feel like a return to form.

The Talmud moves this idea about being a guardian of light into practice. In Shabbat 21b the sages teach the law of Ḥanukkah: “ner ish u-veito—the light of a person and their household.” One light per household is enough to fulfill the commandment. But we are told to add more if we can—one for each person, or an increasing number each night. Holiness is measured not by luxury but by inclusion. Every home must shine. And the light should be visible. The Gemara says to place it at the door or in the window so passers-by will see it. That practice is called pirsumei nisa—proclaiming the miracle. I keep that commandment literally. I set my menorah outside by the door so the neighborhood can see it burn. Every flame is a statement: light belongs in the open.

That is the same principle behind a public collection. A book locked away in private hands may be safe, but it is silent. Placed in a library or a museum, it can shine. Pollak spent his life bringing ancient objects into view so that others could learn from them. The Prato Haggadah’s presence at the Grolier Club is an act of pirsumei nisa: a public retelling of how Jewish life and art endured against the odds.

Later, in Shabbat 122a, the Talmud uses the line “ner le-eḥad ner leme’ah—a light for one is a light for a hundred.” It appears in a discussion about benefiting from a lamp lit by a non-Jew on Shabbat. If the lamp is already burning, one person’s use does not diminish another’s. The phrase is legal, not poetic—a compressed, well-made sentence in the rabbinic style. But it holds a larger truth. Light is not reduced by sharing. So it is with knowledge, art, and memory. When we open the Haggadah to many, we multiply its reach. A light for one is a light for a hundred.

That sentence gains force when set against what Pollak and his world faced. Nazism sought to erase culture: burning books, looting libraries, and staging the infamous exhibit of “degenerate art.” To preserve a Jewish manuscript in that time was not only scholarly act but an act of defiance.

The rabbis of Bereshit Rabbah 2:4 say that when God created light on the first day (Genesis 1:3–4), it was a radiance so pure that “a person could see from one end of the world to the other.” Predicting how human beings would abuse that gift, God hid it away for the righteous in the future. The Prato Haggadah belongs to that kind of light—a radiance kept safe through centuries of exile, sale, and war. Some treasures must be concealed to be saved. But eventually they must surface. A light hidden forever is a light lost. Jewish study and Jewish libraries exist to bring these ideas out when the time is right.

Bereshit Rabbah 3:6 adds one more principle: “Everything the Holy One created in His world He created for His glory.” If that is true, then every act of sharing a book or a work of art is a small restoration of divine purpose. We honor creation when we allow its light to be seen. Pollak believed that, and so do I. A public collection is a form of praise.

A light for one, a light for a hundred. That is the message of Miketz and of Ḥanukkah, of the Prato Haggadah and of Pollak’s life. Hidden light is meant to be brought back into the world. Our task is to guard it, share it, and keep it burning where all can see.

More information about the 91�첥 Library exhibit, “Jewish Worlds Illuminated: A Treasury of Hebrew Manuscripts from The 91�첥 Library” including a virtual tour can be found at jtsa.edu/library-exhibits/

In the Zohar, sitting in the sukkah is likened to sitting in the “shadow” or “shade” “of faith”—tzila di-meheminuta. Faith is usually imagined as a state of being that is personal, even one that is inherently internal; we usually experience and talk about faith as something that exists within us. But according to the Zohar, by sitting in the sukkah, we surround ourselves with faith. In presenting the sukkah as “the shadow of faith,” the Zohar is playing on an aspect of the ritual that appears already in the Talmud (Sukkah 11b). The Talmud makes a connection between contemporary sukkot and the booths in which the Israelites resided while wandering the desert, which Rabbi Eliezer claims were not physical structures but divine “clouds of glory.”  When cast in this light, the sukkah becomes a place of faith precisely because of its impermanence: stepping out of our comfort zone, putting ourselves in a liminal space like a temporary booth, prompts us to be faithful, as we reflect more on our reliance on God’s protection.

The Zohar and the ensuing Jewish mystical tradition continue to transform the sukkah into a place of faith through the ritual of ushpizin, Aramaic for “guests.” On every evening of the holiday, a different figure from the Jewish past is ritually invited to join those sitting in the sukkah. Originally, this meant the forefathers. But over time, Jews have added additional guests, including women and figures from more recent memory.

