hen You Come In: Eyes, Ears, and a HeartParashat Ki Tavo · Elul 5786

Adapted from this week’s Hakhel at JCHS, where our all students and educators gather to begin each week together

When I first came to JCHS, the iPhone had just been introduced to the world. And it wasn’t until the iPhone 4, in 2010, that the “selfie” became a routine part of daily life. Hold onto that timeline — it will matter in a moment.

Last week I wrote about Parashat Ki Teitzei — “when you go out” — and the blessing Jews carry onto every journey. Here is what I love about the Torah’s timing: the very next parashah is its partner. Ki Tavo — “when you come in.” The Torah pairs the two verbs on purpose. Even the Psalmist blesses them together: Your "are guarded in your going out and your coming in” (Psalm 121:8). At school, the pairing is lived, not just read: our Opening Day Hakhel taught the going out, and this week — the first full week of classes — everyone has come in.

So Ki Tavo poses this week’s question: now that you’re in, how will you be here?

An Engineering Marvel

In 2009, the neuroscientist David Eagleman published a slim book called "Sum": forty short, imaginary tales about the afterlife. None of them are true. All of them tell the truth.

In one story, “Narcissus,” the narrator wakes after death to discover humanity was created by a race of Cartographers — map-makers — who placed us on Earth as their mapping devices. They gave us precision camera lenses: our eyes. Exquisite sound sensors: our ears. A profoundly curious computer — our mind — to carry us to every corner of the planet and record it.

But the story ends with the Cartographers in despair, scrolling through our lifetime of data. Instead of mapping the world, we spent our lives pointing the cameras at ourselves. The head engineer is fired for building — in Eagleman’s words — “an engineering marvel that only takes pictures of itself.”

Now remember the timeline. Eagleman wrote that in 2009 — after the iPhone existed, but before the selfie did. He saw us coming. Today every one of us carries that engineering marvel in a pocket, and we know exactly which direction its camera usually points.

What the Senses Are For

Which brings us to what Moshe tells the people in Ki Tavo — forty years into their journey, as they finally prepare to come in to the land:
וְלֹא־נָתַן יְהוָה לָכֶם לֵב לָדַעַת וְעֵינַיִם לִרְאוֹת וְאָזְנַיִם לִשְׁמֹעַ עַד הַיּוֹם הַזֶּה
“Until this day, God had not given you a heart to understand, eyes to see, and ears to hear” (Deuteronomy 29:3).

Until this day — after forty years of miracles. It takes that long, Moshe is saying, to learn what our eyes, ears, and heart are actually for. They were never meant to be instruments that only record ourselves.

They were given for a higher purpose: eyes to see the plight of others. Ears to hear the cries of others. A heart to understand the pain — and the joy — of others. Even the generation that watched the sea split needed forty years to grow eyes that truly see. That feels like a fitting thing to say to students in week one of a four-year journey — and to any of us, any year of ours.

So the charge I gave our students for this first full week was small and concrete, and I offer it to every reader: point the marvel outward. Use your eyes this week to see one person who seems unseen. Use your ears to hear one person who needs listening to. Use your heart to understand one person you don’t yet know.

The Alarm Clock

It is Elul, the month of preparation before the Days of Awe — and at JCHS, every Hakhel during Elul ends the same way: with the sound of the shofar. The Rambam (late 12th and early 13th century Spain, Morocco, Egypt) taught that the shofar’s cry is an alarm clock for the soul. This week I asked our students to receive its sound with the ears Moshe was talking about. Let its sound wake your eyes to see, your ears to hear, your heart to understand.

When you go out and when you come in — may all your steps be guarded, and may your eyes, your ears, and your heart be turned toward each other.

When You Go Out: A Blessing for the Journey (Parshat Ki Teitzei 5786, Opening Day of School at JCHS August 2026)

Every week at JCHS begins with Hakhel — a gathering of our entire community, all students and all faculty and staff, in one room, closed with a dvar Torah. We adopted that name from the Torah itself: in Deuteronomy 31, Moshe commands that the entire people assemble — men, women, children, newcomers — to hear Torah together at the start of a new cycle. That is what we do at the start of every week. And especially so at the first Hakhel of a new school year: everyone, from the newest ninth grader to the most seasoned educator teacher, gathered on Opening Day to begin again.

