Kabbalat Shabbat Kavannah | Rabbi Felicia Sol | February 6, 2026

May you be seated. Shabbat shalom.

Shabbat shalom.

Two weeks ago, um, Rolley and I and 45

BJ members on the BJ trip to Israel. Who

was in the room on the trip? Handful of

people here. There. Oh, a lot of people.

Here we go. Um, we left Tel Aviv on

Friday morning and made our way to

Yerushim.

And there we met Rabbi Ronnie Joerger, a

longtime BJ partner and dear friend,

along with three young reservists in

their late 20s and early 30s.

They had been brought together by a

shared concern about the moral compass

of the Israeli army, shaped by their

lived experiences as soldiers and then

as reservists.

One of them was a rabbi who teaches in a

religious high school. As he spoke, we

could feel the weight of his struggle,

the tension between his identity as a

religious Jew, his ethical commitments

to Torah, and his role as a soldier.

He didn't speak with anger.

Instead, he voiced a question that in

some ways was very quiet

and pristine.

and piercing

one that cut beneath the surface of

everything else. Essentially asking the

question, what is the meaning of Torah

and of a Jewish state if we fail morally

and ethically?

His question was born out of love and

that was very present. And as we

continued our journey, meeting Jews and

Palestinians,

secular and religious alike, that same

question kept on staying with me,

standing stubbornly at the center. It is

no less urgent for Jews marching in the

streets of Minneapolis, for rabbis who

flew in from across the country to stand

together that same Friday at an

interfaith demonstration against ICE and

its lawlessness in the wake of the

murders of Renee Good and Alex Prety.

What covenant are we bound to?

What claim does it make upon us?

What does it mean to serve God and to

live in commitment to Torah?

These questions stand at the very heart

of this week's parasa. As we once again

arrive at Sinai for matanorah for the

giving of Torah

Elohim.

Moshe led the people out of the camp

toward God and they took their place. As

the translation goes, at the foot of the

mountain.

The Torah's language here is striking.

The people stand not just at the

mountain, but

at the foot of the mountain or literally

under the mountain.

The rabbis seize on this image. And in

the Talmud in Shabbat 88A, Rabi Abdimi

Barama Barasa offers a dramatic reading.

You may be familiar with this. It's

called Haragit.

God uprooted the mountain and held it

over the people like a barrel or like a

tub, saying, "If you accept the Torah,

good. If not, here will be your burial."

In this telling, revelation is not a

gentle invitation.

It is coercive.

Accepting Torah is a matter of life and

death. According to this read, the

rabbis are uneasy with this setup

because a covenant accepted under duress

hardly seems binding.

And so Rabba responds, "Don't worry."

essentially the people ultimately

accepted the Torah willingly in the days

of King Akash.

As it is written in the book of Esther,

Miguel Esther

Yehoudim, the Jews sustained or ordained

and took upon themselves, meaning they

chose and knew what they had already

received. Problem solved.

For a long time, I understood this

passage as a story of progression. After

all, first coercion at Sinai, then free

and joyful acceptance generations later.

But lately, I have been reading it

differently.

Torah is both things at once.

It is what we choose willingly with love

and joy. And it is also what obligates

us when we feel we have no choice, when

it hangs over us, demanding that we show

up even when we are exhausted, afraid,

or longing to turn away. Torah is not

always beautiful or easy. It can be

heavy. It can be costly. It claims us

not not only in moments of inspiration

but precisely in moments when running

away would be far simpler.

There is however another image of

standing under the mountain. One far

less cited which I only learned this

past week when I was studying with my

Hartman fellowship in Jerusalem.

It's far less cited but no less

powerful. In the Mhela de Rabbi Ishmael,

which is a very early midashic work, we

are told that the mountain was lifted

from its place with the same imagery

and that the people came forward and

huddled and stood beneath it. And on

this moment, the midash brings a verse

from Shirim from the Song of Songs. My

dove in the cliffs of the rock, show me

your face. Let me hear your voice. Here

standing under the mountain is not an

act of terror but of refuge.

The mountain becomes shelter, a place of

protection, a way for God to draw the

people close, to shield them from the

world's chaos, and to allow them to

huddle together in vulnerability and

trust.

On this Shabbat of Revelation, we all

stand at Sinai. And Sinai is never ever

only one thing. Torah is never only one

thing. Being a Jew is not only the glory

of the sacred service, the joy of

purpose, the blessing of knowing we are

called to something meaningful in the

world. But neither is it only the burden

burden of obligation, the demands that

we cannot escape, the moral claims that

force us to choose life, responsibility,

and sacrifice over comfort and ease. And

our Torah is not only a refuge, a place

to gather close for warmth and

protection when the world feels hostile

and cruel. It is all of this at once.

May we be blessed on this Shabbat to

stand at the mountain, to stand before

it in awe, to stand beneath it in

obligation, and to be gathered within it

for shelter and grace. And may we find

the strength to serve God in all the

ways that Torah asks us, especially when

it matters most.