The Zohar argues for the importance of bringing in these heavenly guests by pointing to the repetition of the commandment to sit in the sukkah in Leviticus 23:42, “בַּסֻּכֹּת תֵּשְׁבוּ שִׁבְעַת יָמִים כׇּל־הָאֶזְרָח בְּיִשְׂרָאֵל יֵשְׁבוּ בַּסֻּכֹּת”; “You shall live in booths seven days; all citizens in Israel shall live in booths.” Rabbi Aba explains this repetition as follows:

-וְאָמַר רִבִּי אַבָּא, כְּתִיב ׳בַּסֻּכּוֹת תֵּשְׁבוּ שִׁבְעַת יָמִים׳, וּלְבָתַר ׳יֵשְׁבוּ בַּסֻּכּוֹת׳

.בְּקַדְמִיתָא תֵּשְׁבוּ, וּלְבָתַר יֵשְׁבוּ

.אֶלָּא, קַדְמָאָה לְאוּשְׁפִּיזֵי; תִּנְיָינָא, לִבְנֵי עָלְמָא

R. Abba said, “It states, ‘You shall live in booths seven days,’ and then ‘shall live in booths’—first you shall dwell and then they shall dwell. The first refers to the guests, and the second, to people of the world.”

Before one enters the sukkah, one must bring in the heavenly guests, and this ritual models for us the importance of bringing in earthly guests. What makes the sukkah a place of faith is not only that being outside makes us reflect more on our reliance on God. Rather, the Zohar teaches that when we force ourselves into these places of discomfort, into liminal spaces that are neither fully inside nor fully outside, we can actually encounter the divine—so long as we invite others to join us. Thus, it is by creating community that the sukkah becomes a site of holiness.

But what is holy about being somewhat outside, and somewhat inside? Why do we got into a hut in order to learn this lesson? Can’t we just invite the heavenly—and earthly—guests into our dining room? These questions feel especially acute here in New York City, when going into the sukkah often means being closer to the streets and to the alleys, places we may not normally find ourselves—places that we may associate with the unhoused, or with people who are otherwise on the margins of our society.

By forcing us into a liminal space, the sukkah thus bring us to a place of empathy. We cannot have a truly holy community without also thinking of those who live with impermanence year-round. Going out into the sukkah, dwelling both in and on impermanence, should be an opportunity for us to think about those in the liminal places of our society, who regularly deal with the issue of what the roof over their heads will look like.

After the intensity and spiritual highs of Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur, it is enticing to withdraw during the fall and winter. Yet Sukkot comes to remind us that our community’s work is far from over.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l). 

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Part of the 91�첥 High Holiday Webinar Series, “Standing Together: Prayer, Presence, and the Power of Community”

This session is based onthis essayin our currentHigh Holiday Reader.

With Chancellor Shuly Rubin Schwartz, Chancellor and Irving Lehrman Research Professor of American Jewish History, 91�첥 

As we prepare for the Days of Awe, the Book of Jonah calls us not only to repentance, but to responsibility—especially in a fractured and fearful world. In this session, Chancellor Shuly Rubin Schwartz explored Jonah’s reluctance to engage, his desire to retreat, and God’s challenge to him—and to us. The Book of Jonah summons us to engage and build bridges—even with those who may seem distant or hostile. This session engaged what it means to be brave and morally grounded when it would be easier to turn away—and how, like Jonah, each of us has the power to make a difference. 

About the Series

The High Holidays invite us into a season of profound reflection—not only on who we are as individuals, but on how we show up for one another and the world. This three-part webinar series explores the emotional and spiritual heart of this sacred time, focusing on the themes of vulnerability, responsibility, and connection. 

Together, we’ll consider what it means to pray with presence, to engage meaningfully with others—even across difference—and to see these days not just as a personal journey, but as a call to collective transformation. Whether you are returning to familiar rituals or seeking a new way in, this series offers space to reflect, connect, and prepare with intention. 

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Part of the 91�첥 High Holiday Webinar Series, “Standing Together: Prayer, Presence, and the Power of Community”

This session is based on this essay in our current High Holiday Reader.

With Dr. David Kraemer, Joseph J. and Dora Abbell Librarian and Professor of Talmud and Rabbinics, 91�첥 

The Amidah for Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur presents a striking, even radical, vision: a world where God alone reigns, where all people—Jewish and not—live in peace, and oppressive regimes vanish. In this vision, the Jewish people are neither erased nor centered. Instead, they are part of a broader human hope. 

As we prepare for the High Holidays, this is a thoughtful exploration of this universalist liturgical vision and what it asks of us today. In this webinar, Dr. David Kraemer, Joseph J. and Dora Abbell Librarian and Professor of Talmud and Rabbinics, 91�첥, guided us through the theological and ethical dimensions of the High Holiday Amidah. Drawing on themes from his recent book, Embracing Exile: The Case for Jewish Diaspora, Dr. Kraemer argued that diaspora life—far from being a compromise—is essential to realizing the Amidah’s expansive spiritual goals. It is through living among and engaging with our non-Jewish neighbors, he suggested, that we help bring this vision into the world. 