This year’s Opening Day Hakhel was different for me. It was my last one as Head of School. Next August, a new Head will stand on that stage to welcome our students. So I found myself thinking hard about journeys — and that Shabbat’s parashah met me exactly where I was standing. It opens: כִּי־תֵצֵא ki teitzei — “When you go out.”

Here is what amazes me about this parashah of going out: it contains more mitzvot than any other portion in the entire Torah — 74 of them. Not one giant commandment. Seventy-four small ones. Such as returning a lost object. Or showing kindness to a mother bird.

[At Hakhel, I could not resist — we are the JCHS Wolves — calling out that “wolframium” is the old name for the element tungsten, which is why its symbol on the periodic table is W. Tungsten is element number 74 on the periodic table. Seventy-four mitzvot; element 74. The wolves, it turns out, are everywhere.]

The Torah’s message: the journey is not the empty space between important destinations. The journey IS where life happens — one small act of goodness, one brief stumble that you rise from, one step at a time. As you go out, the opportunities multiply.

So it is with a school year. It is long. None of us can take it in one giant leap. We travel it in small steps — and we travel it together.

And this year at JCHS, “going out” is not an abstraction. Our newest students are stepping in. Our seniors are preparing to step out. And I am too. So this year, more than ever, I am not watching the journey from the side — I am on the road with our students, every step, all year long. Growth lives in transitions. That is what Ki Teitzei teaches: blessing comes when we go out.

A Prayer That Lives in Pockets

Jewish tradition has a blessing made for journeys: Tefillat Haderech, the Travelers' Prayer. It is ancient. In the Talmud (Berakhot 29b), Elijah the Prophet offers this advice: before you set out on any journey, pause, seek your Maker’s blessing — and then go.

Here is my favorite part: even when you travel completely alone, the prayer is always in the plural — lead us in peace, guide us in peace. Because, in the Jewish mindset, none of us ever journeys alone. We carry our community with us along the way. Kind of like a school: each of us on our own journey, all of us traveling together.

The prayer asks for four things — four verbs, in careful order:

תּוֹלִיכֵנוּ לְשָׁלוֹם · תַּצְעִידֵנוּ לְשָׁלוֹם · תַּדְרִיכֵנוּ לְשָׁלוֹם · תַּגִּיעֵנוּ לִמְחוֹז חֶפְצֵנוּ

Tolicheinu l’shalom — lead us toward peace. Tatz’ideinu l’shalom — direct our steps toward peace. Tadricheinu l’shalom — guide us toward peace. Tagi’einu limchoz cheftzeinu — bring us to our desired destination.

Four verbs. Four grades. At Hakhel, I blessed each class with one of them — echoes of that tefillah.

Four Verbs, Four Grades

To the Class of 2030, just stepping in: Tolicheinu l’shalom — during your journey through the next four years may your steps be blessed as you take your time, enjoy each step, learn to walk and then to run toward wholeness and peace.

To the Class of 2029: Tatz’ideinu l’shalom — may your steps over the next three years be blessed toward the direction of completeness and peace you seek — from Zion National Park this year to Zion, our national homeland, next year. Knowing that even when we stumble, we come closer to wholeness and peace.

To the Class of 2028: Tadricheinu l’shalom — may you be blessed to choose your steps wisely as you navigate a path this year bringing you ever closer to YOUR derech — the path of your life. It will be an intense year; treasure the journey toward wholeness and peace.

To the Class of 2027: Next August you will have moved along your path beyond JCHS — and so will I. You and I will walk this final JCHS year side by side, and in June we will go out together. So I am doubly grateful for this year to hold you a bit longer. Tagi’einu limchoz cheftzeinu — may you be blessed in the steps of your final year to be brought ever closer to fulfilling the wishes of your hearts.

And to our Professional Community — the educators and staff who guide, encourage, and applaud our students along this journey, and who, in this year of transition, carry the heart of this school forward: l’chaim, u’l’simcha, u’l’shalom — toward the fullness of life, toward joy, and toward wholeness and peace.

