Parshat Nasso is the longest parsha in the Torah. A parsha of tribal accounting, sacred duties, blessings, and boundaries. At first glance, it reads like a bureaucratic scroll—assigning labor, listing gifts, cataloging the holy.
But as is often the case in Torah, holiness hides in the details.
Two phrases stand out. And this week, they cry out with relevance:
The first is at the beginning of the parsha: Se’u et rosh—“Lift up the head.” It’s the Torah’s language for taking a census. But this is not cold data collection. This is a moral act. It tells us: count every person not by number, but by name, by face, by dignity. Lift their head. Make them visible. Let them know they matter.
And the second phrase appears in the priestly blessing—the one we say at every B’nai Mitzvah, every wedding, every Friday night at our Shabbat tables:
Yisa Hashem panav eilecha—“May God lift up His face toward you.”
It’s the same verb. Yisa. Se’u. To lift. To elevate. To raise what might otherwise be bowed.
In both phrases—one human, one divine—the message is the same: You are not meant to shrink. You are meant to rise.
And I can think of no more urgent message for this moment, and no more sacred occasion than today, to say it out loud.
Because since Passover, we have been reminded, again and again, just how many forces would rather we stay silent, stay afraid, stay invisible.
Since Passover:
- The home of Governor Josh Shapiro—Pennsylvania’s first Jewish governor—was firebombed, with his wife and children inside.
- Two Israeli embassy officials were murdered in Washington, D.C.—an assassination on American soil.
- In Boulder, Colorado, Jews who gathered to pray for hostages were attacked with Molotov cocktails, simply for being publicly, visibly Jewish.
These are not abstractions. These are not “concerning trends.” These are acts of terror. And they are part of something larger.
They are what happens when people chant “Globalize the Intifada” without consequence. When the line between Jew and Israeli government is deliberately blurred. When Jewish visibility is treated as provocation.
This is not about legitimate debate over Israeli policy. This is about holding every Jew everywhere responsible for the State of Israel—whether they vote in Israeli elections or not, whether they support the government or not, whether they’ve even been to Israel or not.
And here’s what history—and today—make clear:
Those who hate us do not ask how observant you are.
They do not care whether you put on tefillin or have never heard the word.
They do not care if you keep kosher or eat bacon.
They do not care if you’re marching in a Zionist parade or never set foot in synagogue.
They see only one thing: a Jew.
And we must take that lesson seriously. Not fearfully. Not with despair. But with clarity.
If hatred makes no distinctions, neither should pride.
If they’re going to see us as Jews regardless—then let’s be Jews on purpose.
Let us lift our heads not in defiance of who we are, but because of it.
Which brings us back to Se’u et rosh—Lift the head. And back to today—your B’nai Mitzvah.
Because today, we don’t just celebrate what you’ve done. We celebrate who you are. And who you’re becoming.
And here is what I want you to hear—not just today, but in the months and years ahead, when life becomes more complicated and pride becomes harder to hold onto:
We are proud of your Torah. We are proud of your voice.
But more than anything—I hope you are proud to be Jewish.
Not just in this sanctuary, surrounded by love and applause.
But on the days when it’s inconvenient. When it’s lonely. When it’s frightening.
When classmates ask uncomfortable questions. When headlines make your identity feel burdensome.
When someone demands that you answer for a country thousands of miles away before they’ll respect your humanity.
Even then—especially then—I hope you remember this:
You are not a spokesperson. You are not a representative.
You are an inheritor of a people who has walked through fire and never stopped singing.
You come from Abraham and Sarah, who left everything behind to build something eternal.
From Moses, who stood before Pharaoh even when he couldn’t speak clearly.
From Ruth, who said your people will be my people when it would have been easier to walk away.
From Jews who hid in cellars and still whispered Shema Yisrael.
From Jews who buried their families and still said Yitgadal v’yitkadash—May God’s name be great and sanctified.
You are part of a people who has been hunted, exiled, silenced—and still chose to teach their children to bless the world.
That’s who you are.
And so here is your sacred task. Your avodah. Your charge:
Be a Jew who lifts your head.
Be a Jew who walks proudly, speaks clearly, and shows up—when it’s easy, and even more so when it’s not.
Be a Jew who understands that pride is not arrogance. It’s memory. It’s belonging. It’s love.
Be a Jew who knows that our greatest protest, our greatest defiance, our greatest resilience—is simply to live. Fully. Joyfully. Publicly.
As a Jew.
Because when you do that—when you stand with your head high, your face lifted—you don’t just carry your own name. You carry ours.
You carry your grandparents, and your great-grandparents.
You carry the names written in our siddurim and carved into our memorials.
You carry the hostages still being held in Gaza—and the prayers of those who won’t stop fighting for their return.
And in lifting your head, you give us all permission to lift ours.
So yes—count us. All of us. Lift every head. Lift every face.
Not because the world gives us permission.
But because our Torah commands us to.
You are not a number. You are not a symbol.
You are a soul.
You are a blessing.
And you are the future of this people—not someday. Today.
So lift your head. Raise your voice. Live with unshakable pride.
And never forget: you don’t need the world’s permission to be a Jew.
You already have ours.
You already have God’s.
And now, as you step into Jewish adulthood, I offer you the very blessing we’ve been speaking about—words that have carried our people for thousands of years through exile and return, through silence and song, through hiding and hope:
יברכך ה׳ וישמרך
יאר ה׳ פניו אליך ויחונך
ישא ה׳ פניו אליך וישם לך שלום
Yevarechecha Hashem v’yishmerecha—May God bless you and protect you.
Ya’er Hashem panav eilecha vichuneka—May God shine His face toward you and be gracious to you.
Yisa Hashem panav eilecha v’yasem lecha shalom—May God lift His face toward you, and grant you peace.
Mazal tov. You are the blessing. And today—you make us believe in the future.
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