About the Series

The High Holidays invite us into a season of profound reflection—not only on who we are as individuals, but on how we show up for one another and the world. This three-part webinar series explores the emotional and spiritual heart of this sacred time, focusing on the themes of vulnerability, responsibility, and connection. 

Together, we’ll consider what it means to pray with presence, to engage meaningfully with others—even across difference—and to see these days not just as a personal journey, but as a call to collective transformation. Whether you are returning to familiar rituals or seeking a new way in, this series offers space to reflect, connect, and prepare with intention. 

In our present-day communities, where we finish the Torah every year, the section of Leviticus that includes the curses naturally falls before Shavuot. Parashat Ki Tavo in Deuteronomy—where Moshe again offers the blessings and curses to the Israelites before they enter into the Land—also naturally falls before Rosh Hashanah in the calendar.

However, for the Jews of the Land of Israel, who in ancient times completed the Torah in three years, Ezra’s decree must have been quite jarring. Presumably, these communities would have had to take out a second Torah scroll and read the curses in addition to the parashah of the week on the Sabbaths before Rosh Hashanah and Shavuot.

At any rate, Ezra’s mandate presents us with a question: Why did Ezra believe it was critical that the Jewish people read the blessings and curses before Rosh Hashanah? Asked differently, in what ways might hearing this section of the Torah be important for our spiritual work during this season?

On the most visceral level, reading the blessings and curses at a time when we are focused on imagining new and nobler versions of ourselves and our communities highlights the stark consequences of our choices. If we make good choices, good things will happen. If we make poor choices—well, less good things await us. Our behavior and choices really do have consequences in the world. Using the liturgy to confront the darkness that is promised if we do not choose well may keep us on the right path. I think there is something to this, but I believe there is a richer and more meaningful connection between the blessings and curses and Rosh Hashanah.

The Talmud—in the name of Abaye—suggests a more optimistic answer to our question: “So that the year may end along with its curses.” As we finish the year, we read all of the curses—putting them behind us, as if to say, so should our troubles be behind us. Then we can begin the new year with a clean slate, fresh for our new ways of being in the world, without any negative baggage. Indeed, this is a lovely framing for the end of one year and the beginning of another. But I still believe there is more behind Ezra’s insistence on reading the blessings and curses in public as our communities move into Rosh Hashanah.

A curious geonic (7–10th century) tradition referenced by Maimonides provides deeper insight into Ezra’s decree. Most often, when we read the blessings and curses of Deuteronomy we experience them as promises of reward for loyalty to the Covenant and threats of violent consequences for rejecting God. However, Maimonides shares a tradition that conceptualizes the blessings and curses in a completely novel way.

Maimonides suggests that hearing the blessings and curses in Parashat Ki Tavo, which come when the Israelites are about to enter into the Land of Israel before the original conquest, constituted the fulfillment of an actual mitzvah! (Kelal shelishi in Sefer Hamitzvot) This is a startling assertion, transforming the blessings and curses from a series of promises and threats to the level of commandment. But what was this mitzvah?

In a very provocative remark, the Talmud suggests that prior to entering into the Land of Israel, the nation as a whole was held accountable only for the public misdeeds of individuals. If a person sinned in private, only the individual who misbehaved was held accountable. But as the nation prepared to cross the Jordan River, something changed. From that moment onward, the entire community of Israel became culpable for even the private misdeeds of other people ()! We are commanded to recognize our interconnectedness. Blessings would be earned and experienced by the group. Communal calamity would be the price for individual destructive decisions. Thus when the Israelites stood at Mount Gerizim and Mount Eval, they heard the blessings that await those who listen to God’s commandments and the punishments promised to those who disobey—but they also heard a message that transcended all of these specifics. The entire nation was asked to understand itself as radically interconnected and to appreciate the imperative that emerges from this realization.

The mitzvah embedded in these verses of the promises and curses, then, is the mitzvah of arevut: seeing the profound interconnectedness of the Jewish people. Each Jew is the “guarantor” (arev) of every other Jew. That is, each Jew is fundamentally responsible for all other Jews. Through the blessings and curses of Parashat Ki Tavo, the Torah is saying, we are in this project of living together.

Areveut—feeling and acting on a sense of responsibility for those around us—in Judaism does not fall under the category of altruism. Helping someone else is not an act of kindness. It is bound up in a fundamental responsibility that we must all feel toward others. Just as I am responsible for my own ethical life, I am responsible for that of others as well. If my neighbor falls and fails, it is my pain and my failure too. And if I receive blessing, it is not simply because I as an individual have earned it; the group also shares responsibility for my success.