Working together to build community, we take the small steps every day — with courage and encouragement — that carry us to our most fulfilling destinations.

And when the moment comes for each of us to go out — ki teitzei — may we go out toward wholeness and peace.

You Are Enough: Graduation (Beha'alotcha 5786)

JCHS Graduation 2026

I want to start, as I often do, with a Laffy Taffy–type riddle.

Q: How many Jewish grandparents does it take to change a lightbulb?

A: None! “Don’t worry about us. We’ll just sit here in the dark eating leftover matzah.”

We’ll come back to that.

The summer before you started 9th grade — in 2022 — the JCHS Professional Community, our educators and staff, had summer reading, just like students. One of the books for ProCom that summer was a memoir by Edie Eger. The Choice.

Edie grew up in Hungary. By sixteen, she had earned a spot on the Olympic gymnastics team. But then the Nazis deported Edie and her family to Auschwitz. She survived. Emaciated and nearly dead, she was liberated in 1945. Edie went on to become one of America’s most celebrated psychotherapists, seeing patients well into her nineties.

Edie died just weeks ago, at 98 years old. Zichronah livracha — may her memory be a blessing. Her death prompted me to recall that book we read just before you started at JCHS and to share an episode from it.

On Edie’s first night in Auschwitz, the infamous Dr. Mengele came to the women’s barracks looking to be entertained. Someone told him there was an accomplished dancer among them. He commanded sixteen-year-old Edie to dance.

Musicians played. Edie danced. But as she danced, she closed her eyes. And in her mind, she was no longer in Auschwitz. Instead, she imagined being at the Budapest Opera House. When the Auschwitz musicians changed to Tchaikovsky, in her mind, Edie was dancing Romeo and Juliet.

“I created a world inside me,” she said later. “I was always thinking about the future — when all this is going to be over.” Edie recalled something her mother told her on the way to Auschwitz: “Everything can be taken from you. But what you put here — in your head — no one can take away.”

That interior treasury — that inner knowledge — sustained her. It was enough: enough to endure, enough to survive, enough to thrive. That is what kept Edie Eger alive.

So why did JCHS faculty read the book? Because we believed, even before we knew you, that this was a vital lesson for you too. What we carry in our heads about ourselves is important. It is the doorway to our future.

Speaking of doorways — in the JCHS tote at your feet is a gift for you, a gift for your doorway. It is an olive wood beit mezuzah, a mezuzah case. Marked on it is the Hebrew letter shin — ש. An image familiar to many of us because it is on lots of Jewish doorposts. It stands for Shaddai — one of the ancient names of God. One traditional interpretation of “Shaddai” is “Almighty.”

But the rabbis of the Talmud in Chagigah 12a weren’t satisfied leaving it there. When they looked at that word, they saw something hidden inside: She-amar l’olamo: dai. “The One who said to the world: this is Enough.” A rabbinic legend explains: When the world was being created, creation kept expanding — oceans poured, mountains multiplied, heavens accumulated upon heavens. And the Creator said: Dai. Enough.Not because creation had failed. Not because it needed more time to become worthy. But because it was — exactly, precisely — enough.

That word dai is also hidden inside the name Shaddai. Seeing it on a mezuzah is an essential reminder of a value that has been part of our tradition for thousands of years: You are enough.

You are! In my years at JCHS, I have rarely seen so many distinct, strong, fully-formed personalities gathered in one grade. You came in with your own convictions, your own voices, your own ways of seeing the world. You never stopped surprising us. What I did not expect was how generously you held all of that. How flexible you could be with each other. How adaptive when the world shifted under your feet. How kind — genuinely, quietly, persistently kind — even when kindness wasn’t the easy choice.

You figured out, without anyone telling you: that a room full of strong personalities doesn’t have to become a competition. It can become a community. And through four years you created that kind of community.

This week’s Torah portion, Beha’alotcha, teaches a similar truth.

In it, Jews in the wilderness are frustrated, crying out. For Moshe the burden is crushing for a leader Torah calls more humble than any person on the face of the earth (Numbers 12:3). An exasperated Moshe turns to God. And, as Ms. Rabinowitz taught beautifully at Siyyum last night, Moshe concedes: I cannot carry this people alone. It is too heavy for me. Moshe admits he cannot do it by himself.

But the answer he gets is not “try harder.” It’s not “Come to think of it, Moshe, you’re right. You are not enough.” Instead, seventy elders are gathered to share the load, so the weight could be carried together.

And that transforms things for Moshe. As others rise to take up the load, he isn’t threatened — he’s grateful. And as they actively participate, Moshe observes, “Would that all the people were prophets” (Numbers 11:29) — would that all of them were this wise, this engaged, this ready to lead.

Sharing the burden doesn’t diminish Moshe. It steadies him. He becomes secure in knowing that with others he is enough. Admitting his limitations was not a confession that he was not enough. Rather, it led to the discovery that being enough never meant standing alone.

That is the dai story of this Class. You were enough — not in spite of your differences, but through them.

This idea of dai is familiar to lots of us already from the Pesach Seder, when we sing Dayenu — each stanza calls out a gift, on its own, that would have been enough.

Beyond the Seder table, when I call that word to mind today, I direct it toward each of you. Each one of you is dai — is enough. Perfectly and completely. Not too much. Not too little. Just right. Enough.

Now look around for a moment.

Look at the people who came to celebrate you today. Every person in this room who loves you does not love a future version of you. They do not love a perfected version of you. They love you this version of you — the one sitting here right now, human and imperfect and whole. For them, you are enough!

We know! We have watched you wrestle with ideas that didn’t yield easily, navigate relationships that got complicated, make sense of a world that asked a great deal of you. And after four years of knowing you, here is what we can say with complete certainty:

You are enough.

Hang this mezuzah on your doorpost. In your dorm room, your first apartment, wherever life takes you next. And on the hard days — when the world makes you feel small, when you wonder whether you measure up — look at the shin. Remember what it means.

Remember Edie Eger, who at sixteen found a whole world inside herself that no one could touch.

Remember the lesson from Moshe that being enough depends on not standing alone.

Remember the thousands-year-old tradition placing that letter on your doorpost to tell you exactly what you need to hear:

Dai. You are enough.

And unlike some Jewish grandparents sitting happily in the dark . . . with their leftover matzah — we are not in the dark about you.

We see you. Clearly. Completely.
And what we see is more than enough.

Precious, bold, and grateful Class of 2026 — we have loved having you at JCHS. We are so proud of who you are, and so excited for all you are becoming.

As your journey takes you away from us, know that all of us in this sanctuary are always here for you.

And we will miss you deeply.

[Rabbi Jacoby Ruben's Charge to 2026 Graduates, JCHS]

This Kind of Community: Compassion, Humility, and Lovingkindness (Naso & B’ha’alotecha 5786)

Tower of Babel, Pyramid, Salesforce Tower, Menorah

Here is my final dvar Torah of the JCHS school year shared this week just before final exams.

This is a season filled with closing rituals — so I have two of my own. The first is sharing my final "Laffy Taffy" jokes of the year:

Q: What do you call a wolf* with bad language? A: A swear-wolf!

Q: Why is challah like the sun? A: It rises in the yeast!

Q: What do you call a wolf with insight? A: An aware-wolf!

That’s one closing ritual. Here’s the other.

Last Shabbat we celebrated Shavuot — we rehearsed standing at Sinai again and receiving the Torah. So the question now, as the school year closes and summer opens, is what do we do with it -- all of this Torah we've received?

This week the calendar gives us a clue from two directions. Here in the Bay Area and everywhere outside of Israel we will read parshat Naso; in Israel they read parshat B’ha’alotecha. Both parshiot place the kohanim — the priests — at the center. The priest’s whole job was to serve, not to rule. To lead in support of a community, not to control a community. In Naso, the kohanim bless the people. In B’ha’alotecha, the kohanim light the menorah. Similar work, two directions: blessing flowing outward, light rising upward.

In that second parsha — B’ha’alotecha — the Torah tells us something striking about Moshe, our greatest leader: that he was exceedingly humble (Numbers 12:3). The Torah’s highest praise for the person who led our people out of Egypt and stood at Sinai is not his power, not his vision, not his eloquence — but his humility.

And that humility isn’t just a personal trait. It’s the shape of the society Judaism is trying to build.

Contrast Jewish architecture with Empire architecture. Our world is filled with Empire architecture — from the Tower of Babel to the Pyramids to Salesforce Tower — broad at the bottom and narrow at the top: the many holding up the few. But Jewish architecture, as Rabbi Jonathan Sacks taught, is the opposite. Consider our premier Jewish symbol: the menorah — narrow at the bottom, broad at the top. Leaders serve the people, not the other way around.

About Jewish "architecture," Sacks also wrote: "Judaism became the religion whose heroes were teachers and whose passion was study and the life of the mind. The Mesopotamians built ziggurats. The Egyptians built pyramids. The Greeks built the Parthenon. The Romans built the Coliseum. Jews built schools." That’s the kind of school community we are trying to be.

And the Talmud names three behaviors that mark a community like that. The rabbis ask: what should others see when they look at us? Their answer (Yevamot 79a): “The people Israel are marked by three qualities — rachmanim, baishanim, ve-gomlei chasadim — Jews are marked by acting with compassion, humility, and lovingkindness.”

These are aspirational. None of us embodies them in every moment. What sets us apart as a community is the striving — that we keep reaching for these three: more compassion in how we speak with and about others; more humility in how we see those around us; and more lovingkindness in how we lift those who have stumbled and reach out to those in need.

Show your friends, your families, and the strangers you’ll meet this summer, that you can grow through compassion, humility, and lovingkindness. When you do, you strengthen yourselves, you strengthen our community, and you bring more light into the world.

This is the JCHS kind of community.

Finish strong, and have a great, great summer.

* A wolf is the JCHS mascot.

Bringing Our Light to Those in the Dark (Miketz & Chanukah 5786)

This is the season of short days and long nights. Chanukah arrives precisely at this moment, imploring us to bring more light into the world.

That exhortation feels almost unbearable this year. In Sydney, sixteen people were murdered at a public Chanukah celebration on Bondi Beach. One victim was a child, another was a Holocaust survivor who died shielding his wife from bullets.

In the midst of that horror, a Muslim named Ahmed al Ahmed tackled one of the gunmen. Ahmed himself was shot multiple times saving lives. His was a courageous type of wisdom, seeing his neighbors as worth protecting. 

And beyond attacks on Jews, our world reels with violence: two students were killed at Brown University this weekend during final exams, a gunman still at large at the time of this posting.

We are tempted to scroll past headlines to absorb only darkness.

Into this darkness comes this week’s Torah portion, Miketz, which often coincides with Chanukah. Miketz contains Torah's first use of the word chacham—"wise one." Pharaoh marvels at Joseph, declaring, "No one is as wise as you!" (Genesis 41:39). What made Joseph wise? He was able to see things that others missed or passed by.

For instance, Joseph could see his brothers for who they really were even when they could not recognize him. He transformed dark and nightmarish images of dreams into sources of light and understanding. Joseph's wisdom lay in his ability to see what others could not and to bring light to places of darkness.

Just last week, we received a devastating lesson about that kind of wisdom – the wisdom it takes courage to express and that comes from seeing things that others miss or simply pass by. 

Video was released showing six Israeli hostages — Ori Danino, Carmel Gat, Hersh Goldberg-Polin, Alex Lobanav, Almog Sarusi, and Eden  — lighting Chanukah candles in a Hamas tunnel in December 2023. They had been held captive for eighty days. They fashioned a menorah from disposable cups. They sang blessings and Maoz Tzur. 

In that darkness — literal, psychological, and absolute — they brought light. Like Joseph in his prison cell, they saw meaning where others might see only despair. They found resilience where others might feel only fatigue. 

As they sang Maoz Tzur together, some of the hostages learned for the first time that the song has multiple stanzas—each commemorating a different attempt to destroy the Jewish people: Egypt, Babylonia, Persia, the Greeks, the Crusades.

When they understood the structure of the song, they said to each other: "They'll have to add another verse." They placed themselves in the arc of Jewish history even as they were living it. Eight months later, all six were murdered by Hamas.

JCHS students learn in Conceptual Physics that it is nearly impossible for the world to be completely dark. Just a tiny speck of light can overcome total darkness. Those six young people (now sometimes called "The Beautiful Six”) understood this. In a tunnel, in captivity, facing death, they lit candles. They sang. They joked about waiting for sufganiyot from Roladin bakery. They saw each other. They remained human. They remained Jewish.

It would be easy this Chanukah to feel overwhelmed by darkness—to scroll past, to look away, to protect ourselves from feeling too much. But Joseph's wisdom calls us to do the opposite: to see what others might miss. To look at the suffering and not turn away. That's what it means to be wise: to shine a light on others and to see them.

May this be a season when each of us has the wisdom to see others authentically, to shine our light on them, and to find the strength to be the light that overcomes darkness.

Chag Urim Sameach - May the Festival Lights Bring Joy

Shabbat Shalom From Hostage Square in Tel Aviv (Sukkot 5786)

Debby and I went early this morning to Hostage Square in Tel Aviv to stand with thousands to sing Hallel, holding our lulav and etrog with prayers of gratitude and anticipation of release. Release for the hostages and release for Israel from the war launched by Hamas, and release for hope from the shackles that have been binding it for two years.

What struck me most was not the nature of the prayer itself, but the breathtaking diversity of Jewish expression present. Secular and religious, young and old, people from across every spectrum of Israeli society stood together, united in a combination of anxious hope, excited anticipation, and resolute gratitude.

Israeli journalist Amit Segal captured this morning’s event perfectly as he urged viewers to watch without political or partisan commentary: "Strip away the spin, the slander, the endless arguments about who deserves credit or blame. Forget the political framing for a moment. Look at what [is actually happening]." 

I see the day coming close for the release of hostages, the return of bodies, the return of those displaced, troops returning home, competing sides talking about resolution, and the pause we all need to reflect and consider what has been lost regardless of one’s allegiances.

Standing there among thousands, I felt something shift—not certainty, but possibility. The possibility of shifting the purpose of that public square from a space to remember the hostages toward a space to celebrate the rescue and redemption from the trauma of these last two years. The possibility of a page turning from a chapter of darkness and despair toward one of light and hope.

Shabbat Shalom From Hostage Square in Tel Aviv,

Rabbi Howard Jacoby Ruben

Laffy Taffy: Rosh Hashanah Edition 5786

Monday evening starts the new Jewish year of 5786. The timing of Rosh Hashanah (the Jewish New Year) is in sync with the start of each school year. These new beginnings bring the opportunity to visualize our path and our learning in the year ahead.

Echoing the custom of dipping apples in honey at Rosh Hashanah, I hand out lots of Apple Laffy Taffy and Bit-O-Honey at this time of year. Usually, Laffy Taffy riddles are juvenile. But I discovered three that were seemingly written for this season.

#1) Why was the boy covered in gift wrap? 

His mom told him to live in the present. 

#2) What kind of tea is hard to swallow?

Reality. 

#3) What would you do without your memories?

Forget.  

Embedded in these three riddles is the secret of this season that begins with Rosh Hashanah -- a season of reflection, introspection, and renewal. We have to be deeply present in order to reflect on our memories of real, authentic moments from the year past to inform a commitment to doing better in the new year. 

This is our opportunity to imagine an end to the challenges and dislocations of the year ending and to dream about the year ahead. Seventy-five years ago Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel wrote about the power of wonder and original thinking. He wrote: "Wonder rather  than doubt is the root of all knowledge." 

This captures the core idea that true knowledge starts with a type of awe and curiosity that animate spiritual and intellectual inquiry. Applying that sense of awe and curiosity to the year ahead is precisely what this Jewish season is about. We reflect on the year that is coming to a close in order to inspire our dreams for the year ahead.

Then we dedicate ourselves to spend the coming year pursuing those dreams. That is the kind of imagination and innovation that makes original thinking real in our school and in the world. 

My wish for you and your families is for a new year filled with lots of wonder and much awe. May it be filled with learning abundant and sweetness overflowing.

PS- Please check out the new podcast from JCHS.