Marching in the Light – Naso 5785

Photo credit: Greater Boston Interfaith Organization

Last Friday was a long day. It was also a long 12-mile walk — a walk of faith and prayer. Dozens of clergy joined together, “praying with our feet,” in the words of Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel, all the way from Lexington to Boston.

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We began at 7:30 a.m. with over 150 people gathered on Lexington Battle Green. Together, we launched #PrayersForLiberty, an interfaith march for the most basic rights in our country — due process, the rule of law, and equal justice — the bedrock of American democracy.

Photo credit: Rev. Laura Everett, Massachusetts Council of Churches, and Rabbi David Lerner, Temple Emunah

We prayed. We sang. And we walked.

We paused in Arlington Center, then again at Cambridge Common, each time joined by more clergy and supporters — some in colonial garb, some dressed as Lady Liberty.

Photo credit: Greater Boston Interfaith Organization

I was deeply moved to walk beside Christian clergy in stoles and collars, an Armenian priest in flowing black robes, and rabbis in kippot and tallitot — all striding together to sound the alarm for our country.

It was a reverse Paul Revere — not a midnight ride, but a morning march. People of every background — races, faiths, gender identities, and orientations — moved arm in arm through the streets, sounding the trumpet of justice, singing and dancing to “Siyahamba” — “We are marching in the light of God.”

After crossing the Longfellow Bridge, we reached Boston Common. A third of a mile from the MLK Embrace statue, the skies opened. 

Thunder, lightning, a sudden downpour — our hopeful march was interrupted by a storm.

It felt symbolic.

Because this is a stormy moment. 

Dark clouds swirl around us — in America, in Israel, and in the Jewish world.

In our own country, foundational norms are under attack. This march was about protecting people — even those we may disagree with — from unjust detention and deportation, from the lack of due process. We see escalating assaults on immigrants and asylum seekers. Our community is hosting a Haitian family. 

What will happen to them?

And, in Israel, the war rages on. The hostages are still not home. I spoke with reservists who are exhausted — they see no clear objectives or end in sight.

Meanwhile, innocent Palestinians face hunger and despair. 

The suffering cries out all around us.

And we, as American Jews, feel a rising fear.

A couple of weeks ago, Yaron Lischinsky, z”l, and Sarah Milgrim, z”l, were murdered — simply for being Jewish and Israeli, for being part of a Jewish gathering to help bring peace and food to those in Gaza — by a man chanting “Free, free Palestine.” We continue to send condolences to their families. We remember that hateful words can turn into deadly violence.

Photo credit: Wikimedia Commons
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On campuses, chants like “Globalize the Intifada” are not mere slogans — they are threats. And this incident reminds us of the epidemic of gun violence, which we remember on this Gun Violence Prevention Shabbat.

And then — a new horror. A man in Boulder, Colorado, set Jews on fire as they walked in solidarity for the hostages. Among the victims: Barbara Bandler Steinmetz, an 88-year-old Holocaust survivor who remains in critical condition. We pray for her healing.

So yes, we are afraid. Rightly so.

I wasn’t planning to wear my kippah on an upcoming trip to Europe. 

And now I wonder if I can wear it here.

A student in our conversion program shared that they’re realizing what it means to join a people hated and persecuted — not just in history, but now, today. And we see some leaders are weaponizing that hate for their own gain.

* * * 

And yet, one thing stayed with me from our march. I felt safe surrounded by my Christian clergy colleagues. Their presence brought protection. Their solidarity was shelter.

Photo credit: Greater Boston Interfaith Organization

Tomorrow, we’ll gather again for the “Run for Their Lives – Walk for the Hostages” in Lexington, as they have for nearly 90 straight Sundays. There will be an added police presence. This is a week to show up — 5 pm on the Green.

Photo credit: Temple Emunah

* * *

So, I turn to our Torah reading for solace, for insights.

Amidst a challenging parashah which deals with laws about purity, false oaths, and the strange ritual of the Sotah, the ordeal of a woman suspected of adultery, the Nazir — someone who vows to separate from worldly pleasures for a period of holiness — I search for glimmers of hope.

And glimmers of light do shine through.

One of them is the Birkat Kohanim, the priestly blessing Bailey highlighted so beautifully — divine blessing flowing down to the people.

Another moment, easily missed, struck me with sudden clarity at the very end of the parashah:

וּבְבֹ֨א מֹשֶׁ֜ה אֶל־אֹ֣הֶל מוֹעֵד֮ לְדַבֵּ֣ר אִתּוֹ֒ וַיִּשְׁמַ֨ע אֶת־הַקּ֜וֹל

“When Moses went into the Tent of Meeting to speak with [God], he would hear the Voice, the Kol addressing him from above the cover that was on top of the Ark of the Covenant between the two cherubs, the k’ruvim; thus [God] spoke to [Moses] (him).” (Numbers 7:89)

Photo credit: Canva

Moses hears the Kol — the Voice. It’s the same Kol from Sinai, but this time not thunderous or overwhelming. It’s grounded, personal. The Voice flows from between the k’ruvim— the sacred space where two angelic figures face each other. This Voice isn’t above us or beyond us — it’s found in relationship.

Rabbi Amy Kalmanofsky notes: while the priestly blessing radiates from God’s face, this moment is auditory — perhaps gentler, but just as intimate. The Voice enters Moses’ ears and heart.

That’s what I felt on the march — God’s voice in the songs, in the prayers, in the footsteps beside mine. The Kol wasn’t distant; it moved through us.

The k’ruvim, gazing at one another, reminded me of the relationships being formed and strengthened among clergy, among communities. That’s where holiness dwells.

Earlier in the reading, the tribes, and parts of the tribes are assigned roles:

“The Kohathites [… were given] the service of the sacred objects, which they carried on their shoulders,” not by wagon. (Numbers 7:9)

They were the shleppers. But they couldn’t use a wagon. 

Some holy tasks cannot be placed on a cart. They must be carried — directly, personally. The Midrash links this verse to Psalm 81: “Raise a song, strike the drum…” 

The Sefat Emet, my favorite Hasidic rabbi and thinker of the 19th Century, explains: when we carry sacred burdens, we sing. The weight uplifts us. True service, he writes, “fills a person with light and joy.”

Photo credit: Canva

That’s what last Friday felt like. A long march, yes — but one filled with light, song, and sacred companionship. 

Purpose lifted us.

We were surrounded by the Kol, the Voice — not of thunder this time, but of resolve. A Voice urging us toward compassion and justice, urging us to respond — not retreat.

* * *

At the end of the march, as rain poured down, I noticed an empty tent nearby. No one was in it — it was as if it had been placed there for us. About half of our group of 100 marchers ducked with me into it.

There was something sweet and light about that moment — people huddled together, passing around nuts, laughing as I checked the radar on my weather app.

And then — a break in the storm. A few glimmers of sunlight. Warmth. We emerged and continued. 

At the Embrace statue, we stood together in prayer and song.

Photo credit: Greater Boston Interfaith Organization

We had carried the weight together. And we’d heard the Voice. It comforted us, and it called us forward.

May we keep hearing that Voice — deep in our souls, in the streets, in our sanctuaries, in each other. 

May it lift us and inspire us to walk, march, sing, and act — together.

May our steps, our prayers, and our songs be glimmers of light in a darkened world, and let us say: Amen.