I like to think that these ideas stand behind the reasons for Ezra’s decree to read the blessings and curses before Rosh Hashanah. At a time when many of us are focused on our own individual growth and betterment, we are reminded of the profound interconnectedness of all our communities and lives. I can’t be a better person if I ignore the state of the individuals in my community. This is the mitzvah of arevut that I personally need to hear as I move into this holiday season.

This commentary was originally published in 2017.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).

Download Sources

Part of the 91�첥 High Holiday Webinar Series, “Standing Together: Prayer, Presence, and the Power of Community”

This session is based onthis essayin our currentHigh Holiday Reader.

We begin our High Holiday webinar series with guidance for how to engage more meaningfully in the prayer part of High Holiday services. Famously long and repetitive, services on these days may sometimes feel overwhelming, boring, or even alienating. In this session, Rabbi Jan Uhrbach, Director of the Block / Kolker Center for Spiritual Arts at 91�첥, offered practical strategies for participating more fully, and insight into what these services really ask of us and what they offer—especially in tumultuous uncertain times. Along the way, Rabbi Uhrbach will share some of her favorite passages in the Conservative Movement’s Machzor Lev Shalem, for which she was a member of the Editorial Committee. Whether you’re a seasoned prayergoer or showing up with hesitation, this session will help you begin the High Holiday season with openness, intention, and agency.

About the Series

The High Holidays invite us into a season of profound reflection—not only on who we are as individuals, but on how we show up for one another and the world. This three-part webinar series explores the emotional and spiritual heart of this sacred time, focusing on the themes of vulnerability, responsibility, and connection. Together, we’ll consider what it means to pray with presence, to engage meaningfully with others—even across difference—and to see these days not just as a personal journey, but as a call to collective transformation. Whether you are returning to familiar rituals or seeking a new way in, this series offers space to reflect, connect, and prepare with intention.

We don’t know exactly why these colors were assigned to these directions, but some scholars have speculated that the sun’s path might offer a clue. Since the sun travels across the southern sky, the south became linked with heat—and so with red. The north, being dimmer, was associated with shadow and cold, and so with black. The west—where the sun sets in a blaze of light—was seen as white. And the east, where the sun rises and the sky turns cool before dawn, became green or blue.

These colors aren’t used descriptively, but they aren’t arbitrary either. They reflect an older way of seeing—a symbolic compass, a world mapped by meaning, not pigment. Color didn’t describe the surface of things; it told you how to orient yourself.

And color still does that today—especially in Jewish tradition, especially this week.

The Black of Tisha be’Av

This ancient map of meaning isn’t just a curiosity. It still shapes how we live, feel, and remember. In Jewish time, too, the year has its own palette. And this week, we turn toward its darkest shade.

The Talmud teaches that one who insists on sinning should go to a place where they are not known, wear black clothing, and wrap themselves in black—so as not to profane God’s name in public (Mo‘ed Katan 17a). The text offers no reason for the black garments, but their symbolism is unmistakable. Black, in rabbinic culture, often marks sorrow, gravity, and separation. Here, it seems to strip the act of transgression of spectacle or pride—covering it instead in shadow and restraint.

Black is also the color of mourning. By the sixteenth century, wearing black had become the established Jewish custom of mourning, at least in Ashkenaz. The Rema—Rabbi Moses Isserles—mentions it directly in Even Ha’ezer 17:5, noting that a presumed widow may not eulogize her husband or “wear black” until his death is confirmed. He records it without explanation, as if to say: of course mourners wear black.

The verse in Lamentations says: Yashav badad veyidom—“She sits alone and silent.” I picture a black-clad mourner sitting low to the ground, turned inward. The image isn’t in the text, but it’s the one we’ve come to carry—grief made visible in shadow. We wear black when we are in pain, when a light has gone out. But perhaps black is also the color of honesty—because it marks the moments when we stop pretending. When we strip away performance and sit with what is. And this week—on Tisha be’Av, the 9th of Av—many choose to dress in black or dark colors, echoing the mourning of the day in what we wear.

The White of Yom Kippur

But not all fasts are draped in shadow. Some are wrapped in radiance. To understand the difference, we have to shift from the black of grief to the white of return. On Yom Kippur, we wear white—kittel, tallit, simple linen. We fast not because we are broken, but because we are striving. White is the color of aspiration. The Talmud in Yoma (35b) compares us to angels. We are barefoot, wrapped in white, shedding the trappings of the body. So we fast in black on Tisha be’Av, and we fast in white on Yom Kippur. Both days strip us bare—but one lays us low, and the other lifts us up.

The Fields Are White: Mishnah Ta’anit and the Daughters of Jerusalem

White isn’t only for the holiest day. It’s also the color of joy, of dignity, of shared humanity. That’s what the Mishnah teaches us in one of the most surprising passages in all of rabbinic literature. The last chapter of Mishnah Ta‘anit (4:8) describes a strange, beautiful scene:

“There were no days of joy for Israel like the fifteenth of Av and Yom Kippur. On these days the daughters of Jerusalem would go out in white garments . . . and they would dance in the vineyards.”

The Mishnah insists that these garments were borrowed, so that no one would feel shame. Rich and poor alike in borrowed white. The women would call out to the young men, not with vanity, but with integrity. They said: “Lift your eyes and see whom you choose for yourself . . . but remember that charm is false, and beauty is fleeting; it is the woman who fears God who shall be praised.” Why white? Because it equalizes. Because it purifies. Because it returns us to something simple and shared.

Parashat Devarim and the Cry of Isaiah

Still, the joy of white doesn’t erase the moral weight we associate with darkness. The Torah portion we read this week and its prophetic counterpart both remind us how easy it is to cloak corruption in ritual and forget the ethical hue of our choices. Parashat Devarim opens the final book of the Torah, with Moses recounting the story of Israel’s wandering. But it doesn’t begin with history—it begins with a strange geography: “on the other side of the Jordan, in the wilderness, in the plain opposite Suph, between Paran and Tophel and Lavan and Hazerot and Di-Zahav.” These names aren’t just places; they evoke failure, complaint, disobedience. Lavan (white) and Di-Zahav (enough gold) might hint at spiritual distortion—purity turned brittle, wealth turned idolatrous.

According to Sifrei Devarim 1:1, Lavan (white) alludes to the people’s rejection of the manna, described in Numbers as “white like coriander seed” (Num. 11:7). The people grew tired of it and longed for meat. “Di-Zahav” is interpreted by Rashi (on Deut. 1:1) based on Berakhot 32a as “too much gold,” referring to the Golden Calf, which the Israelites built from their excess wealth. According to the Talmud, Moses rebuked them for the spiritual dangers of material abundance. In each case, the name recalls a sin. But each sin carries a color too: white manna, pale skin, gold gleam. Even in failure, the landscape is stained with hue.

The haftarah that accompanies it is the opening chapter of Isaiah: “Alas, sinful nation . . . They have forsaken the Holy One of Israel.” (1:4) Isaiah is writing in the eighth century BCE. He looks at a prosperous society and sees corruption, hypocrisy, and injustice. The Temple is still standing, but the people have emptied it of meaning. They offer sacrifices while trampling the poor.

“When you lift your hands in prayer, I will not listen. Your hands are full of blood. Wash yourselves, make yourselves pure . . . learn to do good, seek justice, protect the vulnerable.” (1:15-17)

Isaiah speaks in shades as well: light and darkness, red like crimson, white like snow. Not physical color, but moral hue. He demands that we see the world in color—not the color of robes or walls, but of action and consequence.

Color and Orientation: What Do We See?

We see the world through color. We associate blue with calm, red with urgency, green with safety. In ancient maps, color located you. In Jewish law, color signaled category: the “white field” was grain; the “black cloth” was mourning; the “white garment” was purification.

We still live inside these metaphors. We speak of “gray areas,” of “seeing red,” of “black and white thinking.” But Jewish tradition teaches that color is not only what we see—it’s how we judge.

Are we living in red—reactive, impulsive, angry? Are we stuck in black—disoriented, numb, mourning? Are we seeking white—clarity, honesty, peace? And how does color affect us spiritually?  Does the muted green of an institutional hallway deaden the soul? Does the sterile gray of a prison uniform flatten the spirit? Should bright color in hospitals and schools be seen not just as decoration, but as moral intervention? What would it mean to choose color with care—not just in paint, but in time, in ritual, in life?

Toward the White Sea

Tisha be’Av is black. But it points toward white. Isaiah promises: Though your sins be red like scarlet, they shall become white as snow.

White, in the end, is not perfection. It is repair. It is the field after the fire. The garment after the washing. The sea at the far horizon. The one the ancients called the White Sea—not because it was pale, but because it faced west, the place where the sun sets, and where hope is deferred but not extinguished.

May this fast bring clarity. May we mourn in black and reach for white. May we see color as Torah, as prophecy, and as the geography of the soul